#very excited to dissect the rest of these thoughts in time

[midnightwritingsessions]

Chords of your heart

Summary: Being a close friend of one direction you are invited to take the stage with them. You play one of your favourite songs of theirs, one Niall had wrote. He had written the song about you and now you were singing it to Harry, his jealousy blinds him and he plays his guitar over your vocals. Bad summary and use of y/n! 🥴

Masterlist

1.5k words

Might not be my best writing sorry! <3

-

The crowd buzzed with excitement, an electric hum of anticipation rippling through the stadium. The lights dimmed slightly, and a hush fell over the audience before an eruption of screams as the familiar figures of One Direction took the stage. It was the middle of their world tour, and the energy was at an all-time high. Amongst the sea of flashing lights and waving hands, there was a particularly strong rumor floating around, Y/N might be performing tonight. As a longtime friend of the band, you had been seen traveling with them recently, fueling speculation.

You had know the band since they first gained fame, when you were still growing your career. You had risen up together and never let it affect your friendship. When they had announced their tour they invited you with them, an offer you couldn’t turn down. You were currently on a break from music after just coming back from your own tour a few months ago and thought this would be a good way to enjoy yourself instead of lazing around. So far you couldn’t have made a better decision everyday brought you laughter in some way, the boys were always joking around.

On the days off from their tour you made sure to take the boys out on trips in whatever city they were in. You took many photos which ended up on your social media. The stream of photos of you with the band in the cities and some back stage lead to rumours that you could be performing with them from fans and more invasive rumours of relationships and scandals from the press. After seeing the rumours the boys couldn’t turn down an opportunity to make their fans happy so they asked you to perform at a show with them. You didn’t even need to think about the answer.

Which led you to now, standing behind stage listening to the bands set waiting for your queue to join them. You were used to the loud cheers from fans and the deep vibrations from the excitement in the room but you still held your breath in anticipation and excitement for the reaction of your appearance from the crowd.

Fans had been posting theories all over social media, dissecting every Instagram story and blurry backstage sighting trying to guess which show you were coming out at if any at all. You had even added fuel to the fire by liking certain TikTok’s and posts of theories.

From your place just behind the scenes you could see Harry stepped up to the mic midway through the concert and smirk knowingly at the crowd, the stadium nearly shook with excitement. "So, we have a little surprise for you lot tonight. Well… not so little" he teased, glancing toward the side stage. "Our dear friend, and one of the most incredible artists out there, Y/N!" The roar was deafening as you walked onto the stage, beaming at the crowd. You hugged each of the boys before taking your own place between them. It felt surreal standing here, sharing this moment with your best friends.

They started with a few classic songs, some from their old albums and some of your own, your voice blending effortlessly with theirs, the chemistry undeniable. Each band member got their turn singing with you, your dynamics all different yet playful and electric. Then, it was time for the final song of your set with them, one that Niall had written and coincidentally was your favourite. What you or the rest of the band didn’t know (but maybe they had their suspicions) was that the song the girl was written about was you.

Your relationship with Niall was very dear to you and the past few weeks while being on tour with him had made your feelings for him grow, something you promised yourself you wouldn’t let happen. The past few weeks on tour had been filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between you and Niall. From sitting side by side in the tour bus, sharing headphones and swapping song ideas, to sneaking out after gigs for quiet walks through unfamiliar cities, you were close with Niall before but now he made your heart beat faster anytime he was near you.

One night, after a particularly long rehearsal, you had fallen asleep on the couch in the green room, curled up in an oversized hoodie. Niall had found you like that and couldn’t resist sitting beside you gently brushing a stray hair from your face. Louis had walked in moments later, smirking knowingly. “You’re gone for her, mate” he teased, clapping Niall on the back. Niall had simply sighed, not even bothering to deny it. Then, there were the inside jokes, the lingering glances, the way Niall’s hand would brush against yours for just a second longer than necessary or linger just above your lower back. Niall craved to just be able to reach out and touch you. You felt something, too, but your werent sure if you were imagining it. Did Niall see you as more than just a friend?

As the first chords rang out, Niall’s grip on his guitar tightened. He was expecting you to walk over to him to sing the song together like you always did no matter where you were instead, he watched as you gravitated toward Harry at center stage, your voice harmonizing beautifully with his. You were singing his lyrics, his feelings, with Harry. A knot tightened in his stomach. His emotions taking over and being conveyed through the music once again. His fingers pressed harder into the strings, and before he even realized it, he was adjusting the volume on his amp. The sound of his guitar swelled, drowning out the vocals as his mind tried to drown out the thoughts of you and Harry.

You exchanged confused glances with Harry next to you as you struggle to be heard over the aggressive strumming. Louis shot Niall a questioning but knowing look, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The song ended, and the band moved on, with you making your exit off stage yet it left a lingering sense of confusion hanging in the air. The show continued seamlessly, the audience none the wiser to the small tension brewing on stage.

You had brushed the incident off yet throughout the night Niall had seemed to escape your company, making excuses. You knew something was wrong so after the afterparty settled down, you found yourself standing outside Niall’s hotel room. You hesitated before knocking softly. The door swung open, revealing a disheveled Niall. His blue eyes were tired, but there was something else there, something raw. “Hey” you said gently. “Mind if I come in?” He stepped aside wordlessly, letting you in. The air between them was thick with unspoken words. You had perched yourself on the edge of the couch, watching him as he ran a hand through his hair. “Okay” you started taking a deep breath to try to navigate where to start “what was that about tonight? The guitar thing?” Niall let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked anywhere but at her. “I dunno” he mumbled. “Just got a little carried away in the excitement, I guess”

You tilted your head, unconvinced. “Niall…” He groaned, shoving his head into his hands before slowly, finally meeting her gaze. “It was the song, Y/N” he admitted, voice low. “I wrote it. About you”.Silence hung between them, your breath hitching being the only sound in the room. Confusion took over you. You couldn’t process that he made such a deep, beautiful song about..you?

“You… wrote that about me?” You echoed, as if saying it aloud would make it more real.“Yeah” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And then you were singing it… with Harry. At center stage. I just..” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Every emotion running through his body “It drove me mad” You stared at him, your heart pounding and pupils blown wide “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Didn’t think I had a chance” You didn’t know what to say. All this time, you didn’t consider the possibility that your thoughts of Niall reciprocating your feelings could be real. You knew he had always looked at you just a little differently but you didn’t think he had been holding onto feelings he thought he couldn’t share. Especially when you shared them this whole time.

You took a tentative step forward, closing the space between them. “You’re an idiot, Horan” you murmured a soft laugh escaping your lips before reaching up to press a soft, lingering kiss against his lips. He stiffened in surprise before melting into your touch, his arms wrapping around you as if he’d been waiting forever to do so. And maybe he had. When you pulled away, you smiled. “Next time, just tell me, okay?” He grinned, his fingers lacing with hers. “Yeah. Next time” He dropped his head to the crook of your neck with a dopey, love sick smile across his face. He could finally relax.

-

Thank you for reading!!

[chatonarya]

Courier's oprec is another wonderful addition to the Kjerag lore compendium. (I will, hopefully at some time before the release of Kjerag 3, manage to write a post about Gnosis's oprec, aside from my "Crane of Ice and Fire" essay, and an essay further dissecting the travesty that is Silverash's second oprec.) I absolutely love it.

I'll preface by saying that I was looking forward to this oprec immensely. Weiss was my first Arknights favorite, and who drew me into the intrigue of the Kjerag characters in the first place, and for quite a while, I was disappointed with the fact that he was not given an oprec with the rest of the cast at the release of Break The Ice. So I was very excited at the announcement of his oprec, and eagerly waited six months for it to come to global, and I'm happy to say that it did not disappoint.

The characters are all amazing, from Weiss to Enciodes to Degenbrecher, and I love the focus being given to their relationship and dynamics. The oprec takes place shortly after Enciodes's return to Kjerag from Victoria, and deals with the impact Degenbrecher's arrival had not only on the locals, but on Weiss as she effectively took his job. This was already hinted at in Degenbrecher's operator file, so it's great to see it expanded on like this. There are so many moments I love!

The way Enciodes trusts Weiss to do as he wills regarding the avalanche--just as I said before, just as he always does, Enciodes always places his greatest trust on his people.

And I love this playful little exchange of theirs where Enciodes tells him there's no need to call him "sir" and Weiss chirps that it's an old habit. It's a moment that really establishes them as more than simply master and subordinate, which is something that I've noticed in BI, RS, and Gnosis's oprec, so this is something I really appreciate. Weiss has always been diffident towards Enciodes, always respectful to the utmost, and by his own profile, "his most faithful supporter," but I've always felt there is a distance between them. To see them share a moment of friendly intimacy like this adds so much to their relationship. It gives them a new depth, and makes it clearer that much of Weiss's extreme respect is done of his own volition and not because Enciodes demands it of him.

This moment is also adorable, showing how Enciodes has rubbed off on Weiss, which makes sense as they've known each other since childhood. In fact, Weiss's whole ploy to win over the doubtful Kjerag noble is very like Enciodes, and I love that a lot. Through their long acquaintance, Weiss has learned how Enciodes does things, and doesn't hesitate to emulate those methods. He flawlessly engineers a situation where he can demonstrate to the hesitant people not just the capabilities of the imported technology but of Degenbrecher, well aware that showing rather than making promises is the best way to do so.

It's also impressive once again to see the lengths that Enciodes has gone in his mission to modernize Kjerag, and just how much opposition he faced. Even Silverash allies doubted him upon his return, and believed he was wrong to bring Degenbrecher with him and thought he was playing favorites merely by bringing foreigners into Kjerag! It also demonstrates just how deep-seated Kjerag's hatred of foreigners was, and just how much that has changed by the time of RS. While we still see the ongoing clash between the more open-minded youngsters and the older folk in Kjera's oprec, by the time of Harold's module (which is some time after RS), the mingling of Kjerags and outsiders is much more accepted. It's fascinating to see that even Degenbrecher, who is deeply beloved by the Kjerag people, was not immediately accepted upon arrival but in fact needed to prove herself too.

And Degenbrecher, oh, Degenbrecher. How is she so wonderful? She is such a great character, so well-written. Even though she doesn't have many lines, the few that she does are good enough to capture the essence of her (and she's a laconic person anyway). She's long been one of my favorites, and I really love how she's always (spotty translation of some of her voice lines aside) portrayed with such subtlety. Though she speaks little, her simple nature and wry sense of humor always comes through.

I also appreciate these little nods to her module story about her first medal and her hobby of fighting avalanches.

There's also, sadly, a bit lost in translation with this scene:

In both CN and JP, Weiss switches from calling her Miss/Madam Degenbrecher to older/big sister Degenbrecher (Brecher-nee-san in JP, which is the same nickname Ensia uses for her, actually), something which unfortunately doesn't really work in English. It's a shame, because Weiss simply dropping the "madam" in English doesn't give as much of an impact. We also lose the parallel with how Weiss addresses Matterhorn as "aniki". But that aside, it's still very cute, and I love how friendly and playful it is and how Degenbrecher is smiling throughout and how it shows their bond deepening.

I love how Weiss points out that her aloofness isn't haughtiness or hostility, but simply her nature, and possibly even confusion. The sweet goat was probably taken aback by Kjerag at first, and maybe didn't really know what to make of it after Kazimierz and Victoria!

And the way Weiss defends her is so beautiful too. He saw through her detached exterior to her heart of pure gold, and wanted to make sure others knew the kind of person she really was beneath it. And to think Weiss played a role in making Kjerag accept her, not just for Enciodes, but for Kjerag and her!

Not to mention Weiss orchestrating the whole thing solely to get the stubborn Kjerag oldies to accept Degenbrecher and the fact that she's an asset to them. Again, not just because Weiss is thinking about what's best for Enciodes, but because he likes her too and recognizes that she's an ally, not an enemy. It's wonderful.

And I love how he says there are other ways he can serve Enciodes aside from being his bodyguard, so he doesn't feel like he was replaced. In my previous post speculating about this very oprec, I mused that Weiss was wary of Degenbrecher as she took his position per her profile, but I had not considered it from the angle of Enciodes and his actions; i.e. Was it callous of Enciodes to bring Degenbrecher to Kjerag and replace Weiss without his input?

Ah, only on the surface level. If we know Enciodes, after all the characterization he's been given, then the answer is quite obvious: he believed that Degenbrecher would eventually win over the Kjerag people, just as he believed that Kjerag would eventually win over her and eventually the whole world. As she did, and as Kjerag will.

As a minor detail, I appreciate the note of how it was Weiss, Matterhorn, Chester, and some of the older folks who held down the fort while Enciodes was away for seven years. There's also more mention of the Browntails and Paleroches taking Silverash land, and many Silverash supporters (vassals, perhaps) going over to their side. It fleshes out further the enormous disadvantage Enciodes was at when he returned, and why he'd lost his seat in the Council, and just how difficult his ascent to his present position was. The way almost everyone, including some of his own allies, was against him yet he still succeeded through determination and hard work is impressive.

In conclusion, this has to be one of my favorite of the Kjerag oprecs, as difficult as it is to choose a favorite among them. Like the other great Kjerag oprecs (Gnosis's and Kjera's spring to mind), this oprec wonderfully fleshes out not only its focus character, Weiss, but builds on the other characters and the country as well in small but significant ways, adding a fresh new layer to the Kjerag picture as a whole. Well done.

[lostsyren]

I’m lowkey still scared for what will happen with Sofia and rafe in season 5 and yk the whole riara thing the people are pushing but after seeing madelyn’s replies to some comments on her TikTok (talking about shipping riara and wanting them to get together in obx5) I feel like it’s not happening so maybe it’s safe to say there’s a chance for rafe and sofia to get back together. I mean you never know with the pates but it would be crazy to just let them go since one of the pates already said in an interview that their story continues in S5.

(Madelyn also shut down the rumors /theories about Sarah losing the baby so they probably got the scripts for S5 already).

I’m scared and excited at the same time ugh

Sameeee! Idk I’m tryna accept the show is gonna go in the direction I don’t want it to (rafe and kie becoming a thing, Sofia being an afterthought, storylines sacrificed just for a ship– like they did with jiara…) because at least then I won’t be disappointed if I expect it.

I’ve seen Madelyn’s comments too, but that doesn’t really instil much confidence, seeing as she’s just an actress and only the writers will know what they’re doing. And from interviews in previous seasons, it seems like a very “make it up as we go along” type of set environment, so I doubt anything is outlined fully. So even if they’ve gotten the scripts, it’s probably just for one ep😭

But I have hope!! Sofia’s “end” felt very rushed and undefined– like they have to have some mention of her. My moots and I were just talking about that today actually. About how they forged a connection between Sofia’s dad and Hollis and completely left it open ended. And now with Hollis’ murder, I wonder if Sofia will get involved in something else? (Idk about her and Rafe’s fate– as long as she’s there in some capacity).

That whole scene with her dad felt odd. The way she greeted him compared to the rest of her family, and the weird, off handed look he has before trying to involve his daughter and her bf in some shady business?? I thought he’d have a bigger part to play in part 2 but ig not😭 Tbf she’s a side character– I wouldn’t blame them for not focusing on her. But to kinda just let her story fizzle out after they’ve set up so much feels stupid.

“the whole riara thing the people are pushing” –This made me laugh because I feel the same way😭. The ship feels very reminiscent of jiara, in the sense that it very much started out as a non-canon, unplanned ship spearheaded by overzealous fans and now is consuming the show for the worse…“the whole riara thing” is literally just a thing because wdym they’ve had a whole ass fling in Kie’s kook year? The writers need to stop reading fan theories and stick to the original plan😭. Fans are again revolving the entire show around two characters and kinda ignoring or understating the rest of the relationships/dynamics the characters have with everyone else. Like the way they interpret their scenes being cold hard fact that Rafe and Kie have something…but really??? Did they? Do they?

Maybe for “Kie’s season” we don’t veer into another romance after her “soulmate” just got murdered. Maybe Rafe and Kie can have scenes and meaningful development and it doesn’t have to be romantic. They don’t even have much chemistry if I’m being honest. If they do end up becoming romantic, the casual watcher, (who isn’t riddled with the chronically online/overly dissected takes of the show), will be left feeling confused. Because all of their so called “development” and “chemistry” is really just headcanon and is unsubstantiated in any real way.

Ig you could say not everything needs to be shoved in your face, what happened to reading between the lines and media literacy…but sometimes you need to just take a step back and consider if it’ll actually make sense and if the show you’re watching is what you’ve made it out to be.

But I digress😭 I’d love for Rafe and Sofia to get more development. Now that they’ve hit the first major pothole in their nearly two years of being together it’ll be interesting to see all the cracks in their relationship they covered up. For Sofia to finally stand up for herself, for Rafe to clock how horrible he was to her, to see how they fight, how they make up.

But again, keeping my hopes at a low level. I’m not delusional, like ik it’s the final season, and ik Sofia is not as important as the other characters. But a girl can dream😭 (and I stand by the fact that they can develop her/rafia in an interesting and meaningful way…Idk if they will, but I can see another storyline intersecting with the main pogues vs Groff one, where the story returns to Kildare…maybe then Sofia will be involved more in tying up loose ends: with Hollis’ murder, the whole pogue vs kook riot plot, Shoupe still investigating Peterkin’s murder…there’s probably more but I can’t remember– there’s many avenues for her to take. They find a way to make Topper relevant every season, I expect the same treatment for Sofia😭)

[missywritesfor7]

❤️‍🩹Lifeline | MYG❤️‍🩹

Synopsis: It’s long been controversial for idols to date, but idols dating each other can be really beautiful or a complete nightmare. When Yoongi's relationship with another idol is discovered, he decides maybe it’s time to break the taboo and show people it’s ok for idols to date. Instead, they find themselves caught in the midst of one media frenzy after another and struggle to keep their relationship as strong as it had been the past 2 years. Yoongi finds a self destructive way to cope, and it causes even more problems than it solves. As they fight for their relationship and their careers, they discover that sometimes, the only way to truly be free is to let go.

Pairing: idol!Yoongi x idol!OC

Warnings: nsfw, alcoholism, cheating, depression, anxiety, Yoongi goes through a bisexy ho phase, Yoongi is also in his alcoholic phase, post-military BTS

Previous chapter | Next chapter | Masterlist

Ch. 26: Clout

It was only a matter of time before Yoongi would face his first obstacle post-sobriety. He worried what the triggering moment would be and when it would hit him. What would push him back towards the bottle and test his restraint? Now that he’s facing that obstacle, he’s afraid he may not be as strong as he thought he was.

Minho arrives at Yoongi’s apartment to find him looking anxious and distressed. The texts he received from Yoongi along with the frantic phone call that followed had Minho making it to Yoongi in record time. At first glance Yoongi looks physically fine, but the moment he opens his mouth he can only babble nervously about how he wants a drink and he’s not able to make that craving stop. It takes a bit of time, but Minho is finally able to calm Yoongi enough to get him to explain what happened.

Those trending tags Yoongi saw about himself told a story that only further sent him into a deep dive of self hatred and regret. It’s not just about him being one of Chelsea’s victims, it’s about why he’s one of her victims. Internet sleuths and so called “investigative journalists” were able to put together a theory that seemed very possible to the public. The theory that Yoongi had or still has a drug addiction.

Being an alcoholic is nothing compared to the stigma of being a drug addict. And even many people are more forgiving of marijuana these days, though no one knows about the edible Chelsea gave him. No, right now people are discussing Yoongi being addicted to hard drugs, and that carries a stigma that could result in a public execution of a person and their entire career.

People began collecting photos and videos of Yoongi from the time they were in LA, and people claiming to know the signs of the use of certain drugs have managed to convince others that his drug of choice was either cocaine or heroin. His appearance had been dissected all the way down to the appearance of his fingernails. Videos by YouTubers and TikTokers are being uploaded by the minute with everyone wanting to give their opinion.

Seeing all of that made Yoongi feel sick to his stomach. He’s frustrated because of all things, people chose to think he’s a drug addict. He’d much rather they just know the truth that he’s a recovering alcoholic. He’s sad because he knows none of this will get past Hyeri and she’ll have to hear all of this and likely feel all of that hurt again. He’s disappointed because in the end he’s the one who set himself up like this. Every drink he hid, every stranger he gave himself to, every night he snuck out of his hotel, he did it all to himself. He’s regretful because what is he supposed to say to the rest of the guys? They’re in the middle of working on their new album and shit like this could bring it all to a screeching halt. They were all so excited about this next comeback and now Yoongi feels like he’s ruined it for them all. For that he feels such deep guilt. No matter how many angles he looks at this from, the one certainty to him is that it’s all his fault and he’s once again causing hurt to the ones he loves the most. Now he wants to run to the bottle, an urge that seems much too strong for him to handle.

Minho tries his best to bring Yoongi out of his overwhelming feeling of panic. He gets him a glass of water and gives him time to ground himself and return to the present moment. His first priority is to help quell Yoongi’s urge to drink, then he can delve deeper into the public massacre happening.

Just as Yoongi’s manager said, a statement was put out asking that Yoongi’s privacy be respected during this time. The statement was short and simple and only confirmed that Yoongi was a victim of theft and they are thankful for those who were involved in the capture and conviction of the perpetrator. To some, this statement was enough and they begin pleading for people to be more respectful towards Yoongi since he is a victim and it isn’t fair to scrutinize him when Chelsea is the criminal. However some others are more focused on the lack of response to the drug allegations. They feel the company should be aware of the rumors by now and issuing a statement that doesn’t address them makes people feel like the company is hiding something.

Hyeri has a bit of a light schedule today. She’s able to take it a little easy between scenes since she has more downtime than usual. During one of those breaks in the late afternoon, she receives a text from her mother asking what’s happening with Yoongi and if he’s ok. Hyeri has no idea what her mom is talking about, but as soon as she opens Twitter she sees it all. The statement from Big Hit, the news reports of Chelsea’s conviction, the rumors of Yoongi’s drug abuse, and someone claiming to know for a fact Yoongi wasn’t on drugs but in the same post alluded to being intimate with Yoongi. There goes another wound ripped wide open.

Hyeri’s heart sinks. She wants to check in with Yoongi, but at the same time she can’t bring herself to contact him. Instead she doom scrolls through the trends finding post after post that twists the knife in her even more. Specifically, she’s doom scrolling through posts discussing Yoongi being intimate with the person who posted about “spending a few hours” with him. She hates how much it hurts and she hates even more that she can’t stop reading on.

The person claiming to have been with Yoongi one night in Vegas claims they had no idea who he was and that he used a different name, though they couldn’t remember what it was. They said he didn’t have signs of heroin usage because there were no track marks on his arms, or anywhere else on his body. When asked by another commenter to be more specific, the person cheekily answered by saying Yoongi was “big and clean” and throwing three eggplant emojis at the end for good measure.

Hyeri throws her phone to the floor with a huff. She’s pissed, frustrated, sad, angry, and heartbroken. She isn’t sure what to do now, but she has no time to think about it as she has to straighten herself up and go back out to shoot her next scene. It’s difficult to walk back out on set and pretend like her heart isn’t sitting on the floor of her trailer bruised and battered. Still she puts on a brave face and takes her position.

Lucky for her, the scene she’s shooting requires her to break down in tears in her room at the thought of her on screen love interest choosing to date someone else over her. As soon as the cameras roll she lets it all out. The hurt rumbling within her is unleashed in a pained wail followed by heavy tears leaving trails of mascara down her face giving the added effect producers wanted when they had her makeup artist use cheap mascara that wasn’t waterproof. Not only is she supposed to cry, but the scene requires her to completely lose it. Writers want her to bang on tables, throw things, practically oversell the heartbreak in the most dramatic fashion.

So she did.

There was no easing into the tears, they just fell. They fell hard and she reached out and threw the first thing she could get her hands on, which was an alarm clock next to the bed where she sat to start the scene. She screamed into the pillow. She got up and tossed everything off of the computer desk. She turned towards the closet and pulled every piece of clothing off of the hangers while screaming incoherently. Tears, snot, and spit spray around as she moves from the closet to the shelf to continue her destruction. Figurines, books, journals, plushies, everything on that shelf was unsafe from her wrath. She let everything go in that scene unleashing the suffocating pain that no one realizes she’s truly feeling deep within her veins. In one final act of blazing despair, she grabs the chair sitting at the desk in the room and lifts it over her head and slams it down like a guitarist smashing a guitar at the end of a rage filled show.

“Why am I not good enough?!” Her unscripted cry as she falls to her knees and cries into her hands sends shockwaves through everyone present. Everyone is frozen in silence before the director finally realizes they’re still shooting and yells cut to end the scene.

Hyeri wipes her face then rises to her feet. The entire crew remains stunned silent. No one knows what to say or how to even carry on after such a scene. Everyone looks at each other while Hyeri stands there awkwardly waiting for her next instruction.

“Hyeri,” the director says stepping towards her. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” she lies.

“Ok…well we scheduled more time for this scene but I don’t think we need to do another take. That was incredible, Hyeri!”

“Oh,” she says surprised. She thought she had probably ruined the scene. She did way more than the script called for and her ad-libbed cry wasn’t something they had discussed previously.

“We could all feel your pain,” the director continues. “It was stunning, Hyeri. You can go to your trailer and get out of character, you’ve earned yourself an early release today.”

Hyeri shyly nods thanking the directors and the rest of the crew then retreats for her trailer. She changes into her normal clothes and washes the mascara stains off her face. She takes a moment to take a breath and decide what she wants to do now. She wants to go home, but she doesn’t. She shares her home with Yoongi and right now she isn’t sure she wants to see him. After 20 minutes of contemplating she finally decides to just go home anyway.

As if she weren’t already having a hard time, she arrives home to see a crowd of people near the main entrance hoping to catch a glimpse of Yoongi entering or exiting the building. The fact that these people even know where he lives is unsettling to Hyeri since she lives here too and fears for her own privacy and protection. Thankfully she’s able to drive through the security gate to the parking garage without being noticed. When she parks she sits in the car a moment trying to determine if she should back out and go somewhere else. It’s a long moment. A long 20 minutes of frustration and contemplation. Leaving now would be a nightmare considering how much she had to duck to remain unseen getting in. She curses and sighs then pulls herself out of her car.

She’s not surprised to see Yoongi on the couch with his nose deep in a book when she enters. She figured he would have stayed home if he already knew what was waiting for him outside. Seeing him makes her burn up inside but she decides to act normal and see if he’ll mention the shit show surrounding him.

“You’re home early,” Yoongi says putting his book aside. He notices the redness in her eyes and there’s no doubt in his mind that she knows what’s going on. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Hyeri nods sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Are you sure?” He notices the distance she’s put between them and the guilt begins swelling within him again. Minho helped him ease his urge to have a drink and suggested he do something to occupy himself. He’d been reading ever since and now that Hyeri is home and clearly bothered, that urge is starting to creep back up.

“Yeah,” she repeats. “I had to shoot a crying scene. We got done early so I got the rest of the day off.”

Her response is cold and she hasn’t even glanced at him for a second. He watches as she pulls out her phone and begins tapping away. She says nothing else and he’s unsure what to say himself. He wants his liquid courage, but that wouldn’t make things any better. It’s because of that she’s getting up with a sigh and retreating to the bedroom. He hates this. He hates himself. He rises from the couch to slowly follow her to the bedroom. He doesn’t know what to say, but he has to say something.

“Hyeri,” he says stepping into the bathroom where she’s getting undressed.

“Hm?” She mumbles pulling her hair out of its messy ponytail. She only glances at him through the mirror then quickly turns her attention back to herself.

“I know you’re upset about all of this shit coming back up. I just want to tell you again how sorry I am. I wish I could take it all back, but-“

“But you can’t!” She snaps. “You can’t un-drink those drinks. You can’t un-steal your things. You can’t un-fuck those people!”

“I swear I will do everything to make it up to you. Anything you want, babe, you deserve it all and more. I know everything being brought up again isn’t helping anything between us right now, but I still meant everything I’ve said. I want to start over and make up for all of my bullshit. I know I can’t undo any of it, but I’ll try my damndest for you. For us.”

“Us?” She huffs throwing her shirt off. She’s not currently in the mood to think about us when there are people out there praising some random stranger for getting a few hours with Yoongi. Her Yoongi.

“I know it’s going to take time but-“

Hyeri quickly turns towards the shower and turns the water on to cut him off mid sentence. She doesn’t want to hear anything else from him right now. She wishes she had backed out and drove somewhere else. Every time she thinks she’s forgiven him and can move on trying to repair their relationship, she’s reminded that she hasn’t forgiven him completely. At least not for the cheating. His drinking? Sure she’s forgiven him. He’s been clean and looks almost healthier than he was before he fell down the hole of addiction. But cheating? Even if it’s just blowjobs, it still hurts her all the same and it’s not an easy hurt to mend. She’s starting to realize that. The two months he was gone she thought she would overcome it, but perhaps that time wasn’t long enough.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.” She removes the rest of her clothing and steps into the shower without giving Yoongi another glance.

Yoongi sighs and exits the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do now. What he would give for maybe a small sip of whiskey to numb the pain.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself. “Fuck!”

Hyeri stays in the shower longer than she normally would. She cycles through feelings as she stands motionless under the stream of water. Forgiveness is fucking hard, but she doesn’t think it’s going to happen here or now. She needed more time away. More time to focus on forgiving him and not so much on his health.

When she finally drags herself out of the shower she can hear Yoongi in the kitchen. He’s likely cooking her a meal as a way of apologizing. As he usually does. It’s always the same. She takes her time drying off and slipping into her pjs. She then quietly pulls a large duffel bag out of the closet and begins throwing a few things into it. Clothes to last at least a week, toiletries, underwear, and a small jewelry box she takes with her when traveling that can hold a few pieces of jewelry. When she’s done she leaves the bag on the closet floor and walks out to the kitchen where Yoongi is at the stove.

“I know you don’t usually eat much when you’re on set, but I thought you would like a full meal since you’re home early,” Yoongi says shyly.

“Hmph,” Hyeri huffs.

“Here,” he says placing a plate on the bar counter.

Hyeri sits down with a sigh and begins picking at her food. She doesn’t even really have an appetite right now, even if she is staring down at one of her favorite cheat meals, rabokki (ramen + tteokbokki) with a soft boiled egg, a slice of cheese, topped with a little kimchi and green onions. A typical Yoongi apology. His stupid apology that always works. She sighs and begrudgingly takes a bite. It’s good as it always is, but she remains stoic while refusing to look in Yoongi’s direction.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He asks.

Hyeri grunts.

“Water? Or maybe tea?” He’s trying to get something out of her. Anything to ease the sharp pain shooting through his stomach as she gives him just the treatment he knows he deserves.

Hyeri growls and shoves another bite in her mouth.

“Ok,” he sighs in defeat, then retreats to the couch to give her space. He isn’t sure what to do to make things right, but he knows it needs to be good. Very very good.

While Hyeri spends the remainder of the evening closed up in the bedroom ignoring him, he’s lost in his phone trying to brainstorm ideas to fix the shit he created. Nothing seems good enough. He could lasso Saturn and bring it to her and it wouldn’t be enough. He stays up late searching, thinking, reading, and writing until he finally decides to head to bed.

Hyeri has long since cried herself to sleep in preparation for another early morning. Sleep was the only other thing she could do besides cry. She didn’t even want to step out of the room for any reason because she really did not want to see Yoongi’s face. She made sure to lock the door before falling asleep because she was certain her day would start off bad if she woke up next to Yoongi in the morning. She hopes he’ll get the hint whenever he tries to enter.

He definitely got the hint. The door didn’t budge when he tried to enter and he doesn’t have to be a genius to figure it out. He takes his book and retreats to the guest bedroom where he can only lay in bed and stare into the darkness of the unlit room. He knew the moment he saw the trends that she wouldn’t be happy. He knows she said she had forgiven him and wanted to start fresh, and he thought they were doing that, but now this seems to have sent them 10 steps backwards. He somehow manages to fall asleep after a while thinking of how much he absolutely hates himself and may truly never be able to forgive himself if he loses Hyeri for good.

The next morning he wakes up extra early to prepare Hyeri a quick and portable breakfast to start her day. He knows she’s beyond upset with him so he chooses to go back into the guest room after leaving her a breakfast gimbap roll. He laid in bed waiting to hear her emerge from the bedroom but he ended up falling back to sleep before he could.

Yoongi wakes up 2 hours later to texts from his manager to stay home again today. Not only are people still camped outside of his building, but it seems one caught a glimpse of Hyeri leaving for work. Thankfully they haven’t connected the dots that the two of them are together, but instead now people know that she lives in the same building as Yoongi. That doesn’t really make things better and Yoongi can’t imagine how upset Hyeri may have been when she left, but he still hopes she enjoys her breakfast.

He gets out of bed and goes to their bedroom. She locked him out which meant he couldn’t get to his phone charger so he’s hoping to give it some juice before it dies. He gets it plugged in then goes into the bathroom to wash up. He doesn’t even make it 2 steps in the door before he notices far less items on the bathroom counter than before. Hyeri didn’t take everything, but she took a lot of her things. Her face washes, moisturizers, pimple patches, and hair products are gone. Yoongi is quickly overcome with panic as he searches all of the drawers and cabinets only to find more of Hyeri’s things gone. He goes into the closet and sees the many empty hangers left behind, the handful of empty spaces where some of her shoes used to sit, and one big empty spot where her duffel bag used to be.

“Fuck!” He squeaks past the enormous knot in his throat.

Yoongi runs out to the living room where nothing has changed, but when he gets to the kitchen he sees the nicely made gimbap roll sitting untouched on the counter with a note next to it. Whatever the note says, he doesn’t want to read it. He knows it’s only going to break him, but he picks it up anyway and almost instantly falls to his knees in agony.

Yoongi,

I can’t do this right now. I need to focus on my work and this has become too much of a distraction. Don’t try to find me.

Hyeri

[marie-miele]

Four

-Master List-

words:3413

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

"Get yourselves suited up and meet me at Training Ground Beta!"

"Yes, sir!"

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Everyone was raving about their costumes as they all walked around you in the locker room as you stood there staring at yourself in the full-length mirror; dissecting everything about your suit. You had forgotten what you'd even requested in your quirk registration form, and welp, this is what you got;

A black long-sleeved bodysuit with openings in the sleeves that stopped at your crotch and showed off way too much hip for your liking, black thigh highs with cut-outs along the sides, a black shawl, and of course some nice thick combat boots. It could be better; could also be worse. Either way, you were satisfied with how it looked and were excited to test out its mobility.

With one final glance at yourself, you made your way down to Ground Beta.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

"They say that clothes make the pros, young ladies and gentlemen and, behold, you are the proof!" All Might spoke with a booming voice. 

All of class 1-A walked out of the tunneled hallway in their new and shiny costumes as All Might continued with a smile plastered across his face; "Take this to heart. From now on you're all heroes in training."

Your eyes were observing all of your classmate's costumes, you thought most of the suits fit them very well and how others stood out; like some green gauntlets, how flashy you grinned. But to your obliviousness, the boy wearing them was glancing back at you. His crimson eyes were locked on you in a soft gaze. He tried to look away but every time you fixed your stance his eyes would dart back to you.

With his hands placed on his hips, the pro hero asked; "Shall we get started you bunch of newbies?"

And with that, you began.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

All Might started with discussing combat training and how it would work going on to tell us that we would be fighting indoors against each other in groups of good guys and bad guys.

"Isn't this a little advanced?" Tsu interjected. Which caused a domino effect.

Momo was quick to ask if the pro would be deciding who won the matches.

"How much can we hurt the other team?" Everyone standing near blankly stared at Bakugo as soon as the words left his mouth.

A few more students voiced their concerns when All Might growled about not finishing what he was saying. 

"Listen up!" He commanded. He explained the rules of the upcoming matches; The 'heroes' have to stop the 'villains' from setting off a nuclear bomb by either catching the bad guys are recovering their weapon and vice versa. 

After his brief commentary, he began drawing two cards at a time from a box of all the student's names. Pulling out the pairs; we were then placed in lettered teams. Finally pulling your card you were team E and your teammate was Mina, thankfully you liked her enough. Once All Might was done announcing the pairs, he reached into two more boxes putting one hand into each box to pull out lettered balls to show who would be starting the training. 

"I declare that the first teams to fight will be...THESE GUYS!" He shouts while holding the black and white balls above his head. D and A; Bakugo and Iida were the 'villains' while Ochako and...Midoryia were the 'heroes'.

"The perfect match" you mumbled to yourself. You could imagine exactly how this would play out. The thought made you rather nervous.

You and the rest of the students were instructed to go to the monitor room to watch the match, doing as you were told you made your way there reasoning to yourself that Midoryia would be fine and Bakugo definitely wouldn't go overboard, right? As you walked you couldn't help but look back; only to see the two boys having a stair off, Midoryia looked timid as Bakugo snarled at him. 

Kirishima noticed your tensed face as he walked next to you. Even though the two of you never spoke to one another he tried his best to reassure you everything would be fine.

Right.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Your eyes made their way to the dark monitors as you entered the room. Quickly you found a good place to stand until the match started.

...

As all the monitors lit up showing off the training grounds All Might called the beginning of the match through an intercom system.

Not even three minutes into the match Bakugo went straight for Midoryia with a sneak attack. Thankfully Midoryia dodged him and was even managing to fight back, tossing the blonde over his shoulder. Unfortunately, his mask was partially destroyed during the small explosion Bakugo caused. 

Carefully inspecting the screens you watched as Bakugo was getting angrier by the second. Bakugo had sent off a large explosion after the five-minute mark causing Midoryia to go flying backwards. 

"Sir, isn't this getting out of hand? That Bakugo is acting real crazy. He's gonna kill him!" Kirishima petitioned. But All Might disagreed with the red-haired boy standing next to you. 

As the fight went on students began commenting on how hard it was to watch, and they were right. It was tough, but Midoryia wasn't giving up-

"He's running away!" Mina said gravely

"Not very manly," Kirishima had countered making you give him a side glance, but he also acknowledged "but he doesn't have a choice. He's outgunned."

"Unless he has a plan." you retorted, feeling confident. You've known him since childhood, and you know that he always has something up his sleeve. It's just a matter of time before he unveils it. Your eyes followed him across the screen when- the building was shaking

Midoryia punched a burst of air up toward the ceiling causing more damage to the building than Bakugo had caused previously.

In the end, the 'heroes' won the match.

With everyone back in a group All Might began reviewing the match, but you weren't listening; instead, you watched Bakugos rising shoulders tremor each time he took a breath. His head was low so you couldn't see his face, but you knew what it would look like right now.

Your attention was brought back when All Might announced the start of the next match.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

The next match was between teams B and I; The 'hero' team included Shoji and Todoroki meanwhile the other team; Hagahure and Ojro were the 'villains'. Unfortunately for the 'villains' the match was over in seconds as Todoroki had frozen the entire building. 

In the monitor room, most of your classmates were huddled close to the pro hero; his large size distributed a large amount of body heat, but you stood away from everyone as did Bakugo; he looked so unnerved. You wanted to check on him but now wasn't the time you thought; he would have an outburst from being embarrassed in front of future heroes. So instead, you paced around while rubbing your arms attempting to stay warm. You figured now would be the best time to strategize a good plan for your match.

At the end of the match, All Might announced that the heroes had once again. Mostly due to Todorokis quirk; he was one of the kids who had been recommended to UA like you had been. You knew what his quirk was like, but you didn't know he had two of them. He didn't use his heat side during the entrance exams.

As the students complimented Todoroki on being so good, Bakugo became even more irritated. 

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

After a few more matches had passed it was finally your turn.

"The next round up is~" All Might announced drawing out his word. " Team F the 'villains'; Kods and Sato, and Team E the 'heroes'; Mina and Y/N! You have fifteen minutes to complete the 'mission'."

And with that; the match started.

You and Mina were instantly on the move, keeping quiet in case Sato or Koda were in the halls you began going over a plan with your teammate.

She then brought up how it was unfair that both of you were going up against guys who were much bigger than you. her whining had caused you to laugh.

"Y/N were gonna have to fight a guy who can't even tie his shoes" She wailed sarcastically.

"Well, at least he won't capture us. Can't tie a rope either.

Continuing on you began going over the plan once again and adding some new ideas here and there.

"Distract them?" The pink girl questioned.

"Yeah," You clarified while peeking around a corner. "I'll get their attention so you can sneak around and get the weapon."

As the two of you ventured up a flight of stairs Mina asked "Awhh but why can't we just stick together and take them out?!" 

"If we did that then you'd be affected by my quirk" You explained

As you said that Mina had stopped on the step above you "Y/N? What even is your quirk? You never showed it off during the quirk assessment..."

"It's...complicated" You stated quickly brushing past her.

"Hm.." The girl followed suit.

It had now hit the ten-minute mark once you had figured out what floor the 'villains' were on.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Bakugos perspective: 

The blonde boy was still moping over his loss to Deku; weak useless Deku who he could beat any day. Just not today, he was so in his head that he never realized you had left for your match until Mineta had shouted out, Bakugo wasn't dealing with this so as he opened his mouth to yell at the small boy Kaminari jumped in; 

"What is she doing!?"

Bakugos eyes shot to the monitor; squinting at the screen he then realized it was you he was watching now. Gas was pooling out of you in think waves, watching you brought him back to the day you had disappeared. He didn't quite understand your quirk, but he was certain he was gonna figure it out.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Prior: Your perspective. 

You were once again going over the plan with Mina, with only four minutes left you knew you had to rush this.

"Ready?" You prompted

"You bet." 

"Don't forget to cover your mouse and nose, okay? Don't inhale unless you have to." You said picking up a bucket and sneaking up to the corner before the open room where the two boys stood guard.

With one last nod to each other, the plan was in motion with only a few minutes remaining. Mina quickly made her way to the other side of the room, using her quirk to melt the walls and sneak by unnoticed. Deliberately you dropped the bucket causing a loud bang to echo through the halls; simultaneously you activated your quirk after taking a deep breath. 

You could hear heavy footsteps approaching, hoping for it to be Koda; you knew he'd be much easier to take out than Sato. They were both bigger than you but Sato's quirk was strength, which you didn't have an upper hand or advantage compared to him.

And you were right, a quick broad hand grabbed your arm and flung you around the corner and into the open space. The force of the impact made you wheeze as you lost your breath, which ultimately led you to do something you planned on not doing. You took a breath in. 

"Got you." Sato said with a smug grin pulling out the capture ropes each group was given.

With an appalling grin shot back at the boy you abruptly brought your free hand and covered his mouth and nose realising gas right as he took a breath in from panicked reflexes. He retracted his face from your soft palm to let out a reverberating cough and in doing so he closed his grip on your restrained hand. Taking your chance you escaped his grip. People like him were hard to frighten with only a small amount of gas, unlike Koda who was already frozen with fear Sato kept strong trying to keep you down. So your only choice was to rapidly release gas from all the openings your hero costume had as you made your way towards the middle of the room only to be tripped by Sato grabbing your ankle. You tried to kick him off but he kept regaining his grip. Falling back down into your gas wasn't good at all, you tried to hold your breath after getting the wind knocked out of you but it wasn't working, you had to breathe again.

He was yelling out in fear "I can't make it stop! I need to get out of here, I need help, please help me!" Trying to fight him off was exhausting.

You were beginning to inhale a hefty amount of gas, you were begging to panic like the boy attached to you led. Kicking him one last time you called for Mina. She managed to create a hold in the wall close to the weapon while you were busy on the floor. In one swift motion, she jumped out of the wall and slid toward the weapon using her acid. Kota's eyes trailed after her but he didn't even budge. 

Close...Closer! Her fingers were so-

Berrr!

As Mina approached the weapon, we could feel the adrenaline pumping through our veins. We had worked tirelessly for this. We were determined to succeed, and victory was within Mina's grasp. We could see the weapon, glinting in the dim light, just a few feet away. 

Our hearts were pounding as she lunged forward to grab it, but suddenly, we heard the sound of the timer ringing. Time had run out, and we had failed. The disappointment and frustration hit us like a ton of bricks. We were so close to achieving our goal, yet it had slipped away from us in a matter of seconds. 

She stood there, stunned and deflated, trying to process what had just happened with her hands still on the weapon. We knew we had given it our all, but it wasn't enough. She looked at me lying on the floor, when panic crossed her face. She forgot to cover her face. 

Then, chaos ensued.

 All Might was aware of your situation with your quirk and Aizawa, in preparation they had a plan set up for cases like this. All Might was quick to turn off the monitors and notified the nurse robots that they were needed.

You were being escorted out on gurneys along with your three other classmates when you spotted Aizawa waiting outside the building wearing a facemask. He deactivated your quirk as you were still releasing some gas from your body. Staring at his covered face you could feel the lightbulb in your head turn on.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Bakugos perspective:

"That's a wrap! Super work. You really stepped up to the plate. And, we didn't have any major injuries, except for Midoriya." All Might said  "You should be proud! Excellent first day of training!" The pro hero was grinning at us that we were his kids. 

Bakugo couldn't care less, he wasn't proud at all. And seeing you covered in bruises didn't help his mood either. He wasn't worried about you of course, why would he be?; except he was, you weren't the little girl who followed him around and relied on him to protect you anymore.  No, you were grown, and strong. 

"It's nice to hear some encouraging words after our homeroom class. Mr.Aizawa was kind of a buzzkill" Tsu said.

Still, seeing you wince in pain just from laughing made his stomach churn; he hated this feeling.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Your perspective:

After all of the training matches, we were excused to go to our afternoon classes. Once those were finished we all went back to our homeroom and everyone began chatting.

The first thing you did was go to your seat and pull out your notebook and a pen. You started to jot down ideas for costume improvements when Mina came up to you. You moved from topic to topic, she was an easy girl to talk to.

"Hey Mina, when you slid on your acid earlier, how did you get it under your feet so fast?" You asked with pure curiosity.

"Oh!" She exclaimed as she lifted her leg to show the soles of her shoes.  "They have holes in the bottom of them so when I activate my quirk it just goes right through." She was smiling so brightly telling you about them until you both turned your heads to the sound of  Mineta oogling over the pink girl. Thankfully Jiro jabbed the small boy with her earjacks. Thirty minutes had gone by and you had successfully met everyone in your class and were properly able to apologize to Sato and Koda. 

You had decided it was time to leave as it was getting late but on your way out you passed Midoriya. "Hey, I'm glad to see you doing okay." You smiled softly at the battered and bruised boy as you continued on. 

Yet just a few moments later the boy was now passing you sprinting down the hallway.

As you stepped outside the first thing you heard was shouting and knew exactly who it was.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Enjoy that win, Deku. You won't get another!"

You watched as Bakugo stomped past the school gates, he's was crying...Shifting your gaze to Midoriya and moving to the other side of the bush you were hiding behind. Then as soon as you were about to come out of hiding All Might came dashing out of nowhere. 

You were gonna be stuck here forever you sighed.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

You were leisurely walking down the sidewalk, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling city. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm golden glow over the urban landscape. As you strolled along, you found yourself drawn to a small park nestled in the heart of the city. The park was a serene oasis amidst the chaos of the city, with tall trees providing shade and rows of swings lining the far end of the park. You couldn't help but feel a sense of childlike joy at the sight of the swings. And then you saw him in the middle of it all: Bakugo. He sat slouched on a swing.

As you approached the swings, you moved with care, taking soft and gentle steps. You didn't want to startle the blonde who was lost in thought. You placed your bag on the ground and walked over to him, your heart reaching out to him. You sat down on the swing next to him, feeling the cool metal chains of the swing against your palms. 

"There are eight other swings and choose the one next to me?!" He growled without even acknowledging who you were.

You watched him for a few moments, trying to gauge his mood, before speaking to him softly.

"Suki..." You spoke softly to him.

The gentleness of your familiar voice made him raise his gaze to yours; the whites on his crimson eyes were a light red and his mouth was ajar. Which had confirmed the fact he was crying. You'd never seen him upset before, not even when you were small children.

You lifted your hand towards Bakugos face to wipe away his tear-stained eyes, but he abruptly swatted your hand away, insisting he didn't need your help. 

His pride and independence were palpable as he struggled to maintain his tough exterior, pushing you away despite the vulnerability that seeped through his tough facade. It was a stark reminder of his reluctance to show weakness and accept help, even in moments of emotional turmoil.

Standing up with a sigh you slung your bag over your shoulder. You stood in front of the sitting boy causing him to look up at you. 

Reminding him carefully you stated that "You don't always need to be the strongest, y'know?"

He was so enamored with how you looked right now he didnt have time to process you whipping away the rest of your tears with the soft, gently swips of your finger pads. You were assuring him he wouldn't melt if he'd just let her help in the first place.

But he knows that's not true, he could feel himself slowly melting for the girl in front of him.

He hated this feeling.

- ┈┈┈┈┈┈ - -- - ┈┈┈┈┈┈ -

Authors note:

ouuu were getting things started!!!! 

hope you enjoyed this one!

@confused-smol-fan @reads-stuff-quietly

[arc-angel-o]

I wanna put all my current thoughts about Dissection in one post for my readers. (warning for discussion and mentions of suicidal ideation and eating disorders... also this is very sappy)

Let me give some context to Dissection. It was gonna be a one shot...

And I write a bunch of angst, hurt, whump, and it so rarely puts me in a bad headspace. Often the opposite, I'll write when I'm upset, and feel better after. But with Dissection, every time I sat down to write that first chapter, I wanted to try it at home, it was really bad.

What Toad was doing was so alluring. I thought about it so much that I'd fall asleep with a pocket knife on my bed, tucked in with my stuffed animals.

The rest of Dissection is me just trying to move Toad and I away from that place, bit by bit, making it up as we go.

And I've realized that one reason I'm stuck on Dissection is I'm not desperately trying to get away from the beginning anymore, it's no longer why I want to continue Dissection. It's not a matter of protecting myself from myself anymore, I don't need to do that right now. I wanna keep updating Dissection cause there's more of it to tell and I'm pretty sure others wanna see what happens too.

So, what does that mean for the fic? I broke my monthly updates streak, and updates will come to you whenever they come to me. I'll try to pick up the pace, but monthly updates probably aren't happening again, because I don't need them.

This is a good place for this to happen. The next chapter is a longer one for the logistics of getting Toad out of the hospital. And then he'll leave it and readjust to life outside it.

In a way I'm scared to write this, because while I'm doing better than Toad in a lot of ways, y'know, at least he's employed. By the mafia, but still. Idk what I'm talking about, writing about someone getting their shit together.

But I'm also really excited. I have so much outlined and written already. He still has a long way to go. His eating disorder will come back into play. That area of my mental health seems pretty immovable. But there's also a lot more fluff coming up, slice of life. Warm drinks.

I'm so grateful to Dissection and all its readers, @atlasisntdead , @dr-harleen-quinzell , @malt-o-meat , anyone else in the kudos, for helping me pull myself out of there.

This fic means so much to me, not just in the contents, my part in it, so much of it is everyone's reactions to it. Dissection's my most popular Rabbit fic and that makes my heart melt.

As Toad's defense lawyer, I'm happy so many people are interested in this kind of story, it makes me so excited for S2, how awesome his redemption arc will be when written by people who know what they're doing.

You've all been so sweet about Dissection, so good to me, words cannot express my gratitude ❤️

Sorry this so long lol

[letterstoear]

Missing you today~

Notes: Rook Hunt x reader, fluff, a letter to you, gn reader, romantic relationship, reader is a part of the Mountain Lover's club, short letter.

Please Check out my Rook Hunt inspired Chocker as well!

Check out my shop here: Shop — Letters to Ear (squarespace.com)

My lovely Snuggle Duck,

My memories of you are resting neatly in my photo album of you. Each page is adorned with your gorgeous face. Photos of us together grace the pages as well, but still, it’s not enough to ease my heart. For some reason my heart has been beating loudly in my chest. It’s not from the flutters of butterflies I get each time I think of you, no it's much different this time around.

This feeling in my heart must be from the pain of being without you. I want to see you this very moment and smother you in my love. Alas, I cannot fathom any support to bring me over to where you are at this very moment. For the two of us are miles apart. You must stay strong as you carry out your club trip. Mountain climbing with Monsieur Mastermind is no easy task, I must applaud you for your beautiful efforts to follow Jade’s persistence through the woods.

Why, it’s the adventure of ________ and Monsieur Mastermind! What a marvelous event! I shall cheer you on. In the meantime, I’ll continue to miss you as I follow my day-to-day activities. Despite my heart hurting from the loss of you I must remember to stay strong just as you are. One shouldn’t live life solely for their lover and as much as I do love to admire you, I cannot allow myself to get so lost in one thing.

Suppose during our time apart I’ll gather research for the science club. Our very own member, Trey, has accidentally bred a new strawberry. Perhaps I’ll dissect the beauty in such an unexpected birth. Considering even Chevalier des Roses himself wasn’t aware of this event happening it’s best to investigate. Together with Chevalier des Roses I shall discover the beauty of newly born life!

Soon we’ll have an enormous number of stories to go through together. When that fateful day arrives let us not hold back from any details. I want to know everything there is to know about your adventure. Once we’re finished with exploring each other’s stories, how about we take a day to relax. I imagine you’re going to be tired after hiking such rough terrain. On that very day I’ll massage your body and take care of your hair. Don’t worry _____, I’ll be sure to take care of you well.

What exciting plans I’ve thought of! Do tell me your response to everything in a timely manner _____. How marvelous! I’ve spotted a sight that cannot be dismissed. Why, Roi des Dragons is with Monsieur Dandelion!!!

With that I bid you adieu~

Rook Hunt

[f0point5]

Just skimmed through your posts about wags and the amount of hate they receive and omfg it is so refreshing to see someone with similar views!! Wag culture is so insane and I am a Harry Styles fan like I thought it couldn’t get more toxic than that and holy shit formula one is on another level

Im sorry in advance but I need to describe this in full detail to someone else bc no one irl is a formula one fan like me so I have no one to talk to this about😭😭 but I think it’s so interesting the way stan culture moves and how my tiktok algorithm showed me just how bad it is for the wags

I’m new to F1 so my tiktok algorithm started with showing me Charles Leclerc to Taylor swift music edits (thought he was really pretty but didn’t make me a f1 fan) to Max Verstappen to TS music edits (made me a huge Max fan and why I’m into formula one now lol) to Max interview clips to drive to survive (watched it —I know it’s dramatized but I love the way it’s filmed) to more tiktoks about max and his childhood and then I started getting really pretty girls on my fyp (now I know it’s Alexandra and Kika but didn’t at the time so I would like the videos and move on) but then I became a bigger fan of f1 so I would recognize them and then my tiktok fyp went to edits of the wags which was whatever bc I love pretty girls so I didn’t think too much of it but then very quickly my fyp turned dark (very dramatic lmaoo). I started getting hate edits of the wags and at this point I didn’t really have too much of an opinion on the wags and I still don’t except I do side eye Kelly —i know it’s none of my business and I know bare bones about their relationship but age gaps especially when one met the other when they were a teen always makes me uncomfortable🥴 Anyways so once my tiktok went weird, I started going through the hate comments these people would leave about these women and I feel so bad for the girlfriends. Yes they live incredibly privileged lives but being dissected the way they do on tiktok is absolutely insane. They get hate for literally every single thing they do. I remember there was a video of Charles and Alexandra at a race and she stopped smiling for one second and they were literally calling her two faced and fake for just having a resting face that isn’t smiling. There was another of Kelly and they had a video of her not catching the bouquet at a wedding and clipped a video of max laughing so it looked like he had laughed at her and then followed it by a video of Kelly getting annoyed or something and the amount of nasty comments was insane. I think Kelly then said something about it on Instagram and instead of feeling bad for spreading a false video to hate on her, the same page started to make fun of her for trying to say it was edited WHEN IT WAS!?? I still don’t get it honestly. I get being jealous of their lifestyle bc wow it must be amazing to be able to travel and experience the world the way they get to but not even when I was at my most parasocial relationship with one direction as a 12 year old, did I ever feel the need to send hate to the people my faves dated. I know stan culture has always been bad but I do wonder what it was like following formula one when tiktok did not exist. I’m not sure how long you’ve been a fan but was it always this toxic towards the wags?? Or is the increase in fans formula one has recently gotten the cause of all this?? This is my first time being a sports fan and I really do love it, it’s exciting watching races and learning all the lore of teams and older racers but I honestly didn’t think there was this amount of parasocial attitudes in racing when I was first became a fan like it’s insane

I just reread this and omfg sorry for the essay and probably a shit ton of errors bc I’m tired as hell rn

Formula 1 is the perfect storm for toxic fans because it is so constant. Racing happens for most of the year and in between the off track drama keeps going. Whereas singers are only visible while touring and not often in between. Drivers are constantly giving content.

I’m not gonna rehash it because it was so wild but that Kelly video at the wedding was one of a lottt of edits flying around about her at that time and some of them actually had some pretty personal information/rumours so when she comments about the editing videos she wasn’t referring to the one from the wedding I’m pretty sure. There was one particular tiktok account dedicated to collecting screenshots of messages “from Kelly” that apparently were edited, and just spreading rumours about her personal life from years ago.

But yeah it’s insane what these women have to put up with. To a certain extent they do sign up for it, since a lot of them use the platform to build an influencer career so they are inviting the public into their life in a sense but there’s no excuse for the way people talk about them and harass them it’s unhinged.

And yeah, I do blame the new fan base. Sorry to say but back when it was just old men watching the sport it was not like this. People used to laugh at the antics of James Hunt or talk about the partying but it wasn’t like…this venomous vitriol (obviously men and their hooliganism has its own issues no one likes football fans and they’re all men but I’d argue that kind of fan is part of the new wave of fans as well). And part of it is social media because now people can just post hate indiscriminately and with no consequences but it’s the younger demographic by and large using social media.

Parasocials in F1 absolutely seem to be the consequence of increased media presence (drive to survive, more promotion of races/race weekends as “partying” events, more races in cities/tourist locations). Thank you Liberty Media (RIP Moto GP). And personally I think it’s making the sport a bit ridiculous but it’s bringing in money. Parasocials are the people who buy merch and go to the f1 arcade and pretty much keep the cafes on Casino square solvent so…yeah. Good for the investors. Good for the teams.

And even good for the wags in a way like I don’t doubt that despite the hate they’ve all materially profited from the attention.

It’s just sad that people have to act like that. Like are they raised in a barn? Did no one teach them to mind their own business? Is the jealousy so real that they can’t help themselves? Idk how posting about how much you hate Alexandra’s body makes you feel cuter or better about the fact that Charles Leclerc won’t date you. I can’t relate.

Don’t worry about the essay you’re welcome to come and rant every time we love that here 💕

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Trimax Thoughts Vol. 2 Pt. 1

Miscellaneous stupid little thoughts for this volume again! Yippee!

...dude kills people with a saxophone. Okay then. Sure. I will incorporate this into my belief system.

This guy actually tried to warn them... the Gung-Ho Guns are actually really interesting. I hope to see some expansion on their individual motives.

LEGATO WTF. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT.

I swear he gets cuter in every volume. Look at him.

I would love to know where the GHG get their outfits from... are they like. Coordinating? Is leather in style? Ok, really though, I'm fascinated by the way Knives has... well... knives (or maybe spears?) that almost look like they are piercing his neck, and a big one that looks like it runs straight through his chest. Pointy bits to keep people away from his vulnerable throat and heart, I suppose? A mask to cover his face? Idk. His outfit is certainly a look.

"I just can't catch a break," Midvalley says, in what is a very normal reaction to being forcibly contorted in half on the floor.

They are such idiots together. Bless.

You walk up to someone, he tries to kill you with a sword then tells you he and his beleaguered assassin coworkers are there to cause you eternal suffering. Wdyd?

Hm. That's called sunk cost fallacy, my dude. (Also probably has a bit to do with maintaining honour or pride associated with sword technique... maybe.) Hey have you noticed that the assassins here tend to have one technique they've spent a lifetime mastering and then as soon as Vash manages to counter it that's... just kind of it for them? Monev spent 20 years training and then was nearly killed and just... stopped. EG Mine got his weird hamster ball destroyed and was basically useless after that. Dominique's trick was discovered and she chose to die by jumping rather than wait to be killed. And here, Rai-Dei sees his technique has been bested and immediately abandons his honour to try and stab Vash in the back. I need to take a closer look at this as I'm reading about the rest of them.

Yayyy girls! I love them.

I really appreciate Jessie btw. She sees that Meryl and Milly consider Vash a friend, and despite the fact that all she would've heard of him are the July and Fifth Moon incidents and rumours about his dangerousness, she decides purely based on how much the girls are excited to see him again that he's probably not a bad guy at all and she wouldn't mind meeting him. It's just nice to see random people in this world (that we've been shown over and over again is extremely inhospitable) giving people the benefit of the doubt.

Wolfwood's nightmare sequence. painpainpainpainpain

Vash concussion arc. Lol. (Also I have a lot of thoughts about the theme of protecting one's home that's coming up here... but more on that later)

AUGH???

"The models were dissected while alive" HOLY FUCK. WHAT. EVEN THE BABY? WHAT THE FUCK

The fact that Rai-Dei couldn't feel a single trace of death when challenging Vash but now both Leonof and Wolfwood are terrified because Vash is literally radiating death and pain at the loss of these people. Something something suppressing the force and overwhelm of his loss, which he's carried around inside him for such an inhumanly long time that it is literally overpowering and incomprehensibly terrifying. Something something he cares so much about his family and so very little for himself. Ha. I feel so normal about this.

Well, this was cheery.

If you're wondering why I said hardly anything about Wolfwood here... stay tuned. There will be a part two. :)

[sweettjrose]

Hey i was reading your last writing, and i wanted to say i really enjoyed that one, it quite remember another story of Blot (Macchia Nera e il buon vicinato) but totally makes that as a sequel and totally of his own for real. Idk if the plan of Blot was correct or not (and sadly i cannot help you if there's a plot hole), but the writing was very fluid and some of the comedy/humor was really good and i was a bit nervous about the romance but it was really interesting. (and i'm someone who played a lot of otome games eheheh eve).

Tbh, it's quite of the best fanfic of Blot i've readed. ( i did not checked all of your previous fanfic so i'm gonna be wrong. ) i'm just so excited to read the next part if you wanna finish of course. The tension was just aaaaah! ><

Anyway thank you to put all your efforts for this fanfic. ^7^/<3

Thank you so much!!! 💕

I am so happy that you are enjoying my story 🥰 I really appreciate all of your compliments. I worked really hard on this fanfiction and I am glad that it is coming out well. It's honestly hard to judge by yourself on whether you are doing something right, so I greatly appreciate hearing your thoughts and seeing what you guys like and think.

I don't think I read that story you're talking about (I would love a link). But this story is actually a follow up (or rather a prequel) to my other fanfiction Detective Mickey Pilot and based on my interpretation of the Phantom Blot and this world. I've been daydreaming and thinking about this story for a very long time and am so glad I finally found the energy to write it down and share it with you all. Plus as I write I end up finding new angles and stuff to add, making the story a bit more complete.

But I am honestly really glad you are finding the romance elements interesting. To be honest, I am very nervous writing them. Love stories can be tough to write as there is a thin line between cheesy and romantic. Plus it can be challenging with the Phantom Blot, because while he does have a "romantic" element to him, he's not exactly a "loving" guy, so trying to imagine how he would act and react in a love story requires a lot of thinking, but is honestly a lot of fun and a great way to dissect more into the character.

Honestly the Phantom Blot has been a blast to write and I can't wait for you guys to see what I've got planned for him, Penelope, and the rest of the story. I'm definitely intrigued by what you guys react to future chapters as I don't want to spoil anything, but I've got a lot of interesting things planned.

Again thank you so much and I hope to share the next chapter soon...

After I finish the next chapter of my Detective Mickey Pilot. Let's hope that doesn't take forever.

[actualbird]

[ToTch 9 spoilers] Is it wrong of me to say that this chapter felt a bit disjointed from the rest? Everyone felt more hostile towards each other. The pacing was also a bit off in my eyes. I wasn't really satisfied with this episode, I don't know how to put it into words.

// spoilers for tot main story 9

it's not wrong, anon!! everyone's got the right to feel how they wanna feel over the story!! i really liked the hostility (im a slut for escalating conflict, HAHA) but that doesnt mean Everyone will like it

i do very agree with you on having some qualms with the pacing. i found that the emotional/personal relationship between luke and mc in main story 9 was quite rushed and cldve been done better, and i talk more about that in this previous ask response. like in summary....i find chapter 9 to be a FANTASTIC Main Story Plot chapter, but a bit lacking as a Luke Focus chapter.

as for the disjointedness & hostility, i was also INCREDIBLY JARRED but after realizing the Contexts and Timeline of when the story was occurring (heres a post where galena surely-galena gives her very interesting ch9 thoughts and i come in to wordbarf abt luke's hostility and timelines), it made more sense to me and made me more excited for more than unsatisfied. like, ch9 happens Some Amount Of After the pluto cruise thing, and during that portion of time a rather large shift in the structure of the team had happened. additionally, this main story kinda confirmed that the main stories happen in a timeline where personal stories dont happen, so everybody has Not had their emotional growth and character arc KJHAVFAJHFASLF. still, that being said, there were a bunch of ways that they cldve eased the story into this portion of time for a smoother effect.

(i actually added the odd pacing in my twitter livereact thread and i stand by this. main story 8 rlly spoiled me for god tier story pacing kJHVAKFJHAS)

something i also realized and wanna point out is that...mc is heavily alienated from the boys in this chapter

i say that not as a criticism but as a mere observation. luke is pushing her away, vyn was off SOMEWHERE, marius was the most like his usual self to her but he left quite quickly, and HOO BOY ARTEM....i feel like im gonna need someone with a phd in artem wing to dissect artem (directing u to sam samsspambox, if ever ur looking for an artem expert :D). but yeah like....the Change in the case that's happened has made the team wary about each other in varying degrees, and while theres no outright hostility against mc, she is also included in who to be wary of. this fits in narratively with everything else going on but it also means that like

this is just the beginning

like how mc walked into that meeting room and was like "?????? WHATS GOIN ON", since we see the story from her eyes And since the team is now in this state of being divided, there is less information that we get on the spot and more has to be found By her. so in a way, the team has become another thing mc (and the players) will have to investigate and pick apart

sORRY I THINK I WENT OFF ON A RAMBLE HERE PAST THE SCOPE OF THIS ASK ALSHFJVALSFH BUT MY POINT IS, whatever feelings or interpretation you have of the story is valid and it's not wrong to not be satisfied w it!!

[arcanepactguile]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 - 𝐈𝐈𝐈

𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒

ᴀɴᴏɴʏᴍᴏᴜꜱ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ — ɢʀᴏᴏᴍɪɴɢ/ꜱʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʀɪᴛᴇꜱ.

AO3 CHAPTER 3

It was time for a bath.

It was going to be awkward. It was going to be unconditionally uncomfortable. And the hypnotised Radio Demon had no will power left to put up a good fight — punishment when punishment’s due, the tentacle monster hadn't forgotten how it's prisoner had made attempts to fight, the powerful Overlord's magick repertoire confounded by dungeon’s unorthodox branch of magic.

The occult spellbook was left open, on the edge of the bed. Circumspectly trying to roll at the very least, his upper torso in order to crane his neck back and snatch a glimpse of what the open book’s pages were — whilst he had been lost in the haze of bubbling arousal, the tentacles circling his legs had begun professionally undressing him without warning.

Alastor's attempt to steal a preview of the incoming spell swiftly earned him a stinging slap across his engorged udders.

The fwip slicing through the air, the slim tendril's body whipped along the full udders diagonally in his state of partial undress —one tentacle holding the looped belt of his trousers’ waistband high, tugged midway past one asscheek, the other tentacle paused it's descent on the opposite hip to deliver that sobering slap. Bucking up, Alastor’s shriek rang out in the gloom. A stark red line swelled up on the deceptively strong skin, the welt scarlet compared to the dusky pink of the expansive twin-organ. The downy fur covering the full udders now lay invisible on his skin, slick with cold sweat, an unforeseen development. Progress towards the bath to clean him up was going slow.

If only the clever Radio Demon had thought things through, rather than insist on trying to escape this cryptic imprisonment.

Severely in debt, the penalties had to be paid. The outstanding dues were decided to come together enacted as a conglomerate of degradation, correction, and despairingly — adulteration. Alastor was not going to (perhaps in time) gain any clemency over the next hour.

The tentacles don't care about compassion.

Sucking in deep lungfuls of air, drawing in as much oxygen he could steal in an effort to rid the pounding headache dulling his thoughts, the tentacles started the laborious task of prepping him for the bath.

The guard-tentacles coiling tighter, their sinuous forms pinned Alastor's wrists to the bed, in unison with the larger pair at his legs slipping up to snag the loops of his waistband, shimmying the pants off in a few rough, jerky motions to clear his hooves without further unnecessary delay. The team worked very quickly, in haste to prolong the Overlord's suffering — no time to study their frantic, excited movements. The rest of his attire shed similarly, discarded over the bed, the tentacles drifted over the anchor points to relay the first disciplinary lesson he had acquired in his desperation to escape.

Four tentacles nimbly yanked Alastor down to the edge of the bed frame, hurriedly flipping him over onto his stomach without a care for the crushing weight his pelvis pushed into his throbbing udders squashed onto hard mattress. Ignoring the demon's shrill bleat of pain, flinging out his hands to claw at the bedding to pull himself up, the thespian’s body wriggling to redistribute the weight off his crushed cock and tackle and subsequently his bladder and prostate — the four tentacles held him face down firmly, a fifth tentacle manifested from under the bed’s skirt. 

This limb resembled a cat ‘o nine tails; and it put it to good use, in the meantime a second tentacle monster had been equipping the adjacent antechamber for the ritual.

This distinctive tentacle at the bed took aim for a mere split second, pelted the Radio Demon's exposed rear with relentless, heavy licks of it's multiple-dissected tip. Each sharp lash had Alastor heaving out great gasps, his ass recoiling upwards and shuddering from the loud smacks. The flogger took no notice of the buck’s doe anatomy; whenever the tendrils struck the pink flesh of the bloated udder peeking squeezed between his clenched thighs, the spongy balloon jiggled, stripes of reddened lines crisscrossed his overstimulated organ. Alastor's ballsac had been part of the magick, reabsorbed into his taint to present a generous area to play with and stimulate.

After thirteen minutes exactly, the flogger suddenly stopped; Alastor's sit-spots and upper cheeks were by now glowing with heat, reddened and tighter. His udders fared better; although the oxycotin flooding his quickened pulse, coupled with the constant pressure pushing his udders into his stomach and the bed had squirted some milk into the sheets. A puddle of bluish milk trickled down one leg, the translucent fluid joining the sweat pebbling his skin everywhere.

Breathing raggedly, tears blurring, Alastor did not struggle once the team had finished examining his listless body for any open cuts or haemorrhaging. The two ankle-tendrils affectionately releasing his legs, slithering up to explore the heavy sac that throbbed between his thighs. One tip curiously squirmed under the left quad bulge, wriggling in to nose about and eventually latch onto a teat. Giving it a tug, Alastor’s back bowed, crying out weakly when a spurt of milk was stroked out, the intense pressure inside the hardened appendage was relieved if only momentarily. Stroking the wet patch, the other tentacle meanwhile weaved itself around the Radio Demon's waist, lifting him up to slump forward amongst the other tentacles. In this carry, the monster hauled his empathic form to the stall waiting for him, all prepared.

Whilst the flogger had been spanking Alastor as a lesson against rebellion, the second monster had finished the stall.

Tiled, a round chamber, the centre of the en suite sported a tie-up system — ankle spreaders, wrist cuffs, a basin at groin height, various implements, gear, and a drain.

It was finally beginning.

Tentacles expertly strung up Alastor's wrists to cuffs suspended from the celiing crossbar, each ankle shacklef inside separate cuffs at shoulder-width apart — all on the toe of his hooves, the stag demon stretched up and held perfectly in place while an extra tentacle, the thinnest, crept up the inside of one leg to pluck at his tight hole; finding still resistance, the silky tentacle balled up it's tip to rub at the rosebud, massaging the nerves hidden there to spread Alastor's hole open. Jerking forward in a spasm, tongue lolling out in pleasure, a twin tentacle deceitfully forced the knotted plug of an anal hook deep into his relaxed hole. Letting go, the hook pulled Alastor's ass higher, tilting his pelvis down and lower back curved in.

Eyes waterin, blinking hard to clear his vision better, the Radio Demon was incapable of looking down to watch the ritual — leaving his arms bound high, the two tentacles there coiled around his throat to tip his jaw up, the other rubbing soothing circular motions in one limp ear respectively. The chokehold tendril raisef it's tip to lovingly thumb tears from Alastor's eye, gently kneading his cheek, to repair his hurt pride as the team down below set to work.

The Radio Demon wasn't technically dirty or unhygienic — far from it. The stag was fastidious. However, tonight's misadventure had spoiled his body. It needed to be remedied.

Before the prep, the remaining pair inspected Alastor's groin, studying the differences without a sac. A pair of doe's udders hung in front on his groin, the bulging flesh a darker pink and covered with milky white fuzz. Thicker veins pulsed at this point, the hardened teats at the front of each quadrant thrust out, the tips blushed cerise. The skin felt clammy to the touch, perspiration beaded here and there in pockets of taut flesh. Nestled in the junction between the left and right quadrants rested his hardening cock; bobbing as he breathed heavily, awaiting the relief-cum-embarassment of a spongebath, the member was seen to by simply getting picked up and held defiantly against his own stomach. Precvm welling up in the slit, the last free tentacle saw to cleaning him by itself.

Desperate to stand completely still, trying to not bury the thick plug in deeper nor knead his own hole, Alastor's low moans of pleasure echoed in the small stall. A glob of cleansing oil had just been squirted on to a very warm cloth, and this the tentacle good-naturedly massaged it onto his full udders. Rubbing faster in concentric circles, the tentacle rubbing firmly with rapt attention — sliding under the heavy skin holding the organ to the cleft in his ass, gliding up and down to lather the oil into the warming up flesh.

Opening up the pores to encourage better success at shaving the organ naked; moving on from the thorough kneading, pulling the skin outwards to sweep the rag over every section; it decided a random reward for the Overlor being such a good boy. Rolling a teat inside a fresh slab of flexible sponge as a wrap, the tentacle sneakily gave his teats a wicked tug one by one — squeezing the base of the cistern to furiously strip the teat down in three rough pumps, Alastor's yelp coincided with his knees buckling in pure arousal. The warmth moistness of the sponge's texture imitated the soft heat of a suckling mouth; this triggered the aphrodisiac seeds that the monster had forcibly impregnated his udders to quicken the build up of milk, droplets blooming on the teats' gaping sphincters, longing to be nursed.

Sliding under between his thighs again to sluice more oil into the folds, the tentacle eventually replaced the sodden rag with the ultimate tool: the razor.

The Radio Demon's startled BLEAT invited the first warning tap to the hook that stuffed his ass; after nudging the base to tease his sensitive ring, the tentacle resumed very carefully, in slow and scrutinised strokes, shaving the downy fur covering his groin. Cradling the pounding sac had the buck bite his bottom lip in wretched uneasiness, shallow breaths indicating his spiked anxiety. Ears pinned back, the touch of a fresh warm cloth to his bursting udder elicited another strangled sob; in jerking away from the cloth rubbing down the residual oil before the final rinse, the butt plug had tweaked and in return spurred Alastor rolling his hips forward, the watchful tentacle at his rear smacked the sweet-spot reproachfully, the demon's reddened skin blushing darker red. The extra spank stung, his cheeks flexing uncontrollably, thus the cycle renewed pleasuring his own stretched hole around the knotted plug bearing a good deal of his weight.

Shaved white fur clinging, both tentacles took it in turns rinsing Alastor's groin and legs clean of fur and lotion. The udders had undergone a dramatic transition furless; now they were wholly naked, a vivid lipstick pink, and...��even more so tender.

Soft towelling rubbing and patting him dry, the Radio Demon's only choice was to continue dangling half-suspended, licking his lips in trepidation as he tried not to give the monsters any new ideas.

[nereidprinc3ss]

I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[shadowedresolve]

Zenkichi doesn't understand why the Metaverse has appeared again, when he thought it was meant to be gone for good. Why here, why now? The questions that have been running through his mind seem to be never-ending, but truth be told...

He knows that whatever the reason, it can't be good news. If someone is using the metaverse for bad again, people might get hurt - they might be getting hurt already. The thought of Akane being in danger is more than enough to make his blood run cold and have him taking the possibility very seriously.

And yet- when he realized where he'd ended up, he couldn't help but feel almost... excited, too. Or maybe rejuvenated would be a better term? It's selfish, he's knows. And he doesn't particularly want to examine himself to dissect that feeling, but even then, he thinks he already has an idea of the reason... as much as it's painful to admit.

But for now, figuring out what's going on - and how to go back - takes precedent. There'll be time for self-deprecating thoughts and emotional breakthroughs later, right?

"Joker...?" Zenkichi questions, recognizing Akira quickly, though he seems to be on his own without the rest of the Thieves there with him. Even so, Zenkichi finds himself cracking a smile anyway.

"You have no idea how much of a relief it is to see you here. You alright? Where are the others?"

@fantomevoleur ( starter! )

[delirious-donna]

Chapter 1: The Flawless Performance

pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader

tw: professor/student dynamic, reader is 21, riled emotions, distrust towards reader, mentions of female masturbation, fantasising about her sexy professor, explicit content in all subsequent chapters

summary: You had been his favourite. It should have stayed that way, and Professor Nanami would realise the error of his ways one way or another.

Masterlist | Chapter 2

“I think you’ll find, Sir…”

The rest of the sentence was obscured behind the wild pound of his pulse. Every nerve set ablaze by the sugary sweet voice that was the bane of his very existence. Strong fingers gripped the pen in his hold with renewed strength, feeling the give of the flimsy plastic as he crushed the life out of it. Splintering shards flooded his palm, and he had to fight every urge not to show the evidence of his ire.

A sea of faces stared down at him, a range of expressions from over-eager interest to downright blatant boredom, and among them–you stood out. It was impossible for his eyes not to swivel straight to where you sat, the same seat you always took. The one dead centre, ensuring that he would give you the majority of his attention–you demanded it after all.

Professor Nanami stared down his charges; long had he become disillusioned with the life of a teacher. It felt like an age had passed since he had considered himself eager to share his knowledge, now finding solace as the clock above the door ticked towards clocking off time more than anything else. There had been a time when he was fresh-faced and excited to encourage the next generation, but as everything else had in his life, the shine had worn off remarkably fast.

A haunted silence rang through his mind despite his awareness that you were still talking, not a word of it did he hear. His elbow braced upon the lectern he stood at, one foot crossed over his opposite ankle as if he were bored stiff. The ability to mask his emotions came in handy at moments such as this, although it was becoming increasingly difficult and he knew exactly what the reason was. 

Kento’s gaze wandered somewhat aimlessly around the slightly raised platform that he stood upon, searching for something to focus his attention, and it fell on his meticulously clean desk on the far side.

A desk that suddenly seemed wrong; his brow lowered in concentration as he focused on the cherrywood desk. He scrutinised every inch with his sweeping gaze, something was out of place and not being able to spot the oddity was only causing his wrath to grow. It wouldn’t be long until it consumed him, that ugly feeling spreading like a sickness throughout his body until it succeeded in darkening every corner.

There it was.

A vibrant pink pen with an unsightly fluffy pompom at the end lay across his open planner. He glared at it. He wished for nothing more than to set it ablaze with his eyes alone. This was not the first time he had seen this particular pen, it had a strange habit of appearing on random parts of his desk despite the numerous times he had disposed of it, and the wild thought of who this pen likely belonged to struck him right between the eyes.

The phoney cutesy voice was still going strong as he attempted to tune back in, your words dissecting every point he had made within the last forty-five minutes of his lecture. You wielded your words like a surgeon wields a scalpel. Nanami walked to his desk, each step of his feet sounded like an ominous thunderclap on the polished wood.

There was no other noise within the auditorium other than his footfalls and the incessant crucifixion of today’s lesson, he could sense the brewing storm that pressed heavily upon everyone present. It was evident from the way he watched students shuffle in their seats, that uncomfortable squirm that spoke of their wish to be able to escape the impending doom.

He reached the desk in a mere six paces and picked up the offending pen with his finger and thumb, holding it like it was something he’d rather not touch at all.

Wait, was that a falter in the diatribe being spouted?

Nanami rounded the desk until he could lock eyes with you, amused at how you had rushed to continue your speech. Hazel eyes stared directly into yours, he held your gaze as his fingers released the pen to fall to its death within his trash can, the clatter of the plastic meeting metal sounding far louder than it should.

At long last, you had come to the end of your admonishments, and a slow smile spread across his face. You didn’t need to know that he was literally biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in line, very aware that if he were to act upon the wishes he had at this moment, he would lose his job in a heartbeat. The shocked expression that graced your pretty face was victory enough.

Whatever you had expected from him, it surely wasn’t this and he was filled with momentary satisfaction that was far too fleeting for his liking. It was not nearly enough to douse the flames of irritation, but enough to allow him to find his voice once more. Walking with considered steps he stood centre stage and brushed a hand through his slightly ruffled hair.

“And with that, ladies and gentlemen, my character assassination as a Professor is complete.”

Kento pressed his arm tightly against his front, bowing as if he were an actor in a play and the curtain had finally fallen. Tinkling awkward laughter rang through the room, and he took the opportunity to spread his arm towards where you sat. Your eyes widened in surprise, your mouth popped into a small ‘o’ that looked so damn appealing to him at that moment, and such a tight hold on the pen in your grasp that your fingers were visibly trembling.

“Why don’t you stand and take a bow? Such a wonderful performance as my assassin. Clearly, you know more about the subject than I, the Professor do.”

Silence.

All laughter died in the throats of the students as they twisted in every direction to get a look at the girl in question. It would be a lie to say that he didn’t feel sorry for you, but it was so insignificant in comparison to the months of harassment he had suffered through that it was easy to squash the feeling under his heel.

Some may think that his lacking compassion made him cruel. How wicked to toy with his students in this way, he must have no feelings or empathy, but this was far from the truth. He did care, despite his waning enthusiasm for his profession, he still wanted the best for the students that walked through his door. The only crime that Kento was guilty of was being consumed by his thoughts–thoughts that were far from pure and just.

His annoyance for the mental and emotional torture he had been put through by you was more than evident, but more importantly, it was his annoyance for letting himself get this riled up in the first place that bothered him the most. For allowing it to get this far without putting a stop to it–he held the authority to do so, and he worried for a second that a part of him might have sickeningly enjoyed it. Who in their right mind would be so depraved to have enjoyed what he had experienced?

Speaking of his tormentor, you slammed your open notebook closed with an echoing thud. The reverberation rattled at his nerves, and he ground down on his molars as you got to your feet to give a cute curtsey. Ever the brilliant actress, no one would ever suspect the evil mind that was housed within your angelic-looking head.

Damn you…

~

Professor Nanami, why do you snub me so? 

What changed, and why do I care more than I’d like?

It was always a challenge to interject into one of his lectures, despite the alarming regularity with which you did so. Everything about him was imposing; from his stature to his authoritative voice. It would be a lie to say you hadn’t found yourself staring at the broad frame of your business ethics professor on more than one occasion. Getting woefully lost in your mind at just how wide his shoulders were beneath the crisp button-ups that he always wore.

You remembered well the day at the beginning of the summer months, the one when the weather seemed intent on cooking everyone to a sizzling crisp. Reliving the memory of the mesmerising way he had rolled his sleeves to the elbows. Not only had it exposed his muscled forearms, the thick tendons pulled taut whilst his equally thick fingers worked the stiff fabric, but also the tawny complexion of his skin. 

How amusing that he should teach business ethics when you had long strayed into very unethical territory, but it wasn’t enough to stop you in your endeavours–not nearly enough. He deserved it after all, stringing you along only to cast you aside for seemingly no reason at all. Could you really call it stringing you along? 

If you thought about it rationally for even a second, you would likely conclude the insanity of the emotions that ruled your head but it was difficult when you manifested hearts in your eyes every time you walked through the hallowed doors of Professor Nanami’s lecture hall.

You weren’t some silly sixteen-year-old girl anymore, so why did it seem your emotional maturity regressed within his presence? From the very first moment you met him, you were hooked. Down so sickeningly bad that you went out of your way to impress him time and time.

Shrugging off the whispered sneers of “teacher’s pet”  and becoming top of the class with a lot of hard work and dedication to the subject matter. Weren’t you the perfect cliche; lusting after your handsome professor like some lovesick puppy? 

You tried to forget about your attraction, tried valiantly to socialise with your peers and find a man of your own age to fantasise about in the dead of night when your thighs tightened against the pillow shoved between them and your spine bowed off your lonely, single mattress.

It was always eyes of warming sun-kissed brown that pierced through the veil of your arousal. Hair the shade of harvest-ready wheat that you imagined buried at the apex of your thighs and the tick of his expensive timepiece that marched steadily onwards whilst the hand attached curled around your waist.

Kento…

You had learned his given name quite by accident, hearing another Professor address him by it when they both assumed they were alone and since then you had longed to whisper it in his ear. How perfectly it rolled off your tongue, the syllables melding together beautifully in the breathless way you exhaled it as you fell apart on your fingers, wishing they were his.

So, yes it was petty, and yes you knew it was wrong to torment him as you had been, but you weren’t going to stop. Not unless he forced you to, and that very thought was exhilarating. The battle of wits and resolve would continue until he saw the error of his ways, you were special and he should admit that to himself instead of shutting you out.

[upslapmeal]

Notes from the Taskmaster S15E04 recording

I got to see this episode filmed back in September (if you were there hello from the person Mark Olver kept quizzing lol, and important question: do you have an airing cupboard?) and thought I'd make a post with some Bonus Content from the recording. Last time I did this I realised I'd forgotten loads so this time I got home, sat down, diligently made notes for until the end of the prize task, and decided to do the rest the next day. I did not do the rest. So we'll just have to see how well my memory holds up 😅

The version of Greg's aeroplane-themed intro was an alternative version filmed at the end - the original had the reveal that THEY'RE ALL DEAD!! and the second one was filmed "in case anyone dies in a plane"

Alex had three """""jokes"""" about his Italy trip, each one increasingly terrible. The one I made a note of was "I saw Stevie Wonder" turning into "I saw a wonder of the word". Needless to say, Greg was unimpressed.

When Greg went to Mae to introduce their prize task, their opening comment was "I’m excited to continue to explore our….dynamic"

The strength of the dynamic was then questioned when Greg was dismissive of their prize

Whatever your opinion of how Mae was scored for a later task, when Greg saw their prize on the stage at the end of the episode he said it had been underscored and it actually looked like a lot of fun

“Kiell you’ve been doing badly…it’s not your turn yet though. Frankie?"

"Jenny has always given a sob story just after presenting her prize, last episode leant heavily on her dead father" - we were told this after Jenny said she couldn't knit the hat because she had nerve damage in her hands

"I forgot to be funny then, sorry that was just sad" - Jenny

The ad buffers we saw in studio were filmed in Gatwick, and since this was before S14 aired there was a discussion about what airport it was based on the presence of an upstairs Jamie Oliver restaurant in one of them

[here ends the comprehensive notes]

I cannot stress this enough, but ANY angle or thought that you may have about Mae's throw(s) (or lack thereof) came up in the studio

I can't remember what ended up swinging (heh) it in their favour but it truly felt as though it was going to go on forever

Man I wish I could remember any specifics because there was So Much, genuinely every single possible take on that attempt was thoroughly and gleefully dissected

Hearing during this episode that Ivo had won the last two was much like when I saw that Bridget was in first place during the record for S13E04 lol

Right. Banana.

I think the logic ended up being that the task said to get the 'BANANA'

And they did, in fact, get the 'BANANA'

They got the word not the object

And there was definitely a debate about what it is to be a noun, which Mae weighed in on and I think almost made Ivo explode that they had no right to after what they did with a verb

I feel like this may have been cut bc Ivo used 'she' and I imagine the editors are going for consistency, but it's a shame bc it was amazing

But it was still 'BANANA'. As stated in the task. The word it said to get was the word they got.

Do with this what you will.

During the live task, Ivo kept pouring his sand, very very slowly, after everyone else had finished and after he was told his stream had broken, until the bottle was empty.

Tragically Jenny did not wear the turkey on her head at the end, despite everyone agreeing earlier that the winner would have to.

There we go then. And the moral of the story is to actually make notes on what happened before you forget everything. And by 'you' I mean me. I swear I'll have better notes about the S16 finale.