#we are turning this into an analysis night actually i feel

[impishtubist]

Factually, I know that there are a bunch of younger people in the marauders/wolfstar fandom who haven't actually read the books, but the thing I just can't wrap my mind around is: WHY??? And I don't even mean it in the sense of "these kids are ruining the fandom and should read the canon before they start writing fics" (well... at least not entirely). I mean that I utterly don't get it as a choice for them. Like, there is SO MUCH media out there that (a) has way better canon, (b) has canonically queer characters, and (c) wasn't written by a racist TERF. For example, Young Royals. In itself, a really good show. And if these new MWPP fans' fics are anything to go by, it has the exactly the kind of character archetypes, character relationships, and story lines that these folks are actually interested in seeing/reading. There's also Good Omens, OFMD, the (small but great) the Old Guard, etc. The options are abundant these days!

Now, for all I know, a lot of these folks might be in a few of these other better-suited fandoms in addition to MWPP. But why do they bother with MWPP at all? I get that MWPP & Harry Potter in general is a bigger, older fandom with a lot of existing content. But I feel like this newer pack of MWPP fans could really help build up more vibrant communities in the fandoms that genuinely suit them if they just invested their time & energy on that instead of on attempting to shoehorn characters & story arcs that they don't even (canonically) like into a form they enjoy.

I have many thoughts about this, actually! It's an interesting thing to discuss.

(I'm going to start out by saying that if you're a newer/younger fan here and you are reading this post...cool, you do you. I understand that the hyperfixation brain worms sometimes lead you places you didn't expect and you can't extract yourself very easily. But I'm still going to talk about how it 'tis a bit puzzling to me.)

This is not going to be universal at all, but I find personally that the fandoms I'm more active in are the ones where the queer relationships aren't canon, or are only hinted at very very slightly. Like, I wrote 18 fics for Good Omens before the romance was confirmed, and after that I wrote...1. I've written one fic for Maurice and 130 for Sherlock. I think that once the couple I want to get together is actually confirmed in canon, there's nothing left for me to do, you know? No more writing sandbox to play in. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic that Aziraphale and Crowley kissed and I cannot wait for season 3. I'm just not as compelled to write fic for that fandom now as I am for, say, Temeraire. So I can see people being more drawn to write for MWPP, with so many possibilities to play with and so many characters/couples, as opposed to Young Royals, which was a fun show to watch but I am not compelled to write anything for because the romance already played out on screen! Same with OFMD and Old Guard - LOVED watching them, don't really feel compelled to write for them.

Obviously this is not universal because those fandoms are thriving, but it's just kind of how my brain works.

Also, there must be something about the way that Sirius's and Remus's characters have been watered down/changed entirely for TikTok videos that is compelling to the younger crowd. I don't know, because I don't go there, but I've heard so many younger fans say they started shipping Wolfstar because of what they saw on TikTok.

So...yeah. I am as baffled as you! With the abundance of queer content out there not written by a TERF, it is definitely surprising to see the fandom gain new members. I am only here because Sirius Black grabbed me by the throat when I was 7 years old and hasn't let go since. If I hadn't been seized by the series at a formative age (and before her TERFness was known), I don't know if I would have gotten into it as an adult. But I can't speak for those fans! I can only speculate, like you.

[irenespring]

Thoughts on Bertha Russell (Many Thoughts)

I am So curious about Bertha Russell's backstory. We have little snippets:

Her father was a potato farmer.

She has lots of mommy issues. (George mentions her mother said she was the only child "worthy of her dreams" to which Bertha angrily responds that her mother's dreams were worthless because she died with nothing which is A Lot)

She has sibling issues. (George offers to invite her sister to a thing and she refuses)

She and George met when they were both poor, they made the fortune together.

She had a distinct learning curve when they first got to New York. She bought The Wrong House and made The Wrong Friends and had to learn and relearn things over a period of years. (I am especially interested about this time, because she would know Nothing, being the ultimate outsider, but she is a tactical genius and viciously ambitious...I want to see young!Bertha in the early stages of the struggle before she knows how to dress/talk/act).

I hope we will learn more about her because more than any of the other characters she wants things. Things that are nebulous, but she doesn't seem to realize are nebulous, because she has clear goals but they don't satisfy her so she has to make another goal. Loving husband doing well? Not enough. They have enough money to hear the call of the guillotine? It's not enough, they need status. They have status? Not enough, they need to beat Lina Astor. Now they've beaten Lina Astor, but I don't think anyone thinks that's going to be enough. George points out multiple times that he is content where he is and content to let their children marry for love to people of what Bertha considers middling station. She's the sole driving force for continued social climbing. And it doesn't matter how high they get, she wants to go higher, she wants to go "all the way" but there isn't an all the way unless I guess you're Empress of the World. But then the moon starts looking awfully conquerable.

She claims she's doing it for their children, but both children have said her suggestions aren't what they want. And it is heavily implied she just sold her only daughter to the Duke so he would attend an opera performance. She wants Gladys to marry the Duke so that she will be grandmother to English nobility. It's for her. So she is willing to use her children, her alleged motivation, as pawns. They aren't her real motivation after all, even if she may think they are. I do think she loves her children and George. I also think that she thinks she's helping Gladys, but I also think there's a limit to that love because it exists beside the yawning void of hunger within her psyche. George outright asks her if his love for her is enough to make her happy early in s1, because her love is enough for him. She says it's "almost enough" and that's significant and enough for him, which is telling, when usually any answer other than "yes of course" would be taken by a love interest as a searing betrayal. Anyway, the point is, her kids/her family are, at least, not her entire motivation and might not factor into her motivation at all, if she is fully honest with herself.

So, the hunger. The call to Rise. The rage that has her hyperventilating in bed alone after her failed party instead of crying in her husband's arms like most television characters would do. The instinct to look upon a room of people and think you will all bow to me you sniveling mortals. Why is it there? Like...why is she Like This? I think some of it has to come from what we can learn just from George's comment about impossibly ambitious, ruthless, low empathy Bertha being the only one "worthy of her mother's dreams." Which means her mother had dreams that were very important to her and that she never achieved. Her mother also guarded said dreams and judged her children harshly, we know Bertha has at least one sister, who is apparently judged not worthy in the eyes of her own mother. We know Bertha does not like talking about this and tries to dismiss it. Was there pressure on Bertha to be worthy? When could that have started and how did it manifest? Circling back to my interest in young!Bertha in NY, if the social rejection was bad in s1, it was probably worse then, and constant social failures would have made her angrier and more determined to both to become the queen of New York society and to see it burn. This is all stuff I want to learn more about in season 3.

HERE IS WHERE I PRETTY MUCH JUST DO PREDICTIONS (WHICH MAY BE TINFOIL, IDK):

Because I think we will finally get to see Bertha Russell: Season Villain. Every season needs a villain, and Bertha has pretty much vanquished all of them. The first couple seasons the overarching villain has been New York Society with its inequalities and pointless social cruelty, if that holds, Bertha is now the head of that system, having beaten Lina Astor and set herself up as the queen. Additionally, side opponents (not really villains) like Agnes also aren't in a position to make major problems for the protagonists because the Van Rhijn household is now the Forte household and cinnamon roll Ada is now in charge. Unless Agnes attempts to usurp her sister in a subplot (which I don't think will happen except for maybe one episode of hijinx) she's not in a powerful spot. The Society character is indisputably Bertha. And Bertha has been up to some serious villain shit. If she did agree to marry Gladys to the Duke, she's now against All the Protagonists---a sure sign of villain status. She's even against her husband, who swore to back Gladys in her choice of love match, and Gladys doesn't like the Duke. If Gladys wants out, Larry will almost certainly help her. And Saint Marian will help Larry either for love reasons or moral reasons, and hopefully Peggy has better things to do but she will probably get dragged into it somehow and if Marian's involved Ada's also involved and you see where this is going.

Also, show pacing wise, Bertha is due for a loss. I love her and I want her to win everything and be declared Empress of Earth and Moon but realistically that isn't going to happen. In a show where villains lose, it checks out. Gladys isn't going to marry the Duke, and if she does, everyone is going to regret it. One reason I think we will learn more about Bertha and her history is because if she loses she's going to Lose It. Dramatic monologue style. When she had a party and no one came she swore eternal vengeance and spent the night Angry Breathing and presumably fantasizing about the Red Wedding. She doesn't handle losing well. A big public loss after achieving every status symbol she could think of would probably break her mind, and she'll probably tell whoever she's talking to (probably George) enough backstory info that we the audience can fill in stuff. This is also where I would guess she and George would reconcile where he would see she is the person he loves and has not transformed into an automaton, she's just Messed Up, which he always knew and loved so he is Back In.

IN CONCLUSION:

This is who Marina was writing about. She is a primadonna girl, and all she ever wanted was the world. She cannot help that she needs it all, in this case the primadonna life: both the rise and the fall. She also knows exactly what she wants and who she wants to be. This is why she walks and talks like a machine. Unfortunately, she is becoming a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Oh, oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh.

[hoshifighting]

idk if someone asked you this but i’m a new reader and I REALLY REALLY LOVE YOUR WORKS!!!

can you please make wonwoo, the nerdy president who u thought was innocent and sweet but he’s the one behind ur fave nsfw audio creator???? AND HE’S A HARDFUCKER.. not what u expected tho..

i don’t know if i make sense but please pretty please 😭☝️

Synopsis: where you discover that the nerdy class president is the one man who creates the most nasty NSFW audios that you spend long nights listening to. WC: 2.8k WARNINGS: smut, audio porn, masturbation, hard fuck, dirty talk (obviously), bad sleeping habits (because of wonwoo), fingering, spanking, dirty talk, pussy eating, penetrative sex, protected sex, wonwoo whining, a lil invasion of privacy.

you’ve been running on fumes all day, the hazy buzz of sleep deprivation clinging to your brain like static. it’s no surprise, really. your night had gone the way it always does: you got home, flopped into your chair, threw on your headphones, and let onyx_lens—your favorite nsfw asmr creator—drag you under with that stupidly deep voice of his.

it was kind of pathetic, actually. you barely remember what the script was about—something about obedience or whatever—but you do remember the sound of his voice sinking into your brain like warm honey, making you cum so hard that you blacked the fuck out right after. now here you were, bleary-eyed and trying to stay upright in literature class, the regret of last night’s poor choices catching up with you.

wonwoo, the class president who was somehow both effortlessly chill and annoyingly observant, had been glancing at you every few minutes. you could feel his eyes on you as your head dipped forward for the third time, only to snap back up like a busted bobblehead.

but, in true wonwoo fashion, he didn’t say anything. no scolding, no judgmental sighs—just quiet observation.

when class finally ended, you were ready to yeet yourself into a nap for a solid 72 hours. you were shoving your stuff into your bag when wonwoo’s voice cut through the noise.

“you good?”

you froze. his voice wasn’t the same as onyx_lens’s, obviously, but it had that same deep, smooth timbre that made your brain short-circuit for a second. it didn’t help that his question sounded so much like something out of an nsfw script. you turned to face him, hoping your face wasn’t giving away how flustered you suddenly were. “uh—yeah,” you said, shaking your head a little too quickly. “just tired.”

wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “not sleeping well?”

your brain screamed. your tired, half-horny brain screamed louder. the overlap of his voice and onyx_lens in your head was un-fucking-bearable. you managed to nod, muttering something about late nights and deadlines, hoping he wouldn’t pry.

he didn’t, but his next question wasn’t much better.

“think you could help me with the sci-fi project? your last lit analysis was good, and i could use the extra pair of hands.”

you blinked at him. “me?”

he nodded, adjusting his glasses. “you. unless you’re too busy with...whatever’s keeping you up.”

oh, you mean my nightly sessions with onyx_lens and my vibrator?

you swallowed hard and tried to play it cool. “nah, i can help.”

and that’s how you found yourself standing outside wonwoo’s apartment later that evening, clutching your bag. his place was exactly what you’d expect from him—minimalist, neat, and smelling faintly of coffee.

“come in,” he said, holding the door open for you. “make yourself comfortable.”

easier said than done. you perched awkwardly on his couch as he set up his laptop on the coffee table, your eyes darting around the room in an attempt to ignore how nice his voice sounded in person.

“so,” he began, sitting across from you, “any ideas for the project?”

you cleared your throat, trying to focus. “uh, maybe something about robots and humanity? like, exploring ethical dilemmas or something.”

wonwoo nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your skin heat. “good idea. we could tie that into the main themes from class.”

he leaned forward slightly, scrolling through a document on his laptop, and you couldn’t help but notice how his glasses slipped down his nose. you were so not prepared for this level of proximity or his stupidly deep voice.

“you okay?” he asked again, glancing at you.

you blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “yeah, just...thinking.”

his lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “good. let me know if you need a break or...anything.”

the way he said anything sent a shiver down your spine. you weren’t sure if it was exhaustion, residual arousal from last night, or the sheer presence of wonwoo in his element, but your brain was a mess.

you were supposed to be helping him with this project, but all you could think about was the way his voice would sound whispering in your ear, saying things that would make onyx_lens blush.

you were so close to winning the “most pathetic college student of the year” award it wasn’t even funny. after much back-and-forth with wonwoo, class president of your downfall, you somehow convinced him to let you walk home alone. except the man still went all soft and paid for a taxi anyway, which, like… thanks? but also stop being so nice, what the hell.

it was nearing 11 p.m. when you got home, and as if on cue, your phone pinged with a notification: onyx_lens’s weekly live is starting.

you stared at it for a second, blinking in disbelief. today’s theme? "neon circuits and orgasm denial (a cyberpunk experience) 8d audio"

sci-fi-themed. of fucking course.

you almost laughed at the audacity of the universe for this one. was this some sort of cosmic joke? was wonwoo onyx_lens?! no way. no goddamn way. you shook off the thought as delulu nonsense and dragged yourself to the bathroom for a quick sponge bath.

by the time you flopped into your chair, headphones on, the live was already in full swing. that voice—that stupidly deep, velvety voice—flooded your ears as the chat buzzed with unhinged comments. onyx purred, and you were done for.

you couldn’t even focus on the sci-fi plot he was spinning, something about rogue androids, monster cock, neon vibrators and human experimentation. his voice wrapped around you like a silk chokehold, and you were gone—just a vibrating mess in your chair, coming undone embarrassingly fast.

fast forward to the next morning: you woke up feeling like a used dishrag. again. headphones still on, your phone dead, and the memory of last night’s live replaying in your brain like a broken record.

by the time you dragged yourself to class, you were running on fumes and vibes. your hoodie was scrunched up around your face, making you look like a cross between a gremlin and an overgrown baby.

wonwoo noticed. you could feel his eyes boring into you as you tried—and failed—to stay upright. you were so close to just giving in and laying flat on the floor. honestly, it might’ve been comfier than your chair at that point.

wonwoo, sitting two rows away, looked like he was internally debating whether to intervene or let you rot in peace. when the bell rang, you startled awake like you’d been electrocuted, nearly knocking your stuff off your desk in the process.

“you okay?” he asked, falling into step beside you as you shuffled out of the classroom like a zombie.

“i’m fine,” you mumbled, voice muffled by your hoodie. “just need food. like, now.”

you detoured to the convenience store on the way to his apartment, snagging an entire kimbap roll and tearing into it like a starving animal. wonwoo followed behind, holding your water bottle with a look that was equal parts judgment and amusement.

“you couldn’t wait?” he asked, watching as you ate half the roll in one bite.

“bro,” you said around a mouthful of rice, “if i didn’t eat this, i was gonna pass out on the cold asphalt. your problem now, mr. class president.”

he rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, just handed you your water like the reluctant babysitter he was.

this was going to be a long afternoon.

you couldn’t help yourself. the suspicion had been eating away at you for weeks now, ever since you first heard his voice in class and that nagging sense of déjà vu set in. wonwoo had escaped to the bathroom, and you had the perfect opportunity to snoop.

your fingers hovered over his notebook, but then your gaze darted back to your own screen. back and forth, back and forth. his notebook. yours. the coincidences were piling up like a conspiracy wall in your head. the voice, the specific vocabulary choices, even the cadence—how did i not notice this earlier?!

“fuck it,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing his notebook and quickly pulling up the site where you normally streamed your favorite asmr creator. just to check. just to confirm your theory.

your heart pounded as the site loaded, every second dragging like molasses. the channel page opened, and at first, it seemed normal. too normal. you almost clicked away, feeling stupid for even suspecting anything.

but then you saw it: edit profile. analytics.

your breath caught, and a sharp scoff escaped you as you crossed your arms. oh, my god. the realization hit you like a freight train. it’s him. wonwoo. class president. sci-fi nerd. “how the fuck did i not notice?” you muttered, half impressed by his audacity.

you were so lost in your spiraling thoughts that you didn’t hear him return—until his voice, practically kissed your earlobe.

“what. do. you. think. you. are. doing?”

you jumped so hard your knee slammed into the underside of the desk. whipping around, you found wonwoo standing over you, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight.

“uh—nothing?” you stammered, trying to slam your laptop shut, but his hand darted out and stopped you.

“‘nothing’ doesn’t look like you snooping through my computer,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

your cheeks burned. “okay, fine, maybe i was curious—”

“you were curious?” his tone sharpened. “curious enough to invade my privacy?”

“invade your—bro, you’re literally whispering dirty robot sex fantasies to the entire internet. how is that private?”

“that’s different!” his ears flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. “that’s content. this—this is personal.”

you rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “oh, please. you’re mad i figured it out. admit it.”

he leaned closer, towering over you now, his hand pressing down on the desk beside you. “what do you want, huh? blackmail? are you gonna tell everyone?”

you laughed, loud and incredulous. “tell everyone?! dude, relax. i’m not gonna expose your little side hustle. besides…” you smirked, tilting your head to look up at him. “you should be thanking me. clearly, i’m a fan.”

wonwoo’s eyes darkened, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. 

“you’re a what?” he asks, your pulse skyrocketing as he stepped even closer, crowding you against the chair.

“did i stutter?” you whispered, the challenge clear in your tone.

his mouth crashed onto yours, teeth and tongue and frustration. you barely had time to process it before he was yanking you out of the chair, his hands rough as they gripped your hips and spun you around.

“you want to act like a brat,” he growled into your ear, his voice so reminiscent of his asmr persona that it made you roll your eyes back slighty, “then you’re gonna get treated like one.”

he bent you over the desk, the cold surface pressing against your chest as he yanked down your college skirt and underwear at once. his fingers slid through your folds, already slick just from being around him.

“so fucking wet,” he muttered, almost to himself. “you get off on this, don’t you? knowing it’s me.”

“shut your mouth,” you gasped, but it came out more like a moan as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them and pressing them hard on your front wall.

“make me,” he challenged, his other hand coming down sharply on your ass. the sting made you gasp, your hips jerking against his hand as you tense on the desk.

the pace of his fingers was relentless, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrusts. every part of your body was starting to be feveirsh, and you hated—hated—how easily he was unraveling you. you spent nights thinking about how it would be if onyx fucked you, and here you are. of course you would be a mess in a second.

“sorry” he mocked you. “am i too much for you?”

you clenched around his fingers, your nails digging into the desk as you tried to hold back a moan. “you talk too fucking much actually wonwoo,” you hissed.

“yeah, that's what's paying me at nights” wonwoo chuckled darkly, pulling his fingers out and flipping you onto your back with his big arms. before you could protest, he was kneeling between your legs, his mouth suddenly hot and insistent against your core, better than any other vibrator you insisted on using at night.

the sounds—the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue—mixed with your whimpers as he devoured you like a man starved. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as you tried to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

“stop—”

“stop?” he looked up, his chin glistening. “not until you admit i’m your favorite.”

you glared down at him, breathless and defiant. “you’re such an asshole.”

“and yet…” he smirked, diving back in and flicking his tongue against your clit until your head fell back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

it didn’t take long before you were coming undone, your body shaking as his mouth pulled your clit. wonwoo didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, dragging out your orgasm until you were a trembling, incoherent chaos beneath him.

wonwoo doesn’t waste a second after pulling back, his hands flipping you over again so you’re bent over the desk, your cheek pressed to the cool surface as he grinds against you. the thick outline of his cock rubs against your dripping folds, still covered by the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants. you gasp, your hips jerking back involuntarily, and his pearly-white smile flashes above you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost smug, as a dark spot begins to spread on his sweatpants from your slick. “you’re soaking me through.”

the way he emphasizes the word makes your back contort in shivers, but you’re too far gone to care. your fingers claw at the desk as he keeps humping against you, his pace quickening. when he finally pulls back, you hear the shuffle of fabric as he yanks down his sweatpants and briefs. the soft clink of a drawer opening catches your attention, and you crane your neck to see him sliding on a condom.

“you’re still melting all over my desk,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your ass. “can’t even wait for me, huh?”

before you can respond, his hand comes down sharply on your ass, the sting making you gasp. he doesn’t stop, spanking you again and again until your skin is flushed and burning.

“you look so pretty like this,” he says, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before gripping your waist and lining himself up. “all messy and desperate for me.”

when he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch until you’re full and breathless, pussy trying to clench at his big grith to adjust. wonwoo groans, his head falling forward as he sinks in to the hilt.

your walls flutter around him, and he moans at the feeling, the sound so real and raw that it sends a jolt straight to your core.

“talk to me,” you manage to gasp, your voice muffled against the desk.

he chuckles, his pace picking up as he leans down to whisper in your ear. “you want me to talk dirty? you want me to tell you how tight you are? how good you’re taking me?”

you moan in response, your hips bucking back against him as his words send you curling.

“yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he continues, his voice thick with lust. your moans grow louder, and he suddenly remembers the videos you must’ve listened to—the whining, the moaning. the thought makes his stomach flip, and he decides to give you exactly what you want.

he starts letting out soft whimpers, his voice breaking with each thrust, the sounds spilling out almost involuntarily. “fuck, babe, you’re gonna make me cum—”

the genuine desperation in his voice drives you wild, and your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper. he groans, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave marks, but you don’t care.

“please,” he moans, his voice high and strained. “let me cum for you. let me—fuck—”

you push back against him, meeting his thrusts as your own climax builds, your breaths coming in short, broken gasps. the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies moving together, and the tension snaps all at once.

you come hard, your body shaking as you cry out, and wonwoo isn’t far behind. his hips stutter, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills into the condom, his body trembling with the force of it.

he collapses over you, his chest heaving against your back as you both try to catch your breath. after a moment, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his voice still hoarse as he murmurs, “guess i’m a little better live, hm?”

you just let out a defeated moan, the coldness of the table soothing your hot cheeks.

“keep quiet about this, and i'll keep giving you more.” well, it's just an excuse that wonwoo said to fuck you over again.

[mia-can-yap-too]

What?:- The blue lock boys have turned to reddit to see if they're the problem or not.

Warnings:- fluff, crack, sfw, gender neutral reader, moot cameos but thats not a warning its a blessing, all characters aged 20 + just cuz, aikus abs, google docs, also no html cuz mia is lazyyy

Who?:- Isagi Yoichi, Oliver Aiku

a/n:- 200+ followers special gang, i love all 200+ of yall. also there will be multiple parts of this fic, 6 in total i think, so heres two of them for now!

pngs by me

star dividers by @saradika-graphics

Isagi Yoichi

You and Isagi just had your first real date.

It went wonderfully, and he was so sweet, too. He picked you up, paid for dinner, walked you home, held your hand (for the first time, actually), and gave you a smile that made your stomach do a stupid flip.

Everything was perfect. He was perfect.

Hot. Financially stable. Tall (enough). A gentleman. He had you swooning the whole night.

Until he texted you this.

Yoichi

hi! just wanted to say i had a great time!

also uh pls dont be mad

but can you fill this out when youre free???

[Date Debrief : Strengths and Areas for Improvement – Google Form]

You opened it out of curiosity. You shouldn't have. But you did.

And it was dead serious.

Date Debrief : Strengths and Areas for Improvement

by:- Isagi Yoichi (aka your #1 striker)

1. On a scale of 1 to 10, how punctual was I?

○ [ ] 1 – You were late and I thought you ghosted me.

○ [ ] 10 – You showed up like a protagonist in a shojou anime. I will marry you.

2. Did I talk about soccer too much?

○ [ ] – Yes

○ [ ] – No, but you came close to it.

○ [ ] – What do you mean "too much"? You gave tactical analysis on the waiter's footwork.

3. What was your favorite part of the date? (select all that apply)

○ [ ] The food

○ [ ] The walk home

○ [ ] The part where you got flustered trying to hold my hand

○ [ ] When you said "I'm not competitive" and then raced me to the side walk.

○ [ ] The moment where I realized you're my endgame and not just a side quest.

4. Areas for Improvement? (short answer)

There was a sample response in italics:-

[You could've complimented me more than hyper analyzing why we were both such a perfect match with information from trusted sources like my best friend. Also, maybe don't stare at my thighs as much next time.]

5. Would you go on another date with me?

○ [ ] Yes

○ [ ] HELL YEAH

○ [ ] Fill in this response with excessive emotional detail so I can reread it later and scream into my pillow.

You fill it out and sumbit it. He answers less than 45 seconds later.

Yoichi

okay so based on the data

i think i can increase hand holding frequency by 69% next time

also i wont call the kiss a 'strategic breakthrough' again

promise

★☆★☆★☆

Top Comment

u/ @beepbopzlorp :- Akqnshwkbwoq YTA but in a loving way????? Bro thinks he's dating a football LMFAOOO

Oliver Aiku

You and Aiku are in the middle of yet another mild argument.

Nothing dramatic, only you calmly explaining that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't be flirting with the barista while holding your hand.

You're standing in the middle of your living room, arms crossed and frustration building.

"I feel like... if we're dating, there should be some boundaries. Like mutual respect? Is that crazy?" you frown at him.

Oliver casually runs a hand through his hair, and it's clear from his expression that he is barely listening.

"Mhmm. Totally. Mutual. Absolutely, babe," he yawns, turning his head to the side.

"Oliver! You don't even listen to me! Do I matter at all to you?"

"Babe, I was listening. Why do you have to be so–"

Just then, Oliver catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror.

Shirtless. Slight sheen of sweat from training. Hair artfully messy.

He pauses. The room goes silent. His brow raises.

Then he flexes.

Right there. Mid argument. Slow and practiced. Left bicep. Right bicep. Abs. He's admiring the way the light was hitting him as if he was in a cologne commercial.

You pause. Your soul leaves your body.

"Are you... serious?"

He doesn't even seem ashamed. "Babe, I'm not even trying to be hot. It's just happening. Naturally."

You scowl at him. Where does he get the audacity from?

"You forgot what I was mad about, didn't you?"

He thinks for a moment. "...Was it jealousy? I don't blame you, it's a natural response to greatness."

Frustrated, you leave the room and he calls out for you.

"Don't go! I was gonna hit a back flex next!"

☆★☆★☆★

Top Comment

u/ @satocidal :- YTA and delusional. But, can I at least see if the abs were worth ruining your relationship over??? heres my email.

a/n:- will try my best to put the other parts out as soon as possible but enjoy these for now

Oh, you’re curious about my past works? Well, luckily for you, all the deliveries are neatly archived! Just head over to the Archive of Deliveries and browse through what I’ve sent out in the past. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

[starset21]

I Know Love Pt.1

Pairing: Lando Norris x Piastri!sister reader

Summery: Lando has always been a friend, her brother’s easygoing, fun-loving teammate. But when a fleeting moment in the garage—a near fall, a steadying touch—sends an undeniable spark through her, she starts to see him in a different light. And she’s not the only one. Oscar notices the shift, and he’s not thrilled.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: Wow a Lando fic? who am I?

The McLaren garage was a controlled storm of movement—mechanics tightening bolts, engineers huddled over screens, the scent of fuel and rubber thick in the air. It was a world she had always been a part of, but this year, it was different. This year, she wasn’t just Oscar Piastri’s sister. She was an engineer. Fresh out of university, she had spent the last year interning with McLaren while finishing her degree. Now officially part of the team, she was living the dream she had worked for—traveling with one of the most competitive teams on the grid, analyzing data, working with some of the brightest minds in motorsport. And yet, as she stood in the garage, taking in the organized chaos around her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Lando Norris.

He was perched on the edge of a workbench, race suit tied around his waist, arms crossed as he half-listened to an engineer briefing him about car setup. But his eyes—those sharp green eyes—kept flickering toward her. He had been doing that a lot lately. She tried to ignore it, just like she had ignored the lingering glances, the subtle teasing that felt just a little too personal, the way he always managed to be near her, even when there was no real reason to be.

Lando had been in her life since Oscar signed with McLaren. She had known him as her brother’s teammate, as the guy who spent way too much time in their apartment, as the one who dragged Oscar into ridiculous online challenges and way too many rounds of golf. But now?

Now she wasn’t just Oscar’s little sister who tagged along to races. She was a part of this team. She was someone Lando wasn’t supposed to flirt with, wasn’t supposed to look at like that.

And yet, here they were.

“Hey, rookie!” She turned at the sound of Oscar’s voice, watching as her brother waved her over from across the garage. She rolled her eyes at the nickname. He was already half-suited up, looking effortlessly in his element, the Piastri name printed proudly across his back. “Can you grab the updated telemetry from the board? We need to go over it before FP2.”

“On it,” she called back, already moving. The responsibility of being part of McLaren, of making real contributions to the car’s performance, was still something she was adjusting to. But she was good at her job. She had worked too hard, spent too many late nights studying aerodynamics, data analysis, and race strategy, to be seen as just Oscar’s sister. She was here because she had earned it. Navigating the crowded garage, she focused on her task—until the moment she didn’t. Her foot caught on a thick cable running across the floor, and before she could react, she was falling. A sharp gasp left her lips, but before she could hit the ground, strong hands grabbed her, pulling her back against a solid chest. 

Everything stilled.

A familiar scent of cologne and race fuel filled her senses. A steady grip held her firmly, keeping her upright. She knew exactly who it was before she even turned her head. Lando. His hands lingered on her waist for a moment too long before he finally loosened his grip. “You alright?” he asked, voice lower than usual, his breath warm against her cheek. Her heart was hammering in her chest—not from the fall, but from this. From him. She straightened quickly, trying to ignore the heat crawling up her neck. “Yeah, I just—” she exhaled, forcing a light laugh, “—was testing gravity. Works great, in case you were wondering.”

Lando smirked, the familiar mischief flickering in his expression. “Good to know. Maybe try not to test it in the middle of a race garage next time?” She rolled her eyes, brushing herself off. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But then, his voice dropped slightly, softer, more serious. “Careful, though,” he murmured. “I’m not always around to catch you.” And just like that, the teasing edge was gone, replaced by something heavier, something unspoken.

Her breath hitched slightly, her brain scrambling for a response, but before she could find one, Oscar’s voice cut through the moment. “What the hell was that?” She spun around to see her brother standing a few feet away, arms crossed, brows raised. Lando immediately stepped back, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair like he hadn’t just been holding her like that. “Nothing,” she said quickly, shooting Oscar a look. “I just tripped.” 

Oscar’s gaze flicked between her and Lando, his expression unreadable before he exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. Well, try not to break anything before FP2, yeah?” She gave a mock salute. “No promises.” As Oscar walked away, she turned back to Lando, expecting another smirk, another teasing remark. But he was already looking at her—like he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying. She should have walked away. Should have ignored the way her stomach flipped. Should have reminded herself that this was a bad idea. But instead, for a split second, she let herself wonder.

What if?

The garage was alive with movement—mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers cross-referencing data, the rhythmic hiss of drills filling the air as tire changes were simulated over and over. It was the kind of organized chaos she had come to love, the pulse of an F1 weekend beating strong around her. And yet, she felt… off. She was supposed to be locked in, completely focused. But ever since yesterday—since him—something had changed. It wasn’t anything obvious. Lando still moved through the garage like he always did—laughing with the team, listening to the engineers break down data, cracking jokes to lighten the mood. To anyone else, nothing was different. But she knew better. It was the way his eyes flickered toward her across the room, how he never seemed to look away fast enough. It was the way his presence felt closer— lingering near her workstation when he never used to before, standing just a little too near whenever she was giving Oscar or the engineers updates. And it was in the way she noticed him more now, too. She wasn’t blind—Lando had always been easy to look at, and plenty of girls did. She had spent years rolling her eyes at every new headline linking him to a model or influencer. It had never mattered before. So why did she care now?

She was deep in concentration, reviewing telemetry for the upcoming session, when Lando’s voice cut through the hum of the garage. "Whatcha looking at?" Before she could answer, he leaned down over her chair to glance at the screen, one hand bracing against the desk beside hers. His arm brushed against her shoulder, his body heat close enough that she could feel it even through the fabric of her team shirt. Her fingers tensed on the keyboard. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to keep her voice steady. “You suddenly care about telemetry when we aren’t in a debrief?”

Lando smirked. "I care about looking fast. And if you have some secret data to make that happen, I should probably know about it." She rolled her eyes but didn’t push him away. “If you’re looking for extra speed, maybe listen to your engineers instead of flirting with them.” His smirk deepened. “Who said I was flirting?” She turned her head then, her breath catching slightly at how close he was. Their faces were only inches apart, and there was something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of amusement, yes—but also something heavier, something deeper than his usual teasing. For a split second, neither of them moved. Then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Lando straightened, grabbing a water bottle from the table like nothing had happened. “See you out there, rookie.” And just like that, he was gone, leaving her heart racing in his wake.

In the engineering office during a quiet moment between FP3 and qualifying. She was sitting at her workstation, buried in a complex set of calculations, when she heard it— Her name. Soft. Slow. Amused.

"Hey, you."

She glanced up and, of course, it was him. Leaning against the desk next to hers, looking far too relaxed for someone about to drive a car at 200 miles per hour. And then he did it again. Said her name, except this time, there was something in the way he dragged it out, a teasing lilt at the end that made her stomach flip against her will. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice level. “What do you want, Norris?” His smirk deepened, and she instantly regretted saying his name. “Just checking in,” he said, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “You seemed stressed earlier.” She huffed, turning back to her screen. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” he asked, his voice dipping lower, quieter. She clenched her jaw. Focus. Focus. But then he leaned down, elbows on the desk, close enough that she caught the clean, fresh scent of him—something woodsy and warm that made her thoughts scramble. He tapped a finger against her laptop. “You work too hard.” She forced a scoff. “I think that’s a prerequisite for working in F1.”

“Doesn’t mean you should forget to have a little fun.” She turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re offering?” He grinned. “Maybe.” Her pulse spiked. It was dangerous how easy this was for him.

She thought she was done for the night. She thought she’d made it through without anything happening—without slipping up, without letting whatever this was get to her. But then she stepped into the hotel elevator and the doors started to slide shut, only to be stopped by a hand catching them. Lando. Of course. He slipped in, the doors closing behind him, and suddenly it was just the two of them in the small, enclosed space. And there it was again—that feeling, that unshakable sense that something had changed. They stood in silence for a moment as the elevator started its slow climb. Then Lando spoke, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “You’re avoiding me.” She inhaled sharply, keeping her eyes locked on the floor numbers slowly lighting up. “I have not been avoiding you.” Lando scoffed, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Oh, really?”

“You’re just in my space more,” she shot back. His lips quirked, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe.” Silence stretched between them. She could feel the weight of it pressing against her chest, thick and heavy. Then, he leaned in slightly. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his voice was meant just for her. “You know I see you watching me, too, right?” She inhaled sharply. Heat crept up her neck, and she cursed her own reaction. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Lando let out a low chuckle, shaking his head and stepping into her space. “I think you like me.” Her jaw clenched. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Not denying it, though.” She glared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. But before she could snap back, the elevator dinged, she instinctively stepped away from him and the doors slid open to reveal Oscar standing on the other side. His eyes flicked between them, sharp and questioning. Lando didn’t move for a moment, as if debating whether to push just a little further, but then he stepped back further with a knowing smirk. “See you tomorrow, then,” he murmured before walking past Oscar with an easy nod, disappearing down the hall. She exhaled, realizing just how tightly wound her body had been. Oscar, still holding the door open, gave her a look. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up.” He didn’t say anything, but she felt his judgment.

[ramp-it-up]

Knock You Down: IV

Photo credit to @thebluemage. Edit mine.

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. Finally! Date Number Threeeeee!

This is a follow up to Part III

Word count: 3.5 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This is the final part! (For now) I think that this is one that I will definitely write in answer to asks. I just love these two so so much! Thank all of you for rocking with me on this one. This was in part inspired by Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run 🫠, and partially inspired by an old song by some problematic people, lol. This is the result. As usual, I am Basil Exposition, so this is broken into parts.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. SMUT!!!! The end of the Slow burn, now it's burning very fast 😅. Cursing, flirting, jealousy, apologies, Bucky cooking (a warning!), kissing, dry humping, dirty talk in both English and Romanian, voice kink, oral sex (m and f receiving), protected sex (yay Bucky!) And these two are so fucking fluffy. I'm scared, y'all. I want it to be good enough for the build up.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

As soon as he entered the Brownsville Arts and Culture Center, James Bucky Barnes was hot. Blood was rushing to his ears and he needed a drink. He wasn’t sick; his symptoms were all due to you.

The black dress that adorned your body contained all of his hopes and dreams, but you seemed to be flirting with another man, twirling for him and then giving him a hug. To add insult to injury, you had the nerve to laugh and smile with the punk. 

You in that black dress was everything in the world that Bucky could want, except maybe you out of that black dress. As his eyes traced down your form, he noticed the 5 inch red bottoms that you had on. Yes. You, out of that dress with just the red bottoms. That was what he needed in his life.

But first, he had to take care of that other man.

—-

“Benson’s work emphasizes the subjects’ spiritual essence over their physical appearance, don’t you think?”

You turned around at the sound of the deep baritone. 

“Well hello, Mr. Rogers. How are you today? Delivering an art analysis given to you by AI? Oh. I forgot. You are an ‘art dealer.’ An art dealer who goes to Soul Cycle in Brownsville all of a sudden?”

Steve clutched his heart.

“Ah. I’m hurt, Y/N. I thought we were cool. But I guess I deserved the air quotes.  I do actually love art. I took some art classes when I was a kid and I still love to sketch.”

“Hmmmph. Okay. I’ll give you that. But how is it that you popped up in my Soul Cycle class? Don’t play me, Steven.”

Steve raised his eyebrow at you and grinned. He understood why Buckiy was so drawn to you. Not only were you gorgeous, you were a spitfire. That was hot.

“I would never try to play you, Y/N. I also actually love Soul Cycle. Used to teach a class in Park Slope.”

“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”

Steve’s eyes slid over you appraisingly.

“Speaking of. You look very, very nice today.”

You twirled for him, feeling as safe as you would your brother.

“Nice. Okay, listen. I’m sorry about the other day. I was just trying to protect my friend. And you.”

Steve sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve never seen Bucky like this. He’s never been this smitten with someone before and let them into his life. But I get it now.”

Steve’s blue eyes were almost as beautiful as Bucky’s.

“Bucky is my family. Since we were kids. He’s always taken care of me. And I will do anything for him.”

He raised his eyebrow at you.

“I can see now that means that I will do anything for you, because I have a feeling that you’re gonna be around a lot. So do you forgive me?”

You considered Steve. He was not too different from his best friend, and you couldn’t hold a grudge. Not after Bucky laid it all out to you last night You opened your arms.

“Let’s hug it out.”

Steve chuckled and gathered you into his warm embrace. You pulled back and giggled, grinning at him.

“So what makes you think I’m gonna be hanging around?”

“Well, judging from the look on Bucky’s face, he’s serious about you.”

Steve nodded behind you, toward the door. You looked that way and saw James Bucky Barnes headed straight for you. 

And he didn’t look happy.

—--

“Good morning, Frumoasă. You look stunning today. The exhibit is amazing, the space looks great and it seems that the right people are in the building.”

Bucky came up and placed his hand on the small of your back as he spoke to you, ignoring Steve. His blue eyes were storm clouds at the moment, and his touch was electric.

“Thank you, James. You’re so observant, I appreciate that. And you look very handsome today.”

You looked him up and down and bit your lip, meeting his gaze and the way he kept eye contact as he inclined his head in response. 

Bucky was attractive as hell in his black on black shirt, blazer and slacks. You noticed that his collar was unbuttoned; the medallion hanging on his chest made you want to take it between your teeth. You stared at it for a moment, imagining such a scenario where that could happen and then met his eyes again, prompting desire to roll through you as Bucky licked his lips. He was right there with you.

You smiled at him in a way that you didn’t smile at Steve. Who was Steve Rogers, anyway? You could hardly remember meeting him as your mind went to the feel of being in Bucky Barnes’ arms.

You sensed an air of proprietariness as Bucky took your hand and kissed it, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Possessive Bucky Barnes felt like a sin you wanted to indulge in. You cleared your throat and looked at Steve, as if surprised to find him still standing there, watching the show.

“Well, I see some board members over there, I’m going to go do my job. Talk to you later, boys.”

You walked away and gave them a wink over your shoulder, and you caught both of them looking at your ass. You shook your head and chuckled as you went on your way.

“You trying to steal my girl?”

Everyone stopped when Steve laughed, his deep boom a distraction. Bucky still wasn’t amused.

“Oh. So you’re in love.”

“What?”

“You’ve never worried about me taking your leftovers or vice versa before. Hell, we’ve even shared–”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Bucky snapped at Steve who put his hands up.

“Whoa, there. Just yanking your chain, buddy; I know she’s special. I wouldn’t dream of making a move on her. Not that she knows I’m alive. When you walked up, I thought I was going to have to take off my jacket so you two could fuck on the floor.”

Bucky was barely listening to Steve as his eyes followed you around the room. One thing Steve said was echoing in his mind: “So you’re in love.”

—-

You floated through the rest of the day on a cloud. The exhibit was a smashing success with the 

Board of Directors in attendance. Securing Howard Benson’s penultimate work from Rebirth was the feather in your cap. 

And you had Bucky to thank for it.

Bucky’s visit was also a hit; he and Steve charmed the board members with the help of Sam and Nat, who arrived later. They all made amends for what occurred that week and you were left very impressed with James Barnes.

After a couple of hours at the event, Bucky came over to let you know he was leaving.

“I will see you later, Frumoasă. I have much to prepare for tonight. Nico will pick you up at 7:30.”

“See you soon, James.”

He kissed your hand again.

“See you soon, Y/N.”

—---

“It is actually insanely attractive how you handled yourself in the kitchen.”

You were seated with Bucky on his couch in his living room, looking over the New York skyline from his Brooklyn penthouse. The dessert had been delicious and the wine in your hand was spectacular. 

“I was sure you’d order something in and just play it off. But I watched you create a meal in front of me, and I should have known that if you said you were going to cook, that you would do just that.”

Bucky’s heart beat double time at what you were saying. He wanted so much for tonight, but most of all, he wanted it to flow naturally. He saw that you were relaxed and open to him, which pleased him immensely.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Frumoasă. I enjoy cooking for my friends and family. Cooking for a beautiful woman is a treat.”

Bucky’s eyes slid over your form. You had changed to jeans and a color block sweater that just put your cleavage out there for the world, which was Bucky Barnes, to see. You also wore the same red bottoms from that day, and Bucky was beginning to think he had a foot fetish as you took them off at his entryway.

You took a sip of wine.

“How often do you do that? Cook for a woman?”

You barely hid your curiosity.

Bucky smiled and drained his glass, reaching over to refill it.

“Not as often as you’d think. Never had any other woman over here. Food is not usually the top priority with them.”

You pouted, which was so cute. Your spark of jealousy inspired Bucky.

“But I don’t want to talk about anyone else. Tonight is about me and you.”

Any uncertainty that arose was quelled by his assertion. You grew warm, so you finished your wine and rose to go to the window. 

“This is the most gorgeous view I’ve ever seen.”

“Absolutely agree.”

You looked behind you and Bucky was still sitting on the couch, hands spread out on the back of it, checking you out. You gave him one of your adorable smiles and he came to stand behind you, and took you in his arms. 

“I want you to know that you deserve everything, Y/N. To be cheered on and protected every day. And thoroughly ruined every night.”

You turned around and his hands went to your hips. It was the perfect moment.

“James?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

Bucky’s eyes dilated, and he moved his hand to your cheek. He licked his lips as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Ah, Frumoasă. I thought you’d never ask.”

His first movement was a subtle brush of your lips. He pulled back to assess the situation, and you didn’t know why, but that made your nipples tighten into stiff peaks. You gasped as Bucky watched you hungrily. 

The air seemed to change around you, and you shivered. He lowered his head so his lips could meet yours again, and this time his mouth was gentle but demanding. You gasped at the spike of electricity that flared between you and Bucky took the opportunity to dip his tongue into your mouth, scorching your lips and soul. With a low groan, he shifted your angle, bending you backward a little to kiss you deeper and ripping a moan from you as you melted against him. 

Good lord, could the man kiss. 

At that point, he was holding you up, one hand on your hip and one hand on the back of your head as you molded yourself against him. Bucky’s fingers dug into you, sure to leave bruises the next day. You relished the thought as you moaned into his mouth again, giving him the opportunity to continue destroying your soul. 

Bucky dragged his lips from yours reluctantly and stared at you, eyes almost black with desire. He brought his thumb up and wiped the moisture from your bottom lip. Motivated, you captured his digit, drawing it into the hot wetness of your mouth. He stared at you, mouth open, as you looked him straight in the eye and started sucking.

Bucky moaned as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth, and walked you back to the couch. He extracted his finger, watching the show your lips put on as he pulled it out, leaving them in a delectable pout. 

“More,” Bucky demanded as he crouched down and took your head in both hands as he kissed you again. 

His hands wound up in your hair, tugging gently, then on your back, then your ass as you arched your back to fill his palms. Bucky picked you up, then deposited you on his lap as he sat down on the couch, and you felt how aroused he was. His thick length was where you needed him most.

“Fuck! That feels good.”

Bucky was watching you grind on him like it was the best show on earth. Then he looked up at you.

“Yes, yes it does.”

He leaned forward and captured your bottom lip between his teeth, a preview of how rough he wanted to be with you. Then, he went in for another kiss. That continued for a good five minutes until he pulled away to stare at your swollen lips, and down to your cleavage, which was practically in his face.

When his eyes met yours, you were entranced.

“You good? You want this to happen?”

You nodded and took his hands in yours, guiding them up to your breasts, squeezing yourself with his hands. You rolled your hips, causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

“Like you said, James. More.”

You continued to grind on him, causing him to just gape at your body moving on his.

“I’ve dreamed of this so many times…”

“Yes? Tell me about your dreams, Baby.”

His hands moved to find your nipples through the lace of your bra and the wool of your sweater. He found them in no time, and pinched them lightly, then more roughly when you moaned.

“Mmmmnnnn. So fucking hot.”

Bucky kissed you again and then pulled away as he stared you down and tortured you. 

“I dream about marking you up,” he kissed your neck under your chin, “to your clavicle,” a kiss there, “and all over this beautiful flesh until I get to your nipples.” 

He looked at you for any signs of discomfort as he slipped his hands under your sweater to find the thin lace there. He found your hard peaks again and started rolling them both in his fingers.

“Then I want to kiss and suck them until you come in my arms.”

“Holy god, Jamie….”

Bucky’s eyes rolled at the second pet name you called him and continued.

“Wake up so fucking hard every morning since I met you. Then, I daydream about how wet and tight you will be after I made you cum, and how good it would feel to… to give you my cock. Do y’like that idea, Frumoasă?”

“Y-yesssss!”

“O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă.”

You almost came right then.

“D-don’t know what you said, but yes to whatever you just suggested.”

Bucky pulled you to him, and then chuckled into your ear.

“It means that I want to make you cum over and over again on my cock.”

You were already making a mess in your jeans, but you knew he could feel you soaking them at the moment.

“Please. Give it to me?”

Bucky groaned and kissed you again, this time encircling your waist in his grip and pressing you down on his bulge. 

“You know I can’t deny you anything. Are you certain?”

“Yes, James. Please…”

He lifted you easily, kissing you as he walked you down the hall to his bedroom, depositing you on his bed. 

“Y’look so fucking good.”

He crawled toward you on the bed and settled between your thighs as you hitched your leg over his. You pressed your core against his bulge and it had you muttering.

“Too many clothes.”

Bucky leaned up and you were fumbling with his button and he with yours. You looked up and laughed. 

“Maybe faster the other way.”

“Agreed.”

You two made quick work of your own garments, flinging them around the room between frenzied kisses. The way your eyes widened when Bucky got naked made his chest swell. He wanted you to always look at him like that.

“Wow…,” you said as your eyes roamed his physique.

His cock seemed massive as it slapped him on the abs.

“Wow, indeed,” replied Bucky as he took you in hungrily.

Your white lace underwear looked amazing against your skin and against your cunt it served to make him hungry.

He moved toward you again, kissing up your leg until he got to the edge of your panties and nudged his nose there, making you squirm.

“Smell so good, look so good…”

Bucky kissed at the edge of your underwear,

“I just know you’re gonna taste good too..”

He moved to the center of you, placing a kiss over your lace-covered sodden slit. Then, he looked up at you and smirked before he leaned down and licked you over your panties. 

“Fuck.”

He pulled your panties to the side and gazed at you there. 

Those blue eyes threatened to steal your soul as he gazed at you and confessed, “This is the most gorgeous pussy I’ve ever seen,” and proceeded to lick a rude stripe up the center of you after he tore your panties away.

“Oh my god, James.”

You rolled your hips again and reached down to feel Bucky’s soft hair. He pulled your hips closer and his lips suckled you with more pressure, adding one finger, then two to stretch you out. 

“Gotta get you ready for me, my love.” 

Your eyes rolled back into your head as you moaned through Bucky thrusting his tongue inside you, then pulling back to focus on your clit.

“I c-can’t.. I–”

“Give me my cum, Frumoasă!”

You locked eyes with him as he buried his face in your cunt and shook against him as you came embarrassingly fast, pulling on his messed up curls.

“So fucking delicious. Taste.”

He took your head in both hands and kissed you deeply, and you responded by sucking your essence off of his tongue. You reached down and started stroking his cock, overjoyed and a little bit scared that your fingers didn’t meet around him as he unclasped your bra.

Bucky whimpered as your thumb came up and stroked his sensitive head, spreading his precum over the wide, mushroom cap.

“You’re so fucking huge, Bucky…”

Bucky pulled you toward him as he reached into his bedside drawer for a condom and a bottle.

“And you’re so wet, Furmoasa. We will make this work. Believe me…”

You continued to stroke and watched him as he brought the wrapper to his teeth and him tearing it open was about the hottest act of sexual protection you’d ever seen. Somehow, your mouth ended up sucking his tip as you watched his eyes roll back into his skull.

“That beautiful mouth…”

Bucky put his hand on your head as you tasted him experimentally, wondering if you’d ever be able to take it all. He seemed to read your mind as he spoke next.

“Don’t worry, I plan on us having a lot of practice with this later, but if you don’t let me put this condom on, I’m gonna cum all over your face, Frumoasă…”

You looked up at him and grinned as his cock jumped in your mouth, but you finally pulled off of him with a pop.

“I need to feel you around me when I cum love. S’all I’ve been dreaming of all week.”

Now his chest was heaving as he rolled the condom on, and he pushed you back onto the bed as his hand went to your core once again. You were even wetter than before and Bucky smiled at you, lining up and kissing you on the forehead as he began to breach your folds.

When he slid inside, your fingernails curled into his shoulders and your eyes grew wide. Bucky stopped, concentrating while his cock pumped, barely inside you.

“There is nothing. In the world. Like being inside your soft, wet, cunt.”

“Fuckkkkk!” 

You became even wetter and he slid fully inside you. There, Bucky waited for you to get adjusted around him.

“So fucking tight. And hot. Just like I knew you would be.”

“More, Jamie!”

Smiling, Bucky started moving and you gripped him as he stroked in and out.

“Please don’t stop. Harder!”

Bucky grabbed the headboard and gave you what you wanted. His other hand pulled your hair and his strokes became more intense.

“Wanted to last longer, but I can’t, Baby. So beautiful. Pussy made for me. Cuming soon, but later… O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă. I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

You orgasm whited out your vision and your throat burned as you screamed. Bucky roared, filling the condom with copious amounts of cum. Your cunt was milking him and he hoped it would hold. He stayed sunk into you as long as he could before he had to get up and rid himself of the prophylactic.

He was only in the en suite for a few minutes as you floated in and out of sleep, lust drunk and exhausted.

Bucky climbed back into bed and got both of you situated under the covers, whispering in your ear.

“Stay tonight.”

“Of course. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

Both of you chuckled, because you knew it was true. Bucky kissed your ear and waited for your breath to even out. When he thought you were asleep, he whispered again.

“I’m going to be a better man for you, Frumoasă.”

“You are exactly who you need to be, James Barnes. Just keep moving forward. Tomorrow is another day to do that.”

After a few more minutes, you spoke again.

“Tomorrow will only be a week that we’ve known each other. Imagine that.” 

Bucky buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.

“Guess I better wait until tomorrow to ask you to marry me.”

You laughed a sleepy laugh.

“You got jokes.”

“You know me, Frumoasă. A professional comedian.”

But somewhere in the dark of Bucky Barnes’ closet, a diamond found some light and sparkled.

——

The next morning is here ;)

Please, please! Let me know!

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 4

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3)

I don't know where the pilot is taking me at first.

I am realizing that my life has just been an endless circuit of routine: Quarters. Gym. Cafeteria. Maintenance bay. Cafeteria. Quarters. Repeat. Everything outside of that has become an abstraction to me.

I can't even remember the last time I made my way up to the level. Everything here is shiny and pristine, scrubbed spotless twice a day on the off chance that some senator or general might visit. It's all clean lines, camouflaged access panels, trim little admin offices.

I very nearly have to stop and stare at a potted plant, when was the last time I saw one, verdant and alive?

But the pilot is moving with single minded purpose and I am forced to hurry to catch up.

I imagine her dragging me into the commandant’s office. I imagine her presenting me in formal complaint, the guilt of my sins, my intimacy with her machine, written plainly across my face.

She comes to a stop so suddenly that I almost collide with her. It is not the commandant’s office that we have arrived at.

The gilded signage on the door simply reads: OBSERVATION

She glances at me, briefly hesitating. In this entire encounter, it is the first moment of uncertainty that she has shown.

She swipes her wrist over the access panel, the door whispers open and I understand the hesitation and uncertainty.

Observation delivers exactly what it promises. The far side of the dimly lit room is dominated by floor-to-ceiling plex that overlooks the expanse of the maintenance bay.

My breath catches at the sight of Her.

Morrigan is resting in Her docking harness, Her heat sinks fully spread like the wings of an angel, armor plating unfolded to expose superstructure beneath, countless docking umbilicals arrayed almost organically to connect to the facility's systems.

It has been so long since I've actually seen Her, all of Her at once, that I've forgotten the scale of it all. My entire world has been the cockpit and the docking vestibule and now I can barely comprehend how small the team of techs are next to Her as they scurry along like ants.

Some tension leaves the pilot's shoulders and she strides towards the plex wall. She gazes upon the machine with adoration, the most emotion I have ever seen on her face. I start to imagine that I understand why she brought me here.

I step tentatively into the room. The door shuts behind me and the dim space is suddenly intimate.

Alone with the Pilot, her framed by the vista of Morrigan, the space feels almost holy. A shrine. A Goddess and Her human avatar.

I imagine Morrigan watching us. Maybe She can. Her visual sensors are specially designed to pick out details at a distance. Perhaps the Pilot told Morrigan exactly where and when we would be her.

Almost in answer to my thoughts, Her exposed core pulses, a blue-white flicker of light, and the Pilot places a hand tenderly on the plex.

My stomach lurches. It is no longer me alone with the Pilot in this room. It is all three of us. It is me alone with them. The suffocating sense of being an interloper returns in full force.

“I read all your reports,” the Pilot says without turning, without breaking her gaze from Morrigan. “It's like fucking Christmas for her. She just can't wait to show me what you found in your analysis.”

I stand awkwardly, unsure how to respond, or if I should respond at all.

“It's so fucking hard sometimes,” she continues, “they pull you out and you can't even tell who you are. You leave something behind and you take something with you.”

She turns abruptly, fixing me with the intensity of her gaze.

“What were you doing three nights ago?”

I had been expecting the question, dreading it, but the abruptness of it catches me off guard and fresh panic licks down my spine.

I open my mouth, but I can't bring myself to say anything.

She takes a step towards me. I step back instinctively. My back meets the wall.

“I already know,” she says, her tone unreadable. “I want to hear you say it. Your own words.”

I swallow. My eyes dart back to Morrigan. She is watching us. I know it. I know it from the now blazing light in Her core.

“I…”

I swallow again.

“I had a nightmare,” I admit. “I went to Morrigan.”

She takes another step forward. She's taller than me and I have to tilt my head back just slightly to meet her eyes.

“Why?”

“I didn't… I didn't want to be alone. I didn't know who else to go to. I... I wanted to be with her.”

Another step. She's close now, close enough to touch.

“Whose nightmares?”

Fuck.

“Yours,” I admit. “...and mine.”

“You think a lot about neural bleed.”

It isn't a question. I don't think it's a question. I nod in acknowledgement regardless.

“You think about how the patterns of thought and identity leave marks. Imprints. You're in her head, so you're in mine. The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?”

Fuck. What does she want from me?

I don't know if she expects me to answer that, but there's another moment of uncertainty from her.

“She wanted me to talk to you,” she says. “Or I wanted her to want me to talk to you. I don't even know. I don't fucking know who wants what any more.”

She looks… vexed now. That intense gaze of hers has taken on a slightly different gleam.

My heart is hammering in my chest and my breathing has become ever so slightly ragged.

Neural bleed. Two halves to a whole.

She is Morrigan. The human half. The physical half.

She lifts her hand and I stand motionless as she reaches out to touch my face. Her fingertips meet my cheek and she blinks, almost surprised to discover that I am real.

She takes a breath and the uncertainty is gone, leaving naked desire in its wake.

She shifts her hand, palm sliding along my cheek to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair. The feel of her skin against mine is enough to make me gasp.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she tells me in a low whisper.

(Next)

“Please don't stop,” I beg in reply.

[shouts-into-the-void]

Montresor caring about Will didn't come out of nowhere, Lenore was just mad: a biased completely unbiased post

The thing we need to remember as a rule is that Montresor's default personality is rude and antagonistic even when he's not actively trying to be an aggressor, which means you have to look at what he means rather than necessarily the things he says. He's a clear victim of abuse, who reacts to feelings trapped, cornered, threatened, panicked, or humiliated by lashing out. From what I have gathered, it seems like his mother may have been the type of person who was nice one minute, then became abusive at the drop of a hat, and/or acted loving while claiming she "had to do this for his own good", and he was clearly raised in a very strict religious environment where he didnt have a lot of control/was punished for things he couldnt help. As a reaction, Montresor tries to force an aggressive response out of anyone he feels threatened by, because at least then it's predictable and he feels in control. Okay, great, Montresor analysis out of the way, moving on.

Our first real look at Will and Montresor as a unit is when the clusterfucks (side note: I've seen a lot of people calling them the acoleets now? Far less funny, absolutely not) are discussing their spectres. During this conversation, Montresor is actually hyping Will up, and even when he agrees with Ada that is sounds useless, he makes sure to assure him that it "looks really cool though."

We only really see Montresor become outright violent and dangerous once it's revealed that only one person can win a new life. We see him actively panic about it, and while we don't really get a lot more context for him yelling at Will in the moment, I think its relevant that this is the moment when he starts treating Will less nicely, because now it's a competition and everyone else is potentially out to get him. Hell, he even immediately begins joking around with Will after telling him to shut up, so it's clear that he's acting out of stress and fear immediately after the revelation.

The interaction that immediately follows this is the incident with Morella and Ada, and I find it notable that Montresor goes out of his way to include Will. (when he makes sure to let you get your turn humiliating a woman to prove her loyalty to the group #romantic 🤡)

Later, during the Spectre vs. Students lesson, when Berenice bites Will and he asks for help, Montresor immediately tells her to leave him alone. While he seems mildly annoyed with Will the whole time (kind of understandably, because Will keeps screwing up the plan) he only says anything particularly horrible after Berenice slashes him across the face with her knife, which clearly pisses him off in general. We see him letting Will nap on his shoulder afterwards, which isn't super important I just think it's cute.

Montresor clearly sees them as a unit, as he still involved Will with the plan despite Will messing up the previous night with Duke and stops Will from helping Annabel with Ada despite not having a real reason to do so by saying "We'll sit this one out." Like it should have gone without saying that if he's not doing it, Will isn't either. Then the next day, the fact that Montresor comes to get Will specifically so they can walk to breakfast together? Knows what his toothbrush looks like and goes out of his way to give it back? The little flick on the forehead when he calls him a churchmouse? That he picks up on Will's distress and immediately goes to collect Ada to save him? I see you, fake-ass idgafer.

Which brings me to my next point, which is that it is Lenore on her enraged, vengeful tirade who claims that Montresor hates Will. She claims it's due to his behavior towards Will when he came to get him, but I think its pretty clear she only says it to upset Will. And Will can't think of anything nice Montresor's ever done for him because he's stressed, thinks he's about to get shot, and his self-confidence is super low. He even addresses the fact later that Montresor goes out of his way to save him all the time.

I also think now is a good time to point out that Montresor only seems to physically hurt Will in any significant way when he's been having a flashback. His expression when he comes out of his death flashback to find himself attacking Will is shocked, and while he doesn't apologize, his response does come across as apologetic. He has a similar expression when he wakes up from Ada's vision choking Will, only he looks incredibly panicked that time because he'd done actual damage. The expression on his face when Lenore points out what he's done is pained. I think this runs back to Montresor telling Will not to touch him, I'm pretty sure part of his trauma revolves around physical touch and when he's having an episode of PTSD/not fully aware of his surroundings he lashes out instinctively at the person touching him, which unfortunately means Will, who is a very physically affectionate person (man has 13 siblings and it shows.) Which is unfortunate, because I think Montresor also seems to be a very tactile person, and he actually goes out of his way to be touching Will a lot.

Another interesting thing? Montresor only ever addresses Will by name, which is very significant with context. The nicknames Montresor gives people are meant to mock them, so by only using Will's name it subtlely signals that he holds him in higher respect (or at least in more genuine regard) than the others. In Will's flashback, Sally–someone who went to school with him and was in all the same classes–doesn't remember his name, only that he's one of many Wilson siblings. So for Montresor, who can't even remember his "ace in the hole" and current fling's name, to be constantly making it a point to say he knows who Will is, is a great indicator of his actual feelings. By contrast, Will calls Montresor "Monty" exclusively, the only nickname he receives that is genuinely affectionate and something he never attempts to make him stop calling him.

Which pretty much brings us back to the events of the current episodes, which I've already talked about the significance of in another post. I know this is probably insanely biased for multiple reasons and im sure theres a bunch of little tidbits I've forgotten , but do with it what you will.

[imjustdreamingig]

Jesus, what's a girl to do?

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Robin meddles, Steve is clueless, and you're freaking out. So a regular day.

A/N: i genuinely have no idea where this came from, i legit posted the first part like 2 years ago. but I guess I want to start actually writing more? idk! we shall see. anyways, this fic stems from my (occasional) exhaustion to shy!reader and i'm basing this more on how horrifically i acted around the guys i would like even tho i consider myself an extrovert. enjoy whatever this is??? and lmk if u want a part 3! also this is not proof read so bear w me

warnings: sfw, swearing, uhhh i think that's it???

You were screwed. Absolutely, terribly, fucking screwed.

You were also very angry at your mother, giving her a glare every time she glanced your way at the dinner table. She merely gave you a wink in return, not understanding the true implications of her actions.

"So, Steve," your mom began as she cut a bit of the chicken on her plate, "you play basketball, right? Is that something you want to keep doing in university?" This time, you openly stared at your mom, trying to telepathically convey that you would literally kill her if she kept talking. You haven't made up your mind if you're joking or not.

Steve cleared his throat, "Yeah, I do, I'd say I'm pretty good at it, too. Wherever I end up going, I'll probably join their team for fun." He turned to you after taking a bite of his meal, smirking. "You like basketball too, right?"

You choked on your water, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. You looked at Steve properly for practically the first time that night, but your voice never wavered. "No, not really, why?"

He turned back to his food, amusement gracing his voice. "Well, I see you and Robin sitting together at every game, even the away ones, so I just assumed." If your face could sport a visible blush, you knew it would be a bright red, hot, mess.

"Well, I- I get dragged by Robin because she doesn't like sitting alone or going to random schools by herself like, half an hour away. Do you even watch the news? Girls by themselves are basically the perfect bait for random kidnappings and stuff, especially girls in high school, like I mean the statistics for-"

"Y/N" You're rambling is halted by your mother's voice. Steve is looking at you in bemusement. You are contemplating death. The situation is not looking good.

"Could you grab me some water from the kitchen, with ice," your mother said with a strained smile, holding out her glass. You grab it and push your chair out. "Sure, yeah," you replied. As you made your way to the kitchen, your mind replays the last hour of the events that have transpired, wondering what you could've possibly done in your past life to deserve this.

How could your own mother, the woman who birthed you, ask the hottest guy in your grade if he wanted to stay for dinner and not consult you first, all whilst knowing you had the most ridiculous crush on the guy.

Betrayed by the ones closest to you. This is probably how Julius Caesar felt.

After overcoming your initial shock, and lets face it, mortification of being paired up with Steve for your English project, you attempted to the best of your abilities to push down your feelings and remain professional in order to actually work on the project and make sure you got an A. Your grades would not suffer over a stupid crush on a stupid boy, that's where you drew the line. Unfortunately, this plan was not working out so well.

It was actually failing, horrifically at that.

It had been about a month since the semester started and the project had been assigned—a complex analysis of a classic book of your choice and how that particular novel has inspired the creation of others and advanced its genre. You had to write a collaborative essay to hand in to your teacher, as well as create an interactive presentation for your classmates explaining your chosen novel.

This was all due at the end of the semester and you'd be given no in class time to work on it since you had an ample amount time to work on it outside of school. It would also replace the need for a final exam, which was great news. When your teacher had explained the project, you were ecstatic, knowing exactly what book you wanted to do: Pride and Prejudice.

Then, you remembered who you had to do the project with, this huge, daunting, complex, project, where you would need to interact with your partner in close proximity for an extended period of time. You felt faint.

Steve, in his defence, had tried to approach you on multiple occasions to try and figure out when you two should meet to try and start the project. But, obviously, whenever you saw so much as a glimpse of him in the hallway, you would make yourself scarce.

The only time he would actually be able to talk to you was in your shared English class. Robin was beginning to go crazy at your increasingly outlandish excuses as to why you couldn't meet up with Steve after school in order to work on your project.

"Oh sorry, my mom needs my help on some stuff tonight."

"I have to take my brother to soccer practice."

"I can't today, I have an eye doctor appointment."

"My dog actually needs to go to the vet, she's sick, sorry."

"My family and I are going on a road trip this weekend, so I'm not free."

"My sister broke her leg uh— skiing, and she needs help writing stuff for school."

"Funny story, Robin has a crazy ex thats trying to get her to meet up with him again, and I have to help her slash their tires and like, do girl stuff, it's personal, so I'm not free, maybe next week though?"

That last excuse is what caused Robin to snap. She knew that Steve knew that you were making shit up, Robin has never even been in a relationship, let alone have an ex. Also, you didn't even have a sister, what gives!

You also had no clue exactly how close the pair had gotten due to working together at the video store and that she'd told Steve she was into girls. Therefore, like the great best friend she was, Robin decided it was time she intervened, for everyones sake really, but mostly yours.

"God," you sighed, "I never thought I would be so into arms, like not the huge, bulging one, you know? All veiny and red, that just scares me, hello, his are just ones that are like slightly defined, but have a very obvious outline of muscle, like I can tell he's strong, and fuck, his biceps, is it bad that I want to like, bite them? Because every time I look and him and he's fixing his hair I just keep getting this urge to—wait where are you going? Robin? Ok, OK! I'll stop, I promise! Come back!"

If Robin had to hear another anecdote about how you wanted to bite his arms, she was going to puke.

Your continuous blabbering about how good Steve's hair looked or how good those jeans looked on him and your inability to have one proper conversation with him or stay in the same room as him for longer than two minutes was making her go insane. She couldn't take it anymore.

So, Robin devised a plan, which one day she was sure you would thank her for—hopefully.

First, she inconspicuously made sure that you had nothing planned for Thursday night, already knowing you were free but wanting to double check that no random stuff had come up.

Then, she called your mom, who absolutely adored Robin. She told her about your situation and how if she did nothing, your infatuation for Steve was literally going to give her an aneurysm. Robin would tell you that she wanted to hang out Thursday night so you would get ready, but instead of her showing up, it would be Steve.

Not surprisingly, your mom agreed to Robin's crazy plan. She thought it was about time you got a boyfriend. You had already talked about Steve so much to her anyways, but any time she would tell you to just try talking to the guy, you vehemently refused.

"Mom, are you insane, I'm not going to do that," you scoffed as if literally just having a conversation with another person was the most insane idea in the world.

"Mija, how else are you supposed to get to know people if you can't speak to them? Besides, you never seem to have a problem talking back to me whenever we have an argument," you mom shrugged as she continued folding the laundry you were helping her with.

"Oh come on," you sighed exasperatedly, "that's not the same thing and you know it."

"I'm just saying, by the looks of it, I don't think I'll be a grandmother."

"Mom, what, hello!?"

Getting Steve to show up at your house was easier than Robin thought. She conveniently told him right before the beginning of their shift on Thursday that you'd told Robin that they should all get together at your house to finally get started on the project. Robin smiled a bit wider than necessary when Steve enthusiastic agreed to go.

When Robin gave Steve your address and told him that she would be over a little later because she left some stuff at her house, that no, she didn't need a ride and that no, she was fine walking, Steve was none the wiser to her actual plan.

As Robin saw Steve pull out of her driveway and making his way to your house, she gave herself a mental pat on the back and started thinking about what movie she should watch after dinner, knowing that the school day tomorrow would be very entertaining.

When Steve rang your doorbell, he was still clueless about the real intentions of Robin's plan, but when you opened the door and he saw your eyes go wide and your mouth drop slightly open, almost as if you weren't expecting to see him, something clicked in his head.

This was going to be fun.

[sparklingblu]

Limerence (ft. ILLIT Minju)

I don't even know what to call this. Somewhat of a fluff but not really a fluff either. Something that just pops into my mind.

"So he asked 'Is it better to speak or die?' "

"That's the stupidest story I have ever heard"

Minju leaves no chance for you to savour that feeling that comes after quoting something particularly clever. Or she's just being a jerk as usual.

"You are just anti-romantic"

You protest though you know she will have thought of a retort before you finish.

"There's nothing romantic about this story"

"It's a love story for christ's sake"

"Where's the 'love' ?"

You slump back in your chair, defeated. Either she's too dumb to understand your point or you are just bad at telling stories. The latter's probably more likely.

The story's not an ordinary one in the first place. It involves a knight and a princess but it ends neither with a 'happily ever after' nor a bloodbath where they both rip their hearts out. There isn't even an ending.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

The last sentence on this paper of the dusty hard covered book which has turned yellow from the years it have endured. It's a mircale how it's still intact.

You mummur the question under your breath, trying to make sense of the words. But they are still nothing more than a jumbled mess in your mind.

The funny thing is, this is not your first time reading this story. You are actually too familiar with it. The setting, the characters, the way it almost seems to tell the secret you have carefully hidden; it doesn't make sense that you are still confused what this single question everything has lead up to mean. Still, you are here, no wiser than the first time you have read this tale.

In some time immemorial in an unknown kingdom lived a princess and a knight, each a good friend to another. Perhaps because of this closeness, the knight started to feel something more than companionship to the princess. Feelings that shouldn't exist given their scoial status. The princess knew it too though she ptetends to be oblivious. Nonetheless, the knight found himself unable to express his desires - torn between the fear of losing what he currently has and the turmoil of hiding himself. So one day, when he took his usual walk with the princess through the garden, he mustered up the courage to ask one single question.

"Is it better to speak or die?"

The End.

Anyone can guess at this point that the knight meant if it's better to put his feelings into words and sacrifice their friendship or die knowing that he will never have what he wants. You wish it's that simple.

You and Minju have been stuck in the same page for an hour now, still having no idea how to progress your assignment. The task was a paper on an in depth analysis on a tale of your choice. Now you regret not choosing 'The Tortoise & The Hare".

"Why do you choose this one anyway? There are like a million other better choices"

Minju says, gesturing at the endless shelves of books that surround you on all sides. Not millions but perhaps a thousand other choices you could have made in this rectangular bank of knowledge; the local library.

Somewhere distinct, you hear a bell chimes, signaling the arrival to the later hour of the night. You glance at your watch. It's already 9 pm. A cough reasonates from the counter near the entrance, emitted by none other than the librarian. The ghastly old woman seems to be signalling that we don't have much time left.

I don't have much time left.

Minju's translucent pupils are fixed on you, still waiting for your answer. You break out of the haze.

"Because it's.."

'Relatable'. The word is 'Relatable'. But she doesn't need to know that. Never.

"Interesting I guess"

You finish, not quite daring to meet her eyes. She might see the guilt of your dishonest words in them.

"Seriously? This is interesting? Next time you think something is interesting, feel free to ask my opinion"

"Not everyone have great taste"

You mean it to be a playful jab but her face distorts to something along the line of fury and hurt. And her lips part.

No. Please don't be mad.

Please.

"Jerk"

Her words put out the flames of fear threatening to rise in your chest. There. All good. She's not mad.

You let out a sigh of relief but quickly mask it as a half formed scoff. She can't know. So you waver her attention.

"Tell me then. What's your opinion on this story apart from it being hopelessly stupid"

Her lips stretch to a soft smile. You have put her back into her comfort zone.

"It's not about love like you think. It's about cowardice"

"Enlighten me"

She crosses her arms, the pose she always takes before her rosy lips spill out a waterfall of the most beautiful syllables. It also makes her look superior. The table, which is the only thing between you two seems like a brick wall now.

"The knight doesn't say 'I love you' or anything of that sort, does he? He's scared out of his wits so he decided to go for a safer alternative. That question. It literally says 'I'm a coward who can't even properly confess' "

Is she mocking you?

Probably not. She doesn't know. She will never know.

Still....

'Is it better to spek or die?'

A coward's attempt at love; complicated and imperfect. At least he has the courage to mutter those cowardly words.

"You are not wrong but can't it be that he's just scared of losing her?"

Yes. You are referring to yourself.

But she won't know.

"He already loses her after saying these words"

"You don't know that. You don't know what the pericess's answer was. She could have accepted him"

"You don't know that either"

Now she's fighting you with your own words.

"What would you have answered if you were the princess then?"

Is that an indirect confession? An attempt to ask her opinion without facing the shame that comes after rejection? You hope not.

"I don't know...I would probably ask him to speak in English"

"Not funny at all"

Your answer makes her raise her brows in disbelief as if saying - "I know I will never not be funny to you. You are too obsessed with me not to."

But that's impossible. She doesn't know.

Has she spoken these words aloud, you would happily agree with her. But that's just momentary courage. Your tongue would be tied to knots in a hearbeat if that ever happens.

That begs the question again.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

"Whatever" she says in exasperation. "I'm not lovey dovey enough for this"

"Seriously. Just tell me what you would have said"

There. You are pushing again, desperate for that answer even if it's not directed at you. You would cling to a tiny hope if it's ever a positive one.

"I don't know. Probably tell him to speak because I don't want anyone going suicidal mode because of me"

"He will still go suicidal if you reject him after he confess"

"Why are you asking me those? Were you in such a situation before?"

You surpress a chuckle that nearly slips your tongue.

What a fool you are Minju. You can't even spot the truth that's hidden in plain sight. The truth that has gone rusty and rotten because it has been locked up for so long. Still, it's not her fault.

You have hidden it so well.

She doesn't need to know.

"Yes"

You can't believe you say the word. It's as if someone has possessed you and put those words on your tongue.

"Poor you"

And just like that, it ends.

You have expected her to push you, given her curious nature. You want her to lend you the courage to say those words you have mummur countless times in your dreams. But she just leaves you hanging there like that. Cruel.

Can't blame her though.

She doesn't know.

Another cough pierces through the invisible viel that has seperated you two from the world outside.

9:25 pm.

5 minutes away until this tedious session of back and forth ends.

Why is it that you don't want it to end?

The papers in front of you are bare as they were an hour ago. The book still turned at the same page. The question that haunts you still lies there, imprinted in black.

'Is it better to speak or die?'

Neither. Because that's a stupid question just like Minju said. It's constructed to mess with your mind. You gotta stop dwelling on it.

"Anyway-"

Chimes

That sound. It can only mean one thing.

Minju pulls her phone out of her pocket, the glow of it illuminating her angelic feature as she turns it on. Not a moment sooner, her lips hold the prettiest of smiles.

And in all the wrong ways.

"Gotta go"

Her dismissal cuts through the tense air as she hurriedly put the papers back into her bag. Is she that desperate to get away from you?

"My boyfriend's waiting for me. We have a date tonight"

You are not angry. It would be wrong. Though it's only natural to envy the one who's living your fantasy. But the faults are not in our stars.

"Alright. Goodnight"

Minju's footsteps echo on the mahogany floor as she finally escapes the torturous session you have put her though, flying away to an embrace better than yours in every way.

But it's ok.

Because she doesn't know.

She gives a quick wave to the old librarian who does nothing to reciprocate the action. That hag doesn't know how lucky she is.

"Minju"

You call before the rest of her form disppears through these creaking doors. She turns on her heels, a stray strand of hair clinging like an unifinished piece of art to her forehead. The shadows cast by the moonlight does nothing to hide her.

"Yes?"

You breath.

And utter.

"Is it better to speak or die?"

___________________________________________

Took the famous question from the movie "Call me by your name". Though I alter the story. Thanks for reading this madness.

[carigm]

The Lochlan and Chelsea of it all…

I have to say that this isn’t so much an analysis as it is an observation/ pondering on what Mike White was trying to do when paralleling these two characters.

For me this all started after the finale when I read an Aimee Lou Wood quote about Chelsea and Rick’s relationship where she referred to Rick as “the religion Chelsea is subscribed to, and ultimately, the thing that gets her killed”.

I thought this was similar to how Sam Nivola had described Lochlan during this press tour, saying he’d go to any lengths necessary to be loved/foster a special connection in his life. (More on this later.)

And then I rewatched the show and boy, there’s a lot of little threads between Chelsea and Lochy, especially in relationship to their respective bonds to Rick and Saxon.

One of the first things that grabbed my attention is that both of them are sort of obsessed with the idea of fatalism (bad things happening). Chelsea is a deeply spiritual person and she spends the entire season saying she has a bad feeling about Rick’s fate, which ultimately turned out to be true.

Lochlan is not a spiritual person, this is in fact highlighted at the beginning of the season, but he’s the character Mike White chose to ominously warn his family of what’s coming for them. Lochlan’s obsession with tsunamis played a similar role in the narrative to Chelsea’s intuition.

Chelsea and Lochlan don’t interact a ton on the show, but she first approaches him in episode 4 while he’s doing magic tricks. Lochlan is referred to as “the little magician” by Chloe, and obviously this is an aspect of his chameleon/deceptive nature when it comes to adapting or shifting his personality according to who he’s around. Lochlan is all smoke and mirrors. But so is Chelsea. Aimee Lou Wood has mentioned in post finale interviews that Chelsea’s “happy go lucky” attitude and new age vibes are a bit of a front, a role she plays in hopes that it’s aptly complimentary to Rick’s personality. She’s hope, and happiness, and coolness, but she’s also a bit void inside because it’s well…a bit performative. I think aspects of this can be seen in how easily Chelsea accepts the batshit insanity that happens around her: Chloe’s crazy comments, the incest situation, Rick’s issues. Lochlan does this too, he tends to go with the flow of others.

This is not me saying they’re pushovers, they’re not, but they try to be peacekeepers, often at their own detriment.

I think both of them are deeply lost people, but Chelsea just does a great job at pretending she’s not. Above anything else, they’re both desperate for connection and to be loved, and unfortunately for them, they’ve hitched their fates/set their sights on emotionally unavailable people.

There’s a delicious contrast in episode 5 by having Chelsea abstain from the debauchery of the Full Moon Party because she’s loyal to Rick, and that’s what he would want, while Lochlan fully lets loose and pushes things to the extreme, because that’s what he believes Saxon wants of him.

This becomes a bit amusing when you throw in Saxon’s attempts at sleeping with Chelsea, despite her constantly shooting him down.

This moment of Saxon getting Chelsea a drink (“pink for the lady”), while she completely ignores him and Lochlan snatches the drink for himself. Very subtle Mike White…

Another moment, but this one is actually just painful, happens in Episode 6, while Chelsea talks to Rick on the phone after the Full Moon Party.

Chelsea is chastising Rick for not saying “I love you” to her properly (he never does in fact, and she dies without hearing it), meanwhile the camera also focuses on Lochlan alone on the boat. Given what happened between Lochlan and Saxon the night before, choosing to focus on him during this moment is pretty devastating. And again, it’s another instance showing how desperate him and Chelsea are for love and connection.

And then we get to episode 8…

Chelsea drops this line to Saxon, but based on what we see later on in this episode, I’m more inclined to believe that this actually applies to her and Lochlan.

This next scene was deleted, but originally, Lochlan has a dream in episode 8 where he sees Saxon dead out by the pool with vomit all over his face. Basically, Lochlan dreamt of Saxon being poisoned. According to Patrick Schwarzenegger’s description of the scene, it’s this nightmare that prompts Lochlan to go to the blender in the morning and make a protein shake. Sam Nivola has also mentioned that Lochlan made the shake because he wanted to feel close to his brother.

And then Lochlan basically fucking dies. His devotion and love for his brother leads him to his almost death.

“It’s okay for you to worship me, but don’t like WORSHIP me…”

But he does, because just like Chelsea with Rick, this is the religion Lochlan subscribes to.

I think it’s very interesting that episode 8 was supposed to include two fake out scenes of Lochlan and Saxon dead (one a near-death and one a dream) especially because it would’ve happened right before Chelsea and Rick actually die.

And the circumstances of Chelsea’s death are eerily similar to Lochlan’s near one. Rick tells her to go away, to leave him, but she decides to follow him and gets caught in the cross fire, and that’s it. It is also her love and devotion for him that kills her.

I have so many feelings about these moments. The way they both quietly die, the way their loved ones don’t notice until a bit later. The way they’re literally shot in the exact same way.

And of course, the way that once Chelsea and Rick finally make it back to the water (death) is when Lochlan opens his eyes and basically comes back to life. I don’t think that scene was shot that way just for aesthetic purposes, which leads me to believe it’s a nod to Chelsea’s “groups of people coming together to form a divine plan” comment.

Something to be said for characters that are so desperate for love, attention, and care that they’re willing to modify and uproot their inner self in order to satisfy the people they love, because it is through that purpose only that they themselves can be satisfied. It just so happens that more often than not, that love ends up being wasted or not fully reciprocated.

I do feel like I have to clarify that I don’t think Saxon is as bad/doomed as Rick. There’s a reason Saxon didn’t die, he IS capable of change, while Rick was not…but the parallels are there lol.

[mysteryanimator]

Ok so this a word ramble that I originally shared to a few folks, and then went “what the hell sure” and I’m sharing this here. Though this is more word ramble rather than structured then anything I’ve written analysis wise. The only reason why it’s less structured then what I normally do is because if I were to do this properly, I would genuinely go make a PowerPoint and multiple animatic examples to prove a point for a made up what-if 😭 I have to go be productive haha

Ok here we go

How we could have a Mizrak and Olrox intimacy scene actually work

This is hypotheticals I’m not actually trying to say it should be this way, I’m just really interested on this concept because it CAN work and it makes my brain excited. Also side point- you can also very easily achieve all of these scenes without a sexual intimacy scene as well, it’s honestly just up for can be portrayed and want needs to be conveyed to the audience. As long as the main ideas that need to be said are said!

I’ll preface beforehand too, this will be having Mizrak in particularly lean into a more positive viewpoint on it simply because I think we need more positive accepting sex scenes in animated queer scenes, especially with a repressed gay man coming to accept vampirism aka queerness. I think that’s neat in contrast to a lot of intimate scenes that aren’t so positive :D this also means a lot of it will come with my a lot of my own personal opinions!!

First of all, it would build an entirely new perspective on mizrak for us as an audience! There is so much we viewers that we do not know about him. Yet Olrox is so comfortable sharing alot of his emotional vulnerabilities to him, unlike Drolta in the graveyard scene. This type of physical intimacy literally has some baring their entire self to someone else. Nakedness is vulnerability. Mizrak is also a ‘warrior monk’ who wears armour. So you’re literally stripping him of not only his armour, we’re stripping him of the label he’s had since who knows how long. We go from warrior monk to just Mizrak. Every single scene of him in Nocturne is just defined by his monk title, never Mizrak. Which is also why it’s hard for a lot of us to imagine him in clothes other than his monk attire.

His monk attire is now however gone because drum roll. He’s a VAMPIRE. This is important I swear!

(Side tangent his ‘rebirth’ scene at the end of episode 08 when he’s revealed to be a vampire was unbelievably really fucking good)

He’s going to be dealing with a lot of self identity issues, his self image and how he feels about himself. He was already pretty repressed beforehand, and now all the walls are crashing down. Firstly as mentioned before, nakedness is a form of vulnerability. It would be such an interesting and unique way to showcase an acceptance of his identity. It’s both of his new identity of vampirism but also his identity of being queer. Almost as if having the reverse occur in the story of Genesis, where Adam and Eve become ashamed when they realised they’re naked. The opposite happening for Mizrak would be just interesting!

Another point is that we can explore Mizrak’s acceptance of vampire’s having a soul/life! I semi-explored the concept in an animatic not that long ago just because the idea just intrigues me sooooo much. I kinda want to explore it further but busy atm 😔, though I would genuinely make space and time to work on something like that regardless of what show/film it is. Emmanuel learns the concept that vampires/night creatures have souls, that they remember their lives beforehand when he turns Drolta into a night creature. It is totally up to audience interpretation if Mizrak recognises learns vampires have souls through this line:

“If you have a soul Olrox, and maybe you do, I hope it finds peace.”

However, through an intimacy scene, you could absolutely cement Mizrak learning then and there Olrox does indeed have a soul. Solely because, I’m going to get pretty NSFW here, Olrox is reacting to Mizrak, he’s reacting to what’s happening to each other BAHAHA. He’s getting emotionally invested in the moment, beyond the physicality, which could click something in Mizrak’s brain. There is a life to Olrox because that vampire is sweating and moaning HAHAHAH, which if he were to be truly soulless and lifeless, he would not be doing all of that. He’s a breathing, living person who has a soul. Ensue Mizrak accepting and giving in 🏃

Sure this probably happened between episode 3 and episode 4 in season 1, but for us to only see it now would mark an importance for Mizrak. It’s important for us as an audience to see this recognition because it will fundamentally change him and progress both their narratives. Every Mizrak and Olrox scene from episode 03 of season 1 to episode 08, something changes and something moves forward.

Speaking of life, Olrox has not been living. He’s depressed and traumatised. He’s the what-if he just killed the person who killed his lover dilemma for Dracula (thank you Tack for that!) He hasn’t lived since his lover died UNTIL Mizrak. I personally haven’t had seen so much life in him until he was fighting Drolta, saw Mizrak wounded and then started RUNNING??? It’d be really interesting conceptually to see Olrox be ‘alive’ in a much more safer private space, just between him and Mizrak!

This is also something you can very very easily achieve in 2-3 minutes, which is how long most of their scenes together are because they’re side characters. Or even less, 30 seconds it’s entirely possible to convey all of the above in little time. Power of visuals is important!!! Censoring is also not an issue too, I think you could censor this to hell and back but with smart and powerful storyboard choices from whoever gets the blessing to do it, concrete writing, you can actually have something that goes along narratively with the love theme in Nocturne and it’s positive influence on people. Mizrak’s self-acceptance and Olrox’s life reinvigorated. Of course everything beforehand has to build this up to this before it happens. Me, the brainrot person I am, recognises how hands are like a super important thing for them so it would be very cool to have that incorporated in somehow. Also, having the Olrox holding Mizrak from behind thing come up again, but with Mizrak accepting it properly and leaning back into him (or even Mizrak holding Olrox from behind) during a scene like this?? During a emotionally and physically vulnerable moment? Actual shockwaves I tell you, I think you’d have the whole fan base in tears.

There are nuances here, visual metaphors to play off, unique storytelling pathways it could go down, interesting characterisation you specific to sex and so forth!

Anyways that’s my proper ramble for the week, I hope you enjoyed my season 3 episode 6 pitch (massive joke I’m joking I’m joking, tho honestly would be so funny though if I could pitch something like because I will do my proper research, I will pull up statistics if I must and make visuals. Though I generally do understand how intimacy scenes don’t happen often, though Cativi winning an Annie award would prove to help strength the argument I’m making :D )

[iwtv-theories]

Iwtv and the motif of “enduring” (analysis)

Throughout the show the word “enduring” has been used for several characters and there’s a lot of symbolic weight in that word . For one “enduring “ can mean “something that lasts a long time” but also another definition is “ to carry on through, or tolerate, something despite suffering" . In essence the word encapsulates vampire existence in its totality but in tandem it also illustrated the suffering the characters cause to one another in their interpersonal relationships .

-Lestat : “ I thought… I can’t drink hot blood. I can’t feed on others. I cried. I called to god. I didn’t want this (vampirism) . But I have a capacity for enduring . “

-Lestat to Claudia : “we endure each other for Louis' happiness .”

-Louis asking Claudia how she'll compromise to make the relationship with lestat work. L: "I'm drinking the blood, he killed the singer. What are you doing? " Claudia: I'm enduring. L: "do more "

-After Claudia leaves, Louis contemplates ending his life on the park bench, but changes his mind : "And so I endured home back to the crypt, back to the undeserving Lestat."

-Louis about the relationship between Claudia , Lestat, and himself : “we spent our hours enduring, with little pretense for getting a long. Locked together in hatred."

-Louis to Lestat: " Here's your death Lestat. He and I are going to spend the rest of our lives together. And wherever you're miserable life takes you, whoever you find to endure time with... I'll be with him."

-Louis to Armand : “ I need this one to live out the night as a testament to our companionship . Of its endurance.”

Their (prior) huge fight in this episode already alluded to it. But this is obviously a double entendre: Louis’ literally talking about the relationship’s longevity but BOTH are “enduring “ (suffering) in their relationship to one another . Similar to the prior dynamic of Louis/Lestat/Claudia (all suffering/enduring each other). And similar to how Louis contemplated ending his life (because of losing Claudia) only to go back to his romantic partner and “endure”.Not to mention Louis says this line while Armand is in the head-space of “Arun .” Armand to Louis: “ who am I Louis? I am the past I’ve endured ?”

Hmm …Armand discussed sleeping with most of the coven as “ repertory theatre it’s how one endures” . That may have a darker meaning, than he’s letting on . Even the play Sam writes is called "Endurance for Guido" which Armand called a "flaccid play about vampire existence and enduring" . The term 'flaccid" being used could symbolically hint that he wasn't really into sleeping with his theatre coven- similar to his experiences in the br*thel (he just ‘endured’ and suffered through it) . It’s a trauma response just like the whole “maitre/arun “ dynamic probably is . Deep down I don’t think he likes it at all ,he’s just enduring (cause it’s what’s familiar to him) . He’s essentially just being an actor on a stage .

I mean...what does Armand say in the books when Marius forced him to kiss someone , and what does Marius say in turn when he objects?Armand: “I can’t endure this.” Marius : “Then how will you endure eternity? “ And what does Santino say to Armand , after he forces him to join the 'children of satan': " No one comes to LOVE PAIN. We can only hope to endure it." And as Sam said the main message of ‘enduring for guido’ is : “there can be no hope.” That’s sadly how Armand and most of the vamps probably feel .

And finally the last time the term enduring was used was in the s2 finale. Louis to Lestat: “ you enduring here all this time? Lestat: “not enduring , living . “ On one hand this line illustrates that many of these vampires aren’t actually “living” but enduring (suffering and simply trucking through their immortal lives). They should all “do more” than simply endure. And of course Lestat is lying he isn’t “living” he’s been suffering (enduring) ever since Claudia died and Louis left .

[corkinavoid]

Obsessed With You by Cosmicandy

Theater gothic/Phantom of the opera

(For some horrific reason I couldn't think of a trope)

DPxDC Phantom in the Opera

9/2 sat

Went to Gotham City Opera to see Eugene Onegin with B & Dames. The performance sucked ass (as modern takes on classics usually do), but during Tatyana's aria, some tech guy dropped a rubber chicken from catwalks right on stage. I bet it was on purpose since the lead's voice sounded much similar to the sound that chicken made. Wish I could shake the dude's hand, that was truly the crescendo of the whole scene.

15/2 sun

Came by GCO on the way to WE. Had some time to spare, so decided to go in and find the rubber chicken guy to thank him for the laugh last week. Thought he might appreciate the positive feedback since he was defo yelled at for the stunt. Turns out everyone blames it on a 'ghost'. Using 'Phantom of the Opera' as a cover story is poor taste, in my opinion, but on the other hand, it worked, and who am I to judge.

17/2 mon

Got curious and pulled up the records of GCO employees. No one matches the guy I've seen on the catwalks.

18/2 tue

Blackmailed Damian into drawing the guy. No match through the face recognition program. Should have expected that, really; the one cute guy with a sense of humor I meet (or see, actually), and he doesn't exist.

20/2 thur

Can't stop thinking about the rubber chicken guy. Might have to go back to GCO and ask about the whole ghostly rumor. Last time, no one bat an eye at the 'ghost' excuse, now that I think about it. Has it happened before? Is it a go-to explanation for any prank no one wants to take credit for?

26/2 wed

Visited GCO at night. Seen the guy, but the cam footage came back corrupted when checked downstairs. So maybe the fact that his hair was floating and glowing in the dark was not a hallucination.

27/2 thur

Definitely not a hallucination! Good news: got a sample. Bad news: after analysis, the data also came back corrupted. Weird news: the hair keeps glowing even after it's been cut off.

2/3 sun

The guy's name is Danny. Ghost story confirmed. I'm having a crisis.

4/3 tue

I'm not sure if I want to know absolutely everything there is to know about him or I want to forget everything I've already learned. But then, I've already got so far. Might as well commit to the bit?

8/3 sat

Was invited to see La Traviata tomorrow. Can I still call that reconnaissance, or am I in date territory?

10/3 mon

...it was a date. On an entirely unrelated note, Teddy Hyde ruined all my attempts at coming prepared.

18/3 tue

Heard a new rumor among GCO staff members. They suspect the ghost in their opera is having a crush on Red Robin. Not sure where they've got that idea, but it sure took them some time to notice.

19/3 wed

Damian keeps staring at me at dinners. Maybe I should take that portrait of Danny that he did down from the wall over my bed.

22/3 sat

Going on a date today, and this time, it's definitely a date! Feels like I should be having a crisis over dating a ghost, but somehow, I'm only having a crisis over outfit choices.

61/0° gBs

hEy, yoU're keEEpinG a DIary¡ aboUt Me!¡ ThAt"s cuTe FUCK OFF DANNY THIS IS PRIVATE INFORMATION GET OUT heHeheEhe no~

~•~•~•~

The thing is, I loved the song. And I loved the aesthetic. And I had such a goddamn hard time figuring out how to fit them together; I went through at least three different setups before deciding fuck it imma write silly boys being silly and wish for the best.

Dare I say it turned out cute as fuck, even though I still missed the mark on theater gothic aesthetic for the most part. Anyway, have a few pictures for general vibes!

[Just so you know, if you enter 'sex with a ghost' into google, the first few results will be the lyrics to 'Sex with a Ghost' by Terry Hyde, which is why Tim's research has been rather fruitless]

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: It’s been a handful of weeks since the lanterns lit the sky, since whispered wishes melted into the night. You’ve spent the last couple of days in the Arctic with Dr. Zayne, chasing down another lead. Exhausted and buried in work, (which wasn’t exactly your wish for the new year), you’ve finally booked yourself a much-needed retreat for the night. But just as you’re on your way to unwind, you unexpectedly run into Caleb.

Details: Long 3000ish w. A lil role for Dr. Zayne (lol I just had to). Yearning losers. Fluff. Banter. And Caleb. Lots of Caleb. Caleb being Caleb as in always being around the MC. Some unresolved emotions. Roleplay. And as always: Rrrromance. (We just getting started peepz)

The Yearning: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Onsen mist | Chapter I

The research facility hums with quiet energy, the rhythmic clatter of keyboards filling the space like an ever-present pulse. The sterile glow of the overhead lights casts sharp contrasts against the frost-rimmed windows, beyond which the Arctic night stretches vast and endless, a deep indigo canvas dusted with soft, falling snow.

Dr. Zayne is exactly where he’s been for the past several hours—seated at his workstation, fingers flying over the keyboard, sharp eyes flicking between lines of data cascading across the screen. The soft glow from the monitors reflects off his glasses, making his expression unreadable, though you know him well enough to guess he’s lost in the depths of his analysis.

You stretch, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension of the day. “That’s enough for tonight,” you say, half-command, half-exasperation. “Even you need rest, Zayne.”

A grunt. A slight adjustment of his glasses. More typing.

You sigh, shifting your weight onto one hip. “You’ll burn out before we crack this, you know. Turn into one of those conspiracy theorists who forgets how to blink.”

That earns you a glance—brief, unimpressed, but tinged with something vaguely amused. “Good night,” he says simply, already half-immersed in his work again.

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Another grunt. Another hint of movement as he continues typing. Shaking your head, you shoulder your backpack, pull on your mittens, and adjust your woolen hat, tugging it snug over your ears before stepping outside.

The Arctic air slams into you, crisp and bracing. Any lingering warmth from the facility vanishes instantly, replaced by the sting of winter against your skin. The world outside is a quiet, frozen wonderland—snowflakes drifting lazily through the air, catching the light from the facility’s windows like scattered diamonds.

The last few days have been relentless—long hours of research, chasing leads, pushing closer to answers that still dance just out of reach. And while the pursuit has been thrilling, it’s also drained you. Your muscles ache from too many hours hunched over data, your mind is a tangled mess of theories and possibilities.

That’s why you booked the onsen.

A smile spreads across your face as you descend the steps, humming softly to yourself. You can already picture it—the warm water enveloping you, steam curling into the frozen night air, your entire body sinking into a state of perfect relaxation.

Maybe even cucumbers on your eyelids, if you’re feeling extra indulgent. Yes. Perfect.

Thrilled by the anticipation, you instinctively grab your phone, eager to share your excitement with Caleb and keep him in the loop. Without hesitation, you type out a quick message.

You: Just finished work. On my way to the onsen now. If I don’t resurface, assume I’ve melted into bliss.

Your thumb linger over the screen for a second, a small smile tugging at your lips. You had messaged him earlier about this, gushing about the outdoor onsen you found, about how perfect it sounded.

You: You won’t believe what I just found! An actual outdoor onsen in the middle of nowhere. Hot water, steam, cold air… perfection. Booked a late-night soak. I need this so bad.

Had he even answered?

Frowning slightly, you pull your other mitten off with your teeth, thumb hovering over your messages as you step into the snow-covered path leading away from the facility. But before you can check—

Leaning casually against the wall just beyond the entrance, arms folded over his chest, is Caleb.

Your stomach lurches, your entire body going still in the freezing night air.

Wrapped in sleek athletic winter gear, his fitted turtleneck clings to his frame beneath an open, puffy winter jacket, the fabric shifting slightly with the easy rise and fall of his breath. His dog tag, ever-present, hangs just below the collar, catching the faint light as it sways with his movements.

Snow-dusted pants, built for movement, hug his legs, and his boots are planted firmly in the powder beneath him. Ashen-brown bangs are flecked with snow, strands falling loose beneath a broad, warm headband. Ski goggles sit atop his head, their lenses reflecting the facility’s dim lights like twin mirrors.

And his eyes. Those impossible violet irises gleam with cheekiness as they lock onto yours, filled with a teasing spark. A calculated glint.

Next to him, propped against the wall, are a pair of downhill skis—fitting, considering the way your mental state is also currently plummeting at an alarming speed.

Caleb flicks his phone into the air, catches it effortlessly, and, without the slightest hesitation, reads aloud in a smooth, amused tone, “On my way to the onsen now. If I don’t resurface, assume I’ve melted into bliss.”

He glances up at you, violet eyes gleaming with mischief. “Melted into bliss?” he echoes, tilting his head as if considering it. Then he smirks, tucking the phone away. “Nah, can’t have my Pip-squeak dissolving into oblivion without me. Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly.”

Caleb steps closer, the cold air curling between you. “Sooo… Figured I’d join in—purely for your safety, of course.”

Your breath stutters. “Uh—”

Your brain has completely short-circuited. Between the overwhelming presence of him, the ridiculous way he just happens to be here, and the nickname—Pip-squeak—the one only he calls you, always, no matter the situation, like it’s your actual name rather than just something he made up. And now, with that smug edge in his voice and the absolute audacity to hijack your private relaxation like it was his all along, it’s enough to send your thoughts scattering into the cold air like the snowflakes around you.

His smirk lingers, that damnably confident curve of his lips. “I promise I won’t get in the way. The onsen’s big enough for the both of us, right?”

And before you can even process the situation enough to say anything more than a bewildered ‘uh,’ he lifts a gloved hand.

Between his fingers—

An identical ticket to the one sitting in your coat pocket.

——————————————————————————

The Arctic night yawns wide and silent around you, a world blanketed in snow and soft moonlight. The only sound is the steady crunch of your boots against the packed frost, your breath curling in delicate silver clouds before vanishing into the dark. Snowflakes descend in slow, lazy spirals, catching in your lashes, clinging to the fur lining of your coat. The cold is sharp, invigorating—but not unpleasant.

Not with him beside you. Yet, a thought lingers—

The last time you were in the Arctic, you hadn’t felt this kind of warmth beside you. No steady presence in the cold.

That absence is something you haven’t let yourself dwell on. Not really. But now, with Caleb walking next to you, solid and real, the contrast is impossible to ignore.

“You didn’t mention you were coming out here.”

Your voice is even, casual, but the words hang in the space between you—lingering, testing.

Caleb shifts the skis on his shoulder, adjusting their weight with practiced ease. The motion is smooth, effortless—just like his timing.

“Figured I’d pick up an old winter hobby—kill some time while you worked.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Of course he did. Caleb has always done this. Appeared. Slipped into your orbit like he was always meant to be there, whether you had invited him or not.

Unshakable. Inevitable.

The thought lingers as the two of you walk, his presence a quiet heat against the Arctic cold. Even through layers of wool and winter gear, he radiates warmth—a constant, steady ember against the frozen world around you.

A gust moves between you both, crisp and cutting, but the silence is sharper.

Then, after a beat, Caleb’s voice slips through the cold, smooth and low—deceptively easy.

“Been a while since we’ve done this.”

A statement. Not a question. As if he has any right to say it—to claim that time, that absence, like it was just a minor inconvenience.

Caleb was supposed to be constant. The one thing in your life that never drifted, never disappeared. And then he was gone. No warning, no goodbye, just a hollow space where he used to be—a space you had to carry alone.

You don’t say it. But you think it. And it stings.

And now he walks beside you like he never left. Like the space between then and now is nothing more than a fortnight passed.

The worst part? Sometimes… it feels that way.

How Caleb came over at New Year’s with that knowing smirk, like he had every right to be there. How he settled onto your couch, arms draped over the back, watching you with lazy amusement as you practiced your drawing skills on him. How he tilted his head just so, baring the line of his throat for you, letting you sketch the curve of his neck with slow, careful strokes. How you let him stay.

The feeling rises too fast, sharp and jagged—caught between the ache and the quiet betrayal. One part of you still can’t forgive him for making you mourn him; the other aches to let it go, to pull him even closer.

And because you don’t know what to do with all of it—

You do the most logical thing.

You lunge for the snow, scoop up a handful, and—without hesitation—shove it straight into his face.

A satisfying crunch. A sharp inhale.

For the first time all evening, Caleb is the one caught off guard.

He jerks back, shoulders tensing, breath sucking in sharply as the freezing snow collides with his skin, clings to his cheekbones, melts against the heat of him. His lashes are dusted white, his hair flecked with frost, his lips parted in surprise.

For one perfect moment, he is stunned.

And then—

Caleb relaxes his shoulders. He exhales slow, deliberate, and tilts his head, smiling.

Not just any smile. That smile.

The one that always, always means trouble.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that, Pips.”

Before you can even get a second step in, he’s already moving, his speed unfair, his reflexes honed from years of training. His gloved hand catches your wrist in a firm but gentle grip, spinning you back toward him. The world tilts as you stumble into his chest, and suddenly, he’s right there, looming over you. Close.

In that closeness, his grip around your wrists tightens—not rough, but firm. As if he’s grounding himself as much as holding you there, unwilling to let go. Snowflakes cling to his dark lashes, melting against his skin, and his violet eyes shimmer—something unreadable flickering beneath the weight of his gaze. His breath curls between you, a whisper of warmth against the cold, dissolving into the space where neither of you move.

The playful spark in his gaze dims for a fraction of a second, something raw slipping through the cracks of his carefully maintained composure. His eyes drop—to your lips, to the small space between you, to possibility.

You don’t think. You don’t question. You just rise onto your toes, closing the distance, pressing the lightest, barest kiss against the corner of his mouth.

It’s fleeting, barely there—but it shatters something.

Caleb stills. Completely.

For the second time that evening, you catch him off guard.

His grip on your wrist loosens, but he doesn’t pull away, his breath warm against your cheek, his exhale slow, measured—like he’s trying to process what just happened. And then, finally, he blinks, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips—but it’s not his usual one. It’s softer, warmer, something almost reverent.

But instead of saying anything helpful, he only murmurs, “You are so, so unfair.”

And then—he lets go.

You step back, suddenly reeling, suddenly aware of what you just did. But Caleb only chuckles, shaking his head—like he’s already committing this moment to memory, already tucking it away where he keeps the things he’ll never forget.

——————————————————————————

The warm glow of lanterns spills over the snow-dusted entrance of the onsen, casting golden reflections onto the smooth wooden floors. The air shifts the moment you step inside—the biting Arctic cold left behind, replaced with the scent of cedar, damp heat curling through the hallways.

Caleb steps in after you, pulling the door shut behind him, and for a moment, there’s just silence—the kind that makes your skin prickle, makes you hyper-aware of every movement, every shift in the air between you.

The receptionist greets you with a warm smile, bowing slightly as she gestures toward the entrance hall, lined with low wooden benches for guests to remove their shoes and outer layers. You move first—because moving is easier than thinking.

Your fingers feel almost clumsy as you tug at your gloves, slipping them off one by one before reaching for your coat. The layers are heavy, the fabric thick with frost from the journey here. Caleb doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him watching as you unwind your scarf, pulling it free from where it had been tucked against your collar.

You steal a glance at him—just a quick, fleeting thing—but it’s enough.

His gaze flicks back to yours, and the corner of his lips quirks. And tose impossible violet orbs stay on you—like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, like he’s giving you the chance to acknowledge it.

You sit down, fingers moving automatically to unlace your boots, the motion practiced, steady—your silent answer. But your heart hasn’t settled. It’s still thrumming, still caught in the moment where your lips brushed against his, a fleeting, chaste outburst of weakness you refuse to address.

Boots off. Thick socks peeled away. You tuck them neatly beside your belongings before standing, pressing your hands against the smooth wood of the bench to ground yourself. Caleb mirrors you without hesitation, toeing off his boots in a fluid motion, rolling his shoulders like shedding the layers makes him lighter.

Like he’s comfortable here, comfortable with you—settling back into a space that was always his, as if time never carved him out of it.

And just as you start to turn away, he moves closer, a whisper of contact trailing behind him. His hand skims against your waist, featherlight but intentional.

A question, a test. Then comes the softest press—barely a kiss, nothing more than the warmth of him against the shell of your ear.

“So… are we pretending that didn’t just happen, or should I act accordingly?” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous and knowing.

Your breath hitches—a fraction, almost imperceptible.

And then—he steps away.

As if nothing happened.

As if the tension humming between you is nothing but steam in the air, waiting to dissipate.

The receptionist returns, all polite enthusiasm, bowing as she welcomes you both. And just like that, the moment is swallowed up, tucked neatly away under the weight of formality.

“Welcome,” she beams. “Ah, and what a lovely couple!”

Your brain short-circuits.

You open your mouth—to politely protest, to correct her—but Caleb, damn him, is faster.

His hands find your waist again, like a tide returning to shore—inevitable, familiar, unhurried.

“Appreciate it,” he tells her smoothly. “She booked us something nice, didn’t she?”

The receptionist nods eagerly, already convinced. “Oh, of course! You’re both in for a wonderful experience.”

Caleb leans in just enough—his voice low against your ear, smug as hell.

“Don’t look so shocked, Pips. It’s not like we haven’t had practice.” Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who knows? If we keep this up, maybe they’ll knock a little off the bill.”

And you hate that he’s right. Because you’ve done this before—played pretend, slipped into roles without thinking.

In high school, when Caleb needed a buffer from whatever girl had decided she was in love with him that week. In college, when he’d throw an arm around you at parties to keep unwanted attention off you.

It had always been easy, effortless.

And if it ever meant securing a couple’s discount at the cinema, neither of you had ever hesitated to lean into the act—his arm draped lazily over your shoulders, your head tucked against his chest, the cashier none the wiser.

The receptionist furrows her brows slightly as she scans the reservation details again.

“Oh! It looks like there was a mix-up in the system.” She tilts her head, flipping through the records. “You both had individual reservations for the public onsen with single rooms, but it should have been processed as a couple’s booking. That must have been an error on our end—our IT system has been acting up all week!”

You stiffen. Caleb, meanwhile, looks entirely composed.

The receptionist claps her hands together, beaming. “No worries, though! We just had a last-minute cancellation on our most exquisite suite—the only room available that accommodates two guests. Since the issue was on our end, we’ll upgrade you both at no extra charge!”

Her smile turns even more delighted. “Oh, and what perfect timing! I just love seeing young love.”

Caleb hums in approval, clearly entertained.

“Hear that, Pips?” He tilts his head toward you, his grip at your waist tightening ever so slightly. “She loves young love.”

You stomp on his foot.

At least, you try to.

Caleb moves before impact, smoothly adjusting his stance, unshaken, and laughs under his breath.

“How generous,” you manage, forcing a strained, polite smile.

Caleb’s grin widens. He leans in just enough—just to you, just to press his voice into your ear.

“Maybe we’ll get champagne too if you hold my hand.”

You consider shoving him into the koi pond at the entrance.

But the receptionist is already gesturing down the hall, giving you an enthusiastic rundown of the suite’s luxurious amenities. Caleb doesn’t move his arm from your waist. He doesn’t have to—because whether you realize it or not, you’re already leaning into him, already falling into place.

This is a game you’ve played before—played so well, for so long. But something about it feels different this time. When you finally glance up at him—when his violet eyes flick down to meet yours—you swear he isn’t pretending.

And the worst part? Neither are you.

Chapter II

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Part one of the series, yay! Peepz we’re looking at a slow burn, but I hope it’s as enjoyable for you as it is to me. I just love writing their dynamics, simpsimp. Okey then, thank you for reading pt1 🫶🏻

[porcelainstarrr]

CHAPTER 9

⌖ continued scene from chapter 8

We didn’t speak after that.

Not really.

Not after the tension, the storm of it, the weight that threatened to swallow the room whole. Not after the heat in his eyes and the way he stepped away like I had done something wrong. Like I was the one who crossed a line.

We stood there for a moment.

In silence.

And just before I turned to leave, before I gathered the last pieces of my self-respect off the floor, he said it-

“You were right to end the session early.”

That sentence.

That fucking sentence.

It rang in my ears like a slap. It was the gentlest knife I’d ever been handed, and I walked straight into it. I didn’t respond. I didn’t look back. I just walked out, head high, heart somewhere on the floor behind me.

─────── ⌖ ───────

CHAPTER 9

⌖

Hours later, I was home.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

But it didn’t feel like mine tonight. The lights stayed off. The curtains stayed closed. My coat never made it to the hook. I didn’t eat. I didn’t shower. I didn’t even change. I just lay there on top of the covers, limbs loose, mouth dry, breathing shallow.

No music.

No TV.

Just the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen outside my window muffled sirens, distant yelling, engines, footsteps, laughter, the city doing what it always does: moving on.

I stayed still.

I couldn’t get the scene out of my head.

Him.

His voice.

The way he looked at me.

The fucking nerve of him pulling away after everything. After weeks of building something that felt… real. Present. Emotional. The way he made me feel like I was losing my mind for noticing, like I was imagining things.

Like, I was the problem.

I turned my head on the pillow, eyes dry and wide. And then I saw them.

The cards.

Tucked between a stack of books on my nightstand. Two of them. One from the lilies. One from the cake.

Happy birthday.

Again, happy birthday.

No names. No handwriting analysis needed. Just... the ache of knowing.

I sat up slowly. Reached for them.

Held them in my hand like they were evidence.

And that’s when it hit.

Like a match dragging across bone-

Fire.

I was on fire.

Chest tight. Breath sharp. I was so goddamn mad. At him. At myself. At the silence. At the confusion. At how he toyed with the line between vulnerability and manipulation, like it was a game only he knew the rules to.

He watched me from the windows.

He gave me lilies.

He improved in our sessions.

He kissed me with his eyes and then made me feel ashamed for even noticing.

And then tonight? That writing task? That smirk?

“You were right to end the session early.”

Like, I embarrassed myself. Like I overstepped, like I was delusional for feeling the shift he started.

No. Fuck that.

I was done playing nice. I had something to say. A lot, actually.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I was already moving. Shoes. Keys. Phone. No plan.

Just fury.

Fury and muscle memory.

I don’t remember the train ride. Or the streets. Or the cold.

But somehow, I was there.

At the gate.

Back at the facility.

It was quiet. Different. The usual daytime buzz was gone. No receptionists. No admin. Just night shift guards, most of them tucked behind glass booths, drinking from thermoses, rotating posts. Fewer eyes. Fewer rules.

Lucky me.

I didn’t badge in.

I couldn’t.

My ID swipe would leave a timestamp, an automatic entry log. Questions. Reports. I’d be done. So instead, I went around. I knew there was a service access near the north wing used by maintenance staff, emergency exits, and deliveries. It had a motion-sensitive lock, only used during security drills and authorized reroutes.

Most people didn’t know about it.

I did.

Back when I first got this job, I obsessed over the building layout. Learned its corners like I was preparing for a siege.

So I found it.

Dark alley. Locked door. I crouched low, slid the card from my coat sleeve, an emergency override given to internal psych leads. For crisis evaluations only.

Tonight felt like a crisis.

The green light blinked once.

Click.

I was in.

Dark corridors.

Dimmed lighting.

Silence like a held breath.

I moved quickly. Soft steps. No badge scans, no cameras in this wing, only periodic guard rotations every half-hour. And judging by the echo down the hall, they were somewhere near the south end.

His wing was clear.

I reached it. The hallway was long, sterile, all metal, and muted in color. The last door on the left.

My breath was hot in my throat. My fingers curled into fists.

This wasn’t just about answers. This was accountability.

I reached for the handle, still furious, still burning, and I heard it-

Footsteps.

Not far.

Shit.

I opened the door, slipped inside, and shut it fast.

No sound. No slam.

Just in.

Safe.

And then-

There he was.

Dex.

Sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, black headphones over his ears, his recorder resting on his lap.

So fucking casual.

He didn’t react immediately. Probably thought it was just a guard.

But then… he looked.

And his expression shifted.

First confusion. Then awareness. Then, concern.

He sat up straighter.

Took the headphones off slowly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, low.

I stared at him, frozen.

“I have a lot to say,” I said, my voice quiet but sharp.

He stood. Fast.

Crossed the space between us in two long steps.

“Get in the closet,” he said.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

His voice dropped. Urgent now.

“Get in. Now. Go.”

“What-”

“Trust me. Go in. Now.” 

He nudged me gently, but firmly, toward the side door. For some reason some insane reason, I listened.

I stepped in.

He closed the door behind me.

Darkness.

Tight space.

A few peepholes near the slats.

I crouched. Waited. My heart is in my throat.

I heard the door to his room open, a guard. Muted conversation. Dex’s voice. Calm. Cool. Nothing suspicious, once the guard was gone. I heard the door shut, his footsteps retreating down the corridor, fading into the kind of silence that only exists in high-security buildings after hours, sterile and suffocating.

Then-

Click.

A loud one.

Heavy. Mechanical. Final.

It wasn’t from Dex.

It wasn’t from the guard.

It wasn’t just the door.

It was every door.

The entire hallway.

Shit.

The lockdown.

My breath caught mid-inhale.

No.

No, no, no. I forgot.

Midnight sharp.

Every night, without fail.

The system initiates automatically. Total lockdown of the isolation wing. Every reinforced door seals shut. No override. No access until morning. It’s a security protocol part of the psychiatric containment standards. No staff are allowed in after midnight. No staff are expected to be here.

I am not supposed to be here.

And now I’m trapped.

Inside. With him.

As the realization rolled through my chest, I heard another sound, a low mechanical hum. Overhead, the lights shifted, dimmed slightly. A subtle change, but it made my skin crawl. Less clinical. More... bedtime. Like the building itself was telling me to lie down and sleep. My fingers curled into my knees where I sat, still crouched in the darkness of the closet. My back pressed to the wall. The air was already too warm. Too close.

I had no plan for this.

What was I thinking?

What the hell was I trying to prove?

I hadn’t moved. I hadn’t said a word.

I was frozen in place.

Then, from somewhere in the room, I heard his voice. Calm. Low.

“You can come out now.”

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

His voice came again, a little closer this time- 

“Are you going to sit in there the whole night?”

Still nothing from me.

My tongue felt heavy. My thoughts were running in circles.

What have I done?

I’ve never broken a rule before. Not really. Not like this. I’ve always been the follow-every-policy, double-check-my-clipboard, get-it-approved-in-triplicate kind of woman. And now I was hiding in a patient's closet. At midnight. In a federal facility. I curled into myself slowly, my limbs folding tighter. My forehead met my knees. My hair fell forward like a curtain, shielding me from the tiny slivers of light filtering through the wooden slats. I breathed through my mouth, quiet and shallow.

I was spiraling.

Hard.

You’re going to lose your job.

Your license.

Everything.

You’re going to be reported.

Fired.

Discredited.

You’re going to be a headline.

I hugged my knees tighter. The closet was small. Uncomfortably so. I could feel the cold wall of the closet pressing against my back, and the cold floor beneath me. I thought I might cry- just let it out, just a little. But I couldn’t.

There was too much.

I was too full of it.

Embarrassment. Shame. Anger.

Why am I like this?

Why did I come here?

Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

Then-

Light.

The closet door opened.

A sharp burst of brightness flooded the tiny space, cutting through my cocoon of denial. But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t lift my head. I stayed right where I was, hoping that if I stayed small enough, still enough, this would all just-

“Well…”

His voice.

Dry.

Low.

A little too amused.

“…You’re well-adjusted.”

The motherfucker.

I still didn’t move. Not at first.

But my voice found its way out of me, muffled against my knees. “I’m not supposed to be here.” The words barely filled the space. But somehow, he heard them.

A pause.

Then, softer now-

“I know.”

I felt something shift. I don’t know if it was in him or me. Slowly, I lifted my head. My eyes squinted against the light overhead, harsh at first, then clearing, he was standing over me.

Tall. Still. Just looking.

And in the way the light hit him from behind, casting a faint glow around the edges of his hair, his shoulders, he looked almost unreal.

Like a fucking angel.

An angel with a high kill count.

My breath caught for a second. My chest tightened, my arms still hugging me.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just stared.

And that’s when it hit me.

All over again.

That white-hot rush.

The rage.

The thing that brought me here in the first place.

The gift.

The drawing.

The smirk.

The look.

The writing exercise.

‘You were right to end the session early.’

That sentence burned its way through my brain like acid.

He made me feel like I had done something wrong.

Like I was weak.

Like I was imagining all of this.

When he was the one who started it.

He watched me from the goddamn window.

He sent me birthday gifts and left me guessing.

He started talking. Opening up. Trusting me.

He kissed me with his eyes and made me feel like I was spiraling for it, and now? Now I was locked in his fucking room for the night like I was the one who lost control.

And maybe I did.

But I wasn’t going to sit in this closet and cry about it.

Not anymore.

I remember why I’m here.

The moment slams back into me like a goddamn freight train.

"You son of a-“ I hiss, shooting up from the closet floor so fast I almost lose balance.

My palm hits his chest.

Hard.

It’s the only thing I can think to do, push him. Get him away from me. Shove all the weight off my chest and into him.

He doesn’t budge.

Didn’t even flinch.

Of course, he didn’t.

“a- bitch!" I finish, voice cracking through the syllables as I storm out of the closet like it was a prison cell. “You’re the reason I’m here!” I spin around to face him fully now, my hands gesturing wildly as all of it, every emotion, every thought I’ve swallowed, erupts from my chest in one long, tangled mess of anger and pain. “I came here to yell at you! That’s what this was! That’s why I walked through those fucking gates like a lunatic, like a psychopath because I needed to scream at you! I was mad and confused and humiliated.”

He doesn’t move.

Just watches me.

His expression was unreadable.

Too unreadable.

And that only pisses me off more.

“You made me feel like I was in the wrong,” I spat. My voice trembles, not because I’m scared, but because I’m done trying to keep it together. “You made me feel like I crossed a line. Like, I was unprofessional. Like I imagined, everything! Like I made this whole thing up!” I’m pacing now. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms as I talk louder, faster, angrier. “You started this. You. You watched me from the window like some kind of stalker, and I let it slide. I thought maybe it was my imagination, maybe I was losing it until you started acting like you gave a damn. You started engaging in our sessions. You gave me the damn writing prompt answers like they meant something. Like I meant something.” My voice breaks. I catch it. Force it back. “But then you sent me the flowers. The card. The cake. Don’t pretend you didn’t. And then the drawing. A lily, Dex. A fucking lily. My favorite.” Still, he doesn’t speak. He’s just standing there, still as a statue, watching me burn alive in the middle of his room. And I hate how steady he looks. How quiet.

“What was it?” I demand. “Some twisted test? See how far you could push me? See if I’d crack and become just another case study? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t put the pieces together?”

Nothing. No answer. Just that same maddening look.

“And then today, today you made me feel like a fucking idiot.”

I stop pacing.

I look him in the eye.

He’s close enough now that I can see the faint scruff on his jaw, the sharp line of his mouth. His chest was rising and falling slowly. Controlled. Mine isn’t. “I tried to act normal. Like this was normal. Like writing those questions was about treatment and not about my fucking heart exploding from not knowing where we stand. And how do you respond?”

I take a step forward. My voice is lower now. Sharper. Deadly. “‘You were right to end the session early.’” I mimic. I stare at him, my throat tight, the ache blooming behind my eyes like pressure trying to escape. “That sentence made me feel like I did something wrong. Like I crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed. Like I should be ashamed for feeling something.”

His jaw ticks. Slightly.

But he still says nothing.

“You pulled me into this, Benjamin. You did. And then you pulled away. And now I’m stuck with whatever this is. This fucking mess in my chest. This guilt. Like I should’ve kept my distance. Like I should’ve known better. Like I asked for this.”

My voice breaks on the last word.

It cracks right through the air, sharp and splintered, like something inside me finally gave out. But I don’t care. I’m shaking now, not visibly, not the kind of trembling anyone else would see, but I feel it. In my fingers. In my throat. In the tight coil behind my eyes that threatens to snap if I blink too hard.

He doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just stands there. Still. Watching.

And I hate it. I hate how calm he looks. I hate how much effort I’m putting into not falling apart in front of him, while he stands there like he hasn’t wrecked me from the inside out. Like, I’m the one making this complicated. Like I’m the one who crossed a line that he drew in the first place. My chest is a battlefield of conflicting emotions, rage, shame, confusion, something stupid and warm I don’t even want to name. My skin feels too tight. Like I’m being squeezed from the inside out. I can’t even look at him properly. My eyes are blurry, not from tears, but from heat. From humiliation. I’m not crying, not really, but something hurts.

And the worst part?

I don’t even know if I want to scream at him or pull him closer.

So I just stand there.

Burning.

Breaking.

Waiting for something, anything to snap.

And maybe he feels it too.

Because when I look up again, he’s changed.

He’s... closer.

Not much. Just a step. A single, silent, careful step.

I blink, heart skipping.

When did he move?

He’s not rushing. He’s not charging toward me with some dramatic declaration. He’s just there, closing the space between us like it always belonged to him.

Another step.

And still, nothing from him. No words. No explanation.

Just that look.

That intense, searching stare that’s felt like a weight on my skin since the very first session. It’s the way he sees me, like he’s always been able to see right through my skin, right into the nerves and chaos beneath it. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

I can’t breathe.

He takes another step. And now I can feel him. Not touching. Not yet. But present. Close enough that the air between us feels charged. Denser. Like the oxygen itself knows what’s about to happen.

And still, he doesn’t touch me.

Not yet.

Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth.

Just for a second.

Then it flicks back to my eyes, and I feel my knees nearly give. He’s reading me. Studying. Looking for permission, or maybe waiting for me to run.

But I don’t.

I don’t move.

And then finally-

His hand.

Slow.

So slow, I feel every second of it before it happens. 

His hand lifts. Barely more than a twitch at first. Then higher. Past his chest. Past his collarbone.

And then, 

My face.

His fingers find my jaw with a gentleness that makes my breath stutter.

His thumb brushes just beneath my cheekbone. Careful. Measured. Reverent.

Like I’m something fragile.

Like he’s afraid he’ll spook me.

And then the other hand follows up, resting just behind my ear. His palm cups the side of my face. Warm. Solid. Real.

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

And I swear the whole world shifts beneath my feet. I feel the tremble of his breath before I hear it, soft, shallow. Like this moment is costing him something. Like he’s holding back so much, and this is all he’s letting himself have.

And then, finally-

He leans in.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Just… closer.

And then, his lips.

They meet mine like a question.

Like a secret.

Like a fucking prayer.

He doesn’t devour me. Doesn’t claim. Doesn’t take.

He just kisses me soft, slow, aching like this is the only way he knows how to apologize. Or confess. Or admit everything he’s refused to say out loud.

My heart breaks open.

My breath catches in my throat, and I swear for a moment I forget where I am. I forget who I am. I forget the world.

Because he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him and suddenly, nothing else matters.

My hands, shaky, hesitant, rise on instinct. One curls around his wrist, grounding myself against the heat of his skin. The other finds his chest, resting over the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

He tilts his head, deepens the kiss just slightly. Just enough. His lips part, and mine follow. It's still gentle, still patient, but there's a weight behind it now. An ache. A quiet desperation that says I've been waiting to do this since the moment I met you. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing the way it feels. His fingers tighten, just a little, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.

But I don’t.

I press closer.

I kiss him back like I’ve never kissed anyone before.

Because I haven’t.

Not like this.

Not with everything. Not with all of me.

I melt into him. Slowly. Fully. My body sways forward on instinct, and his hand slips to the nape of my neck, cradling me like he’s anchoring us both.

Our foreheads touch when we break, barely. A breath apart.

His eyes are still closed.

Mine, too.

And then-

He exhales.

Like a confession.

Like a surrender.

My hands are still on him. I don’t move. I don’t want to.

Because if I do, this moment ends.

And I’m not ready.

Not yet.

Neither of us speaks.

We just breathe.

Together.

The silence is loud now. Full. Sacred.

His lips break from mine for only a second.

Barely a breath.

And in that breath, I hear it.

His inhale. Sharp. Through his nose. Like he’s trying to reel something back in before it breaks loose.

But it’s too late.

Because when he kisses me again, it’s different.

It’s no longer tentative. No longer searching.

It’s need.

It’s possession.

It’s him.

His hand tightens at the back of my neck, not hard, not forceful, but secure. Claiming. Like he’s grounding himself in the feel of me. The other hand moves slowly, but sure from my cheek down the side of my throat, across my collarbone, his fingertips barely brushing the skin beneath the neckline of my shirt.

And God.

That touch.

It’s feather-light. Barely there.

But it sets something on fire.

I gasp into his mouth, and the sound, raw, startled, pulls a sound from him. A low, barely-there hum deep in his chest. He swallows it, breath stuttering against my lips like he hadn’t meant to make a sound at all.

Then, he steps forward.

And I’m backing into the wall again.

But this time, not in panic.

This time, it’s like instinct. Like we need to be closer than close. My back hits the cool concrete with a quiet thud, and he follows—presses into me, chest to chest, thigh between mine. Solid. Unmovable. There. 

My hands are in his hair before I can think.

God, it’s soft.

I curl my fingers there, tug just enough to feel him respond, his lips part, his body surges forward. And suddenly I’m being kissed like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Like the dam’s broken, and this is all he’s ever wanted. His mouth is warmer now. Slower, but deeper. He’s kissing me with more tongue, more breath, more intention. Like he’s memorizing the shape of me, the taste of me, how I move against him. Like he’s been starving. His hand skims down my waist, fingers dragging over the curve of my hip, and I feel him hesitate.

Just for a second.

Like he’s asking without words.

And I answer just as wordlessly, my hips roll against him just enough, my hand sliding from his hair to the nape of his neck, guiding him back to my mouth like I need him there.

He groans.

Quiet. Deep. Resigned.

Like fuck it, like this is happening, like finally.

His mouth is everywhere now, my lips, my jaw, my cheek, down to my neck. He kisses like he’s starved for it, but still careful. Still holding back the worst of what he could be.

Still not taking too much.

But God, I want him to.

“Benjamin,” I whisper against his ear, against the corner of his mouth, I don’t even know.

And something in him stutters.

Like hearing his name said like that did something to him.

He exhales hard through his nose, and then his hands are on my thighs, sliding up, firm, and I feel my knees almost buckle from the sheer force of want building in my spine. His body presses harder. Not crushing, not overwhelming, but present. Like he’s everywhere at once. My chest. My stomach. My hips. The heat of him, the weight. His scent. My mouth opens wider beneath his, inviting, matching his intensity now, our kisses turning wet, deeper, sloppier.

Breathless.

My hand slips beneath his shirt, fingers splayed against the warmth of his stomach, and his reaction is instant his whole body jerks just slightly against mine, and he kisses me harder, rougher, teeth grazing my bottom lip before he catches it between his and sucks.

I moan, actually moan.

And that sound.

That sound wrecks him.

He grabs both my hips now, holding me firm, his body moving against mine with more friction, more need, more intent.

I don’t know where this is going.

I don’t know if it’s going to stop.

I don’t know if I want it to.

All I know is-

We’re not the same people who walked into this room hours ago.

And I’m not sure we ever will be again.

His lips are on mine again.

Desperate now.

Hot and open, the kind of kiss that doesn't ask permission anymore, it takes.

And I let him.

I let him take.

Because I want it just as badly.

His tongue brushes mine again, deeper this time, and everything around us disappears. The walls, the lights, the rules, the job. It all slips away, buried under heat and the weight of us. His hand moves back to my jaw, fingers spreading along the side of my neck like he’s anchoring me there. Holding me in place, and God, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

He presses harder. Chest to chest, thigh between mine again, holding me open and still while his mouth maps me like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.

But then-

He stops.

Just a breath. Just a flicker.

His lips barely pull from mine, but it’s enough.

Enough to feel the ache of separation.

Enough to feel that sharp pang of panic, don’t stop.

He leans his forehead against mine, chest heaving, so close, but not kissing me.

Not yet.

His voice was low. Ruined. Begging.

“Tell me to stop.”

I blink.

I can’t process the words at first. My brain is slow, heavy with want. It’s like trying to think underwater.

His thumb brushes my cheek, so soft it makes my throat close.

“Please,” he whispers, more desperate this time. “Tell me to stop.”

And the way he says it-

It’s not control.

It’s not about asking for permission to go further.

It’s a plea.

A final, fragile attempt at doing the right thing.

Because he knows once he crosses that line-

There’s no coming back.

But I don’t say anything.

I just stare at him. Eyes locked, heart a fucking drum in my chest.

My hands slide down his chest slowly, resting flat over his ribs, and I shake my head.

Not once.

Not twice.

Just once.

But it’s enough.

He exhales, like he’s collapsing from the inside. His body bows slightly, tension snapping like a fraying wire.

And then?

He loses it.

His mouth is back on mine, but there’s no hesitation now. None.

He kisses me like he’s been starved for years. Like he’s dying and I’m the only thing that can save him.

And maybe I am.

Maybe he is.

His hands roam urgently, searching. Down my sides, around my waist, gripping my hips like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. He pulls me flush against him, and I feel every inch of him, feel just how badly he wants this, wants me. I moan into his mouth, hips grinding instinctively against the pressure of his thigh, and it makes him groan, deep, guttural, feral.

His hands are under my shirt now, hot palms splayed across my bare skin, dragging up my spine, leaving heat and goosebumps in their wake. He’s not rushing, he’s savoring. Like he’s been dreaming of this, fantasizing about how I’d feel beneath him.

And me?

My hands are everywhere. In his hair, across his back, under his shirt, I can’t not touch him. His body is like a live wire, thrumming with tension and restraint and need. Every muscle is tight. Every movement is deliberate.

He kisses me again. Slower now. But deeper.

Like he wants this moment to burn into us.

Like he knows this might be the only time.

But it doesn’t feel like that.

It feels like the beginning.

His hands slide beneath my thighs suddenly, lifting me without warning. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and he walks us backward, careful but determined, until my back hits the wall again, harder this time. He pins me there with his hips and kisses me so deeply I nearly forget how to breathe.

I can feel how badly he wants me.

And it makes my head spin.

My fingers twist into the back of his shirt, knuckles white, dragging him even closer, even tighter, until there's no space left at all.

And I don’t want space.

Not now.

Not ever.

We kiss like it’s war.

Like it’s confession.

Like it’s the only thing keeping us alive.

And maybe it is.

Because right now?

In this room?

With him?

I’ve never felt more alive.

His mouth never leaves mine.

Not even for air.

Not even for a second.

It’s relentless, the way he kisses me now. Like he’s been waiting too long. Holding back too much. And now that the leash is off, he can’t bring himself to stop.

I don’t want him to.

I grip him harder, my nails catching the fabric of his shirt as his body grinds into mine. Every point of contact burns. Chest to chest. Thigh to thigh. Mouth to mouth. My breath is ragged against his, but I’m not pulling away. I’m sinking. Spiraling.

And still, he doesn’t let go.

His hands roam, one braced beneath my thigh, the other sliding up the arch of my back, fingers splayed across my spine like he needs to memorize the feel of me. He breaks from my mouth just long enough to kiss the corner, then my jaw, then down to my neck, and my head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, a soundless gasp catching in my throat.

He groans.

It’s low. Guttural. Desperate.

And the sound is enough to make my knees go weak.

His grip tightens instinctively as he feels it, as if he knows I need him to hold me upright right now.

And he does.

God, he does.

But even through the heat, even through the pressure building like a storm under my skin, there’s this ache in my chest that grows and grows. A knot of something else. Something deeper. Something rawer than lust.

I blink through it.

And I look at him.

Really look at him.

His eyes are darker now. Dilated. But focused, locked on me like I’m the only thing that exists in this room. His lips are parted. His chest is rising too fast. And for a moment, for one flicker of space between us, I see the tremble in his restraint.

He’s holding back.

For me.

And maybe that’s what does it.

That’s what knocks the wind out of me.

Because this isn’t just about wanting.

It’s not even about needing.

It’s about trust.

It's about the unspoken thing sitting between us like a live wire, something neither of us has said out loud, but both of us are bleeding from.

And I can’t take it anymore.

“Come here,” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He carries me to the couch with a kind of care that makes my heart throb harder than my body ever could. He sits, settling with me still wrapped around him, and I shift, careful, slow, and straddle him, legs bracketing his hips as my knees sink into the cushions.

He exhales like he’s unraveling.

I lean in, kiss him again, slower this time. Not desperate. Not frantic.

Just… full.

He kisses me back with that same weight, hands resting on my thighs now, thumbs moving in slow, firm strokes. Like he’s grounding us both. Like if he stops, we’ll float away.

My fingers slide up the back of his neck, into his hair. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss just slightly, and he groans into it, his hips shift, just once, but I feel it. All of it.

And then-

It hits me.

All at once.

The gravity.

The intimacy.

The vulnerability.

My lips falter against his.

I pause.

I blink.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

Not from the kiss.

From the feeling.

The knowing.

That I’m here. On him. In his arms. In his world.

And there’s no pretending anymore.

No distance. No walls. No structure to hide behind. I’m not just crossing lines, I’m obliterating them. Letting him touch parts of me I don’t even let myself touch.

It overwhelms me.

It terrifies me.

My hands drop from his neck. I pull back, just slightly. Just enough to break the kiss. He opens his eyes slowly, immediately alert. His brows furrow, not in frustration, but in focus.

He feels it.

He sees it.

And then he speaks.

Soft. Quiet. A whisper only for me.

“Hey…”

I look down. My hands press against his chest, still on him, but not pushing.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I just-”

His hands slide up my arms slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he moves too fast. His touch is so tender, it makes something in my throat sting.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says.

And I believe him.

He rests his forehead against mine for a moment. Breathes me in. Let me sit there with it. With all of it.

And when I finally exhale, when I finally let the weight in my chest go, I shift off of him.

He helps me. Doesn’t make it weird. Doesn’t ask for more.

Just opens his arms as I curl next to him, my knees pulled up, my head resting against his shoulder.

He lets his arm wrap around me.

And then he strokes my hair.

Again and again.

Soft. Steady.

I don’t know how long we’ll sit there like that.

Maybe an hour. Maybe five.

Time doesn’t exist in this room anymore.

Only the sound of his breathing.

Only the feel of his fingertips in my hair.

At some point, I stop thinking.

Stop remembering what I came here for.

Stop counting the mistakes I’ve made.

And I sleep.

I let myself sleep.

Because it’s the only time I’ve ever felt safe and undone at once.

Because it’s him.

─────── ⌖ ───────

Heyyyyyyy….. I KNOW. I hope the slow burn and build-up were worth the wait but of course, we’re not done yet. Chapter 10 is dropping today because let’s be real… I can’t make you wait when I can’t even wait

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I loved writing it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, seriously!!!

Enjoyyyy,

Yours truly,

Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[ next chapter ]