#went to my for you just because of this post

[paracosmicka]

Primal Fears AU content but don’t worry it’s still sonadow

That last one is a repost from last year so if you saw the silly drawings but then read the thing in the bottom left corner and went “wait what the fuck”

It’s because it was an AU thing but I literally only had that drawn out and now you get some context at least:

In this universe Sonic is an assassin/bounty hunter/whatever you wanna call a guy that is hired to specifically to kill other Entities. He meets Shadow when they run into each other because they’re both following the same Avatar. Then they do the normal canon sonadow thing where the first interaction they have always ends with them fighting and beating the shit out of each other. And then they kinda calm down but then Shadow has a similar moment from the beginning of the IDW Sonic comics where he gets absolutely pissed that Sonic managed to distract him from catching the bad guy and zooms away before the two have another chance to speak again.

Here Shadow is a GUN field agent except in this universe GUN isn’t really military and it’s more focused on not only investigating (like the Magnus Institute) but also actively dealing with the Entities. Which sounds great except remember how I said they aren’t military well actually they kinda are because “dealing” with Entities and Avatars just means: throw it in the high-security prison that is guarded by other various Avarars that all work for GUN because it means they don’t have to get thrown in prison. So GUN is kinda like The Magnus Institute + Section 31 working together. So actually I guess it’s like the SCP Foundation.

One day Shadow goes into work and Sonic and there and I’m not really sure on what I’m gonna do in the plot to make him end up there (like maybe he’s undercover and just using GUN to get to his next target or maybe GUN does the “hey we’re gonna throw you in jail if you don’t agree to work for us” idk again not sure yet) but now he’s working with Shadow because they still need to catch that Avatar.

So now we’re sorta caught up, they’re at Club Rouge (and I realized I didn’t specify which Entity she serves in my drawing of her but people who guessed the Stranger ding ding ding here have some sonadow) because Sonic and Shadow need to kinda interrogate Surge and Amy, who are associated with the Slaughter. They have a band called Poison Rose and it’s basically just Grifter’s Bone but they perform rock music instead. And are also probably dating.

Anyway the Big Case™️ Sonic and Shadow are working on is investigating a bunch of spooky murders and they’re pretty sure whoever’s behind them is a Slaughter avatar. But not specifically Amy and Surge☝️ They’re kinda “allowed” to perform the Music That Makes You Die because GUN also has like an “informant” group of avatars they can rely on. These avatars don’t work for GUN, but they agree to chill out on the spooky stuff if it means they don’t get arrested for spooky crimes. So for Poison Rose, “chilling out” on the spooky stuff means that they have to force people to wear earplugs while they perform, which wasn’t specifically stated in MAG 42 if that works or not, not really sure of the magic rules of the Music That Makes You Die phenomena but yeah they gotta do that and probably some other stuff so GUN doesn’t arrest them. Like maybe no swearing or something lol.

Okay gonna stop there before this gets even longer explaining my AU because this was supposed to be just a normal sketch post but whoops.

Oh also I made a playlist for the kind of music Poison Rose performs but it was made private because I didn’t want anyone to stumble across it and be like “pshhhh this dumb person who makes public playlists of their AU that no one knows about what a loser” (me when I make up completely unrealistic scenarios in my head) but now here’s a post explaining that part of my AU so that person can’t make fun of me anymore

[retrosabers]

𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬.

*relationship & smut hcs written with fem!reader in mind*

contains: a lot of angst (mentions of insecurity, past trauma), some relationship fluff, 18+ SMUT CONTENT BELOW THE CUT. MINORS DNI (praise kink, dry humping, fem receiving oral, a tinge of dirty talk)

word count: 2.2k

a/n: if you had a dollar for everytime i apologized for not posting, boy would you be rich LMAO

this writer’s block is no bueno. but, i can sense my bucky era coming back full throttle and i think he might be the cure. enjoy these unnecessarily angsty hcs in the meantime ;) and feel free to share any of your own!

GENERAL/PERSONALITY:

is very fond of the outdoors. he’s not a “take a hike and run a mile” kind of guy, but he gets genuine enjoyment and relaxation from sitting on a park bench and breathing in the fresh air and soaking in his surroundings. one afternoon you surprised him with a trip to a botanical garden on the outskirts of the city and he absolutely loved it. you don’t think you’ve ever seen bucky more at peace than when he was wandering amongst the greenery without an ounce of tension in his body.

can’t stand clutter. once he warms up to acquiring more belongings, everything has its designated place and it needs to stay that way. call it a mild case of ocd, or an undying need to control the ins and outs of his day to day life, but bucky can’t even think about shutting down for the night if his apartment is a mess. any files out on the table get tucked away in a well organized filing cabinet, dishes are dried and placed in the cupboard, laundry is either in the hamper or folded neatly in its respective drawer. he keeps everything as neat and pristine and possible for the sake of his sanity.

one of the only useful pieces of advice he retained from therapy was journaling. bucky still struggles a bit with verbalizing his feelings, so he often just writes them all down in lieu of talking it out. after he realizes just how much it works, he starts to journal about his days in detail. doesn’t matter if he’s feeling calm, or anxious, or how mundane the itinerary is, he makes sure to document it. partly because of the relief it brings, and just in case something happens to his memory again.

secret candle enthusiast, except it’s just one specific scent. you bought it for him as a housewarming present and he was absolutely certain that it was going to smell atrocious. what could possibly be so great about amber vanilla musk. turns out it’s the most perfect gift you ever could’ve given, so much so that he snuck over to bath and body works the next day to buy another one. the aroma fits him in a way that’s indescribable, plus it makes his apartment feel more like somewhere he wants to be rather than has to. it’s become a running gag to gift him one for every special occasion, and he always accepts it with a small, appreciative smirk.

this man is a real life disney princess. animals follow him EVERYWHERE and he’s got no clue as to why. you say it’s because they can sense at his core that he’s kind and gentle, and he always waves it off with a frown and a grumble (and a blush he desperately tries to hide). he feeds all the strays on his block, and eventually caves and brings one of them home. when you went to his place and found a tiny white kitten sitting on the counter, you thought you were hallucinating. then bucky walked in and gave a little scratch between her ears and it all pieced together.

“i knew it,” you mutter knowingly, eyes fixated on the way she preens from his touch. “you’re just a big ol’ softie.” bucky doesn’t offer any sort of rejection or rebuttal, only a halfway pointed stare before simply scooping the little animal into his arms and showing her off to you like she was a rare jewel.

he is very opposed to listening to current music, and the only way you can even remotely convince him to give things a try is if they’re on vinyl. it’s a happy medium, because even though the tunes may be vastly different than back in the 40s, he still has the familiar comfort of a record player. it’s still an uphill battle to get him to listen to anything made after 1950, but persuasion comes a bit easier when you pull out a record from your personal collection.

*psst. i have a fic about this you can kinda read about this here*

introducing him to doordash was a mistake because this man racks up an insane charge on his credit card with takeout. he hates the unnecessary socialization aspect of ordering at a restaurant so you best believe those delivery apps are his best friend.

loves to bitch and complain about maintaining his bike when in reality he enjoys it far more than he’d ever care to admit. he likes being able to fix something; to put his hands to good use and they actually have a positive impact instead of negative. offers to help any of the old timers at the va with their bikes if they have any trouble.

you know how some people get seasonal depression during the winter months from the bleak weather? bucky has that times a million, because the bone chilling cold never fails to trigger his ptsd, and send him right back into reliving his hydra days of being frozen against his will. when you catch wind of it, you make it a note to try and spend as much time with him as you can; make sure he’s not alone or that he at least has something else to occupy his mind other than his traumatic memories as the winter soldier.

IN A RELATIONSHIP:

old fashioned in the best way possible. while he strongly agrees with most of the 21st century’s stance on gender equality, he’ll never stop believing it’s a man’s job to take care of his woman. don’t get it twisted, he never tries to stifle your independence; it’s one of the many things he loves about you. but bucky can’t help but be a little “old-timey”; whether that be paying for your meals, or encouraging you to take a day off to relax while he’s working. it’s one of the only things he’s happy to have hardwired in his brain.

not entirely fond of pda but will ALWAYS have a hand on you when you’re out and about. usually a protective arm slung over your shoulder or a hand pressed into the small of your back. something that keeps you close to him for safety reasons, and also to let everyone else know that you’re taken.

doesn’t like to admit it but he can be a tad bit possessive. when you’ve spent nearly a century having zero control over your life and your choices, being territorial is inevitable. bucky will be damned if he loses the one good thing he’s ever had, especially to some punk who needs to learn how to back off. it’s a bit irritating at first, but once he lets his walls down and confesses the reason behind his actions, you let the man stake his claim every now and then. only because you know there’s no toxic intent behind it and because it’s lowkey a little hot.

#1 cheek kisser oh my GOD. this might not make sense to some people but if you’ve ever seen grey’s anatomy, derek has the most gentle way of kissing meredith on the cheek and that’s exactly how i picture buck.

the “i hate everyone but you” boyfriend (except he’s not really mean to anyone per se, he just does a complete 180 and turns into a big pile of mush when you’re around.)

king of random gestures. he loves making you happy and will take just about any opportunity he can to see you smile. you got a raise at your job? there’s a bouquet with a note waiting at your desk. sometimes you’ll come home to little “just because” presents on your dining room table because bucky can’t help but find little glimpses of you everywhere he goes. it’s his unspoken way of showing just how much he loves and appreciates you.

when he’s tired and grumpy he 100% does grabby hands (with a sweet lil pout might i add) to get you to come into bed and it’s the cutest thing ever.

sam wasn’t kidding when he said bucky’s got a staring problem, but it’s much more endearing in a romantic context. he finds you so beautiful, so mesmerizing; how is he not supposed to stare? and it won’t always be because he’s admiring you externally. sometimes he’ll be so caught up thinking about how lucky he is that you; sweet, kind, funny, and caring you, chose him as your person. he can’t help it if his eyes are glued to you while he’s pondering. everytime you catch him, he breaks out that shy little smile of his, and you find yourself falling in love all over again.

“you’re staring y’know,” you tease, feeling your face warm under his observation. he just shrugs, gaze unwavering as he saunters closer. “can’t help it.” he always take pride in watching you grow flustered as he closes the gap and presses a sweet kiss to your lips.

hot take: everytime i see “doll” used in fics for him i cringe real bad. i see bucky as more of a “honey” and “sweetheart” kind of guy. more honey than anything. in all honesty, i don’t see him breaking out pet names often, but if he’s going to, it’s one of those.

throws you over his shoulder like it’s absolutely nothing when you’re being difficult or arguing because he knows it’s a way to help playfully ease tension, as silly as it is. if he can get you laughing then you’re not mad, and if you’re not mad, he can reason with you a little better. it also leads to some very delicious sex afterwards when he conveniently drops you onto the mattress.

he’ll do the sweetest thing where if your hands are full this man will come up behind you and either put your hair in a braid or a ponytail (a pretty decent one might i add) if you need it away from your face. it’s always sealed with a kiss to the crown of your head and a squeeze of your hip, and never fails to give you butterflies.

SMUT:

i swivel back and forth between thinking that he’d be a bit hesitant or shaky with intimacy or that he knows how to please a woman in under five minutes. i honestly believe it’s somewhere in the middle; that while he does indeed have experience from his whore days back in the 40s, nowadays he’s not as willing to get to that point with someone unless there are deep feelings involved.

with that being said, when bucky decides to take that step in your relationship, boy does it take you by surprise. there’s a level of confidence that comes with being able to satisfy someone with such skill and ease, and he’s got it down pat. he’s even a little bit cocky with it, looking down at you smugly after your first orgasm, and it only amplifies your already flaming attraction to the super soldier.

nine times out of ten, sex is focused on your pleasure; he’s not cumming until you’ve cum at least once, and he’s not giving you a half assed release either. no, he’s working hard to make sure you see stars every damn time.

pussy eating king and i don’t think i need to elaborate on that.

is always down for a good dry hump. bucky loves kissing, kissing you more than anything, and one day he was particularly worked up, and it just…well it just happened. he was bright red once he realized what happened, but you quickly quelled any embarrassment he felt when you expressed that it was insanely hot. he didn’t even remotely understand why, until the next time it occurred. you were the one who came prematurely. and that, was when bucky understood the arousal behind it. now he’s got no qualms about having a good old fashioned makeout that may or may not end with a shared orgasm.

praise kink praise kink PRAISE KINK. it’s something he tries his hardest to hide but the boner he pops whenever you tell him he’s doing a good job in non intimate settings, and the increased speed of his thrusts when it happens during sex, are a dead giveaway. you tell bucky he’s being so good for you, making you feel so fucking good, and that man’s a goner. in his brain, it’s refreshing, exciting almost, to be told that he’s doing the right thing after a lifetime of being forced to make the wrong choices. what better place to hear that he’s right on track than when he’s with his lover?

hung. as. fuck.

i don’t foresee him being very vocal, but when he is, jesus take the wheel. somehow he always knows what to say and when to say it, no matter how few and far between the occasions may be.

“that feel good honey? yeah that’s right it fuckin’ does.” “always gonna take real good care of my girl.”

i don’t care if he’s got the serum stamina i 100% see this man conking out after sex. while he may be able to last a few rounds, the second you call it quits, the exhaustion overtakes him and he’s snoring into your pillow, but not before he pulls you close and peppers your face with kisses, muttering a final “i love you” before succumbing to slumber.

thanks for reading! <3

taglist: @dameronology @j4desblurbs @pandapetals

[elspethdixon]

When I was six, there was a bulletin board on the wall of my first grade classroom that had fancy construction-paper name tags posted on it for every student who’d had perfect attendance the previous month.

I had pneumonia and scarlet fever (not regular strep throat, actual scarlet fever like a Victorian child) that year and missed over a month of school, plus continual sick days over the rest of the year. The whole school year I never got to have my name up on the perfect attendance board once.

Over thirty years later, I still remember how much I resented that. It’s not like I wanted to spend hours sitting in the doctor’s office instead of going to school. They literally wouldn’t let me go during the scarlet fever week-long absence because they (correctly) didn’t want me spreading strep to the other children. The school officials ordered my parents to keep me at home, and then I was shamed for it via exclusion from the “official good student who’s here every day” board.

Later, in high school, I took exactly one sick day over the entire four years, when I broke a bone in my foot. This isn’t because I didn’t get sick, it’s because I was taking almost all AP classes and the amount of make-up work you had if you missed even a single day was prohibitive. I was already doing at least two hours of homework every night. In tenth grade in particular I went to school while hacking and coughing all day with asthmatic bronchitis all winter long. (I also needed abdominal surgery to repair a hernia caused by the weight of my school books/bookbag during my freshman year and waited four months to get it performed over the summer in order to not miss school - this sounds like I’m making it up or exaggerating but the surgeon actually said both that 1. it was most likely caused by the weight of my 25 lb. backpack and 2. that in retrospect telling my parents to wait until summer break for the surgery had been a mistake because the delay had made the hernia worse).

And I wasn’t even disabled or actually suffering from a chronic illness. I was a completely able-bodied kid who just had shitty lungs (that was actually the root cause of the hernia - I had already had a previous hernia surgery in the same spot during that infamous no-perfect-attendance-badge-for-you first grade year, after my pneumonia experience gave me a hernia from coughing so much). If anything, the actually disabled kids in my high school were being put in danger by me and my two zillion different chest colds I brought to school to give to everyone around me. Who knows how many classmates I probably infected with rhinoviruses in order to keep my straight A grades.

When I say “school should be disability accessible”, I don’t just mean we need handicap rails and EAs. Kids should be able to miss a day without failing out of school. You shouldn’t be dismissed from clubs because your attendance record is “spotty” (true story). I once missed an entire week of school because of a terrible, unending migraine. I was expected to keep up with my studies despite the blinding pain that came with working on my computer. When I heard my teachers say that you couldn’t miss exams, I asked what I would have to do to be excused from them. Their response? “Either get a doctor’s note an hour before the exam or death of an immediate family member.”

I cannot express how rigid this expectation was. First of all, with my condition, I wouldn’t have enough warning about my sickness to go to the doctor and request a note. For many people, this is exceptionally difficult, especially with the current shortage of medical professionals. Next, it ignores the fact that my schedule may not line with theirs because of my medical needs. Once, I had to visit a hospital a province away (which I was on the waiting list of for over a year) on the same day as an exam. I begged my mother not to take me because I was so nervous that I would be marked as an automatic fail. I was lucky enough to make it work, but that’s only because of my spectacular support system consisting of family members and wonderful doctors.

Disabilities aren’t always about needing a bus that can accommodate wheelchairs. It’s already difficult enough for many of us to maintain school attendance without the harsh punishments involved for skipping a day. We need to be able to miss school without being punished. Only than can you claim that the school is “accessible”

[miyaz6ki]

☆ wearing their clothes

synopsis. seeing s/o wearing their clothes for the first time :) (like shirts/sweatshirts or jackets/coats :pensive:)

the blade has spoken. erm... first draft being posted... i feel a little nervous after changing from reshinless to the user i use everywhere..

pairings. albedo, alhaitham, capitano, childe, wriothesley, diluc, neuvillette, kinich, xiao, dainsleif, wanderer

albedo felt himself heating up already. the red that crept up his neck was noticeable as you looked up. you were wearing his lab coat, and all cozy in the bed you both share.

"you're.. wearing.. my.." - "oh.. wow."

he had just come back from work and he couldn't wait to cuddle with you in bed, yet it was as if he wouldn't mind conducting another experiment with his new 'assistant' by his side <3

alhaitham when he suddenly walks into the empty home, tired of the work he's done for only archons knows how long he had been working. he just wanted to come home and tell you about all the things he's been- oh.

he was stunned. star struck. fuck. were you really wearing his sweater right now? the grayhead felt himself simply smirk at he adorable sight of you simply sleeping on the couch. a dinner made just for him, along with dessert on the side (ifykyk)

"maybe i'll tell you when i wake up, love."

capitano who simply lets out a chuckle, one out of love. he loves how large his coat looked on you. he handed it to you after going out for a while, asking you to simply hang it beside his desk. yet you had better ideas. and by better ideas? is to wear it of course!

"well what do we have here? you're so adorable my love."

he tucks strands of your hair behind your ear. adoring the way you tried your best not to fall over as you tried to spin. this was enough to keep you warm though. not to mention how he was already carrying you bridal style to bed.

childe laughs, seeing you try on one of his shirts, looking at yourself in the mirror before turning to see him.

baby, you look amazing! how about another spin?

even when you simply scoffed, he loved how you looked right now. fuck, he could feel himself reddening already. he definitely will let you have full access to his wardrobe. just take it all like how you took his heart too.

wriothesley just put his jacket over you to keep you from being wet while watching the melusines play with sigewinne, yet right now he was more focused on how much he admired your figure in his clothes. his jacket.

"what's wrong?" "...nothing. you look amazing today, yk that?"

he chuckled at your behavior, unaware of your own attractiveness as you told them to stop running around the fountain with the wetness of the floor spreading. you couldn't help but ease up and laugh as well.

a certainly crazy day at the court of justice- neuvillette was finally finishing up the last few cases, not to mention how absurd some of the cases were.

not realizing he ended up taking your jacket instead of his home, only realizing it when the melusines mention how different it look from his usual one. oh man. there you were. trying on his coat that just seemed a little too big (or small) on you. gosh were you cute.. what do you mean his ears are red?!

"i.. it looks better on you than me, doesn it?"

dainsleif who was there immediately as soon as the red wine was spilled onto your outfit. quick to spring into acting, he throws his jacket over it just as fast. scolding the person who jealously just oh-so accidentally ruined your outfit tonight purely because they wanted your significant other? oh please he wasn't having any of that!

but by the time his anger went away, he didn't realize how.. alluring you looked.. in something he wore all the time. it definitely suited you better, only noticing after he finally parked the car. he definitely had to give you more of his clothes.

"you.. uh.. i.. well.. you're beautiful. you know, you're welcome to keep that."

diluc's face was turning as red as his hair seeing how you quietly snored, sound asleep in his- no, your shared bed. seeing how closely you held his coat to your chest, as well as the shirt you wore.

"...I don't.. deserve you."

he simply took his boots off, letting his arms snake you close, one of his hands trailing up to your scalp, calmly stroking your head as he feels you smile into his chest. this was life.

kinich who always had an interesting wardrobe, you really just wanted to see how comfy his clothes were if he can swing back and forth that far!

and in which you did, spinning and looking at yourself in the mirror in his clothing. you loved it even more from how it smelled just like him too <3

"someone's having fun aren't they?"

you felt yourself blush out of embarassment of getting caught. but before you could apologize, he already had his lips on yours.

when xiao decides it'd be a good idea to give you a hoodie just to realize you never gave it back. is it just.. yours now?

and to find out the answer? yes! it is! and he finds out in the cutest way possible—by finding you sleeping soundly and wearing it all the same. almost indifferent about it as if it was normal.

"you okay?" "i-i've been looking for this y-you know.."

he only flushed more when you tell him you missed him so much.

finally coming home, wanderer, or scaramouche just wanted to cuddle. no words shared. just to hold you in his arms.

but maybe it was good that didn't happen. because now he was looking at the love of his life, and eating the food they made him. knowing how they made it with the knowledge on how he can't really taste anything. not to mention you were wearing.. that sweatshirt he lent you.

you.. look.. good.

[delilahsturniolo]

— ୨୧ better than me, huh? . . . c.s

in which . . . chris makes you admit and shows you that he’s the only one who can make you feel good.

warnings . . . smutttt, fwb!chris, use of pet names, fingering, oral, (fem!recieving) kissing, degradation, teasing, dom!chris.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

★ chris’s lips crashed against yours abruptly, with desperation, with need. he hovered over you as you laid on your back, the two of you passionately making out on his own bed. chris’s lips muffled your soft whines and moans. “tell me bout’ them other guys, mama.” chris murmured against your lips, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip. his grip on your waist tightened, almost painfully. the kiss was anything but gentle, it was as if he was trying to claim you again.

“tell me, what did they do to you? what did they do that i can’t, hm?” chris teased, his hands roaming your body as his lips began trailing down your body. you just wanted to piss him off for fun. “they were better than you.” you spoke, your voice defiant but also a tiny bit shaky. you saw a flash of jealousy, and even anger in chris’s blue eyes. “oh yeah? better than me, huh? what was so good about hookin’ up with other guys? what’d they do?” chris’s hand palmed your drenched panties, making you squirm with need.

you and chris didn’t have an established relationship, you were just friends who…fucked on the side, and kept everything on the low. you went out to parties, getting with other guys to help you try and forget about chris, to help you get over him and move on. but nothing fucking worked, of course. no one made you feel the way chris did. he knew all your sensitive parts, where and how to touch you, what really turned you on. no one else could do that but chris. and right now, he needed to prove that to you.

“they—mmmh—“ you couldn’t even answer because of how much he was absolutely teasing you, it was tearing you apart. but fuck, he felt so good. you needed him so badly, you just refused to admit that to him. “mm..you ain’t answerin’ me mama.” chris whispered darkly, slowly peeling your laced panties off of you. chris’s thumb pressed against your aroused clit, rubbing tight circles. you moaned in response, a gasp escaping your parted lips. “did they touch you like this, hm?” chris teased, sliding a finger between your folds, his finger playing with your wetness.

“look at you.” chris scoffed. “already so worked up? it’s embarrassing, really.” chris rolled his eyes, sliding another finger into you and beginning to pump both of them in and out of you, his hand immediately went over to your mouth as your moans became louder, more desperate. “y’gonna stop lyin’ to me yet? or am i gonna have to shut you up myself, hm?” chris pulled his fingers out of you, sucking them clean with a loud pop in his mouth. he parted your legs again as you attempted to close them. “fuck…i’m not lying!” you said as chris removed his hand from your mouth.

“yeah? bet you were thinkin’ bout me when those other stupid guys fucked ya, bet you almost moaned my name, didn’t you mama?” chris’s eyes were filled with desire, and his voice was soft with mockery. you couldn’t even admit it, because you knew he was right, you were thinking about him the entire time, it was hard to forget about him. “p—please..” you moaned in desperation. suddenly, chris leaned down, his head in between your legs as his tongue flicked on your clit. you gasped, hearing chris’s muffled voice in between your thighs.

“please what ma? you gonna admit this pussy is mine? that i’m the only one that can make you feel this good? I ain’t givin’ you what you want until you admit it. i got ways to make you talk.” chris kissed your inner thighs, still teasing you. he really wasn’t gonna let you behavior slide. “tell me, cmon…who’s pussy is this?” chris taunted, kissing your swollen clit, making your breath hitch. “y—yours..all yours..” you spoke shakily, chris smirking with satisfaction as you confessed this.

chris flipped you over in one effortless motion, your ass was facing toward him, your head burying in the pillow as he fiddled with his belt, removing his boxers to expose his hard length. his hand went onto your lower back, causing you to arch as he lined his cock up with your entrance. with absolutely no warning, chris slammed into you mercilessly, his hand coming up to the back of your head, pushing it down into the pillos, but not too hard, just to muffle your screams of pleasure.

“mmm, you like that huh? naughty fuckin’ girl…thinkin’ you can go around…messin’ with other guys to try and forget about me? it’s jus’ not possible.” chris thrusted into you, each time going deeper and deeper. “shit—oh my god… chris..” you moaned, turning your head to the side so your face wasn’t directly in the pillow. “yeah? close?” chris asked, knowing damn well you were falling apart. “mhmm..” you whined in response. chris groaned, your pussy felt so fucking good around him, he could do this forever.

“chris…gonna cum…” your mouth remained slightly ajar, chris continued pounding into you, feeling himself getting close as well. “cum f’me love.” chris whispered, leaning down to kiss your lower back. you immediately released upon those words, triggering chris’s release as well. chris pulled out of you, grabbing your waist and turning you over on your back again, looking down at your fucked out expression as he kneeled in between your legs.

“s’pretty like this..” chris mumbled, his hands going on either sides of your head on the sheets trapping you in as his lips delicately pressed against yours once more, silencing your soft whines. his tongue slid into your mouth as your hand tangled up into his hair, trying to taste every bit of him, chris’s hips slightly grinded against you as the both of you made out. chris had to make sure you knew that he was all yours, and you were all his

and chris was absolutely right, no one could make you fall apart the way he did.

© delilahsturniolo do not copy, re use, or modify any of my works.

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[woso-dreamzzz]

Kidnapped IV

Fridolina Rolfö x Teen!Reader

Summary: You visit your older sister, Frido

Frido grins as you step into arrivals.

You've gotten a bit taller in the months that she's not seen you, sprouting up like a weed until you're the long and lanky person that stands before her now.

"Hey, you," She says fondly, tugging on a stray lock of your hair.

"Hey, Frido," You say in response, tugging your suitcase behind you just as your sister sweeps you into a hug.

"How is school?" She asks," And the family? And what about your friends? Are they all good? Oh! And how is your handball going because-"

You laugh, knocking your shoulder against Frido's with a grin.

"I can't answer your questions if you keep asking them one after another."

Frido glances down at you.

You're barely sixteen but still nearly reaching her height, nothing like the tiny little baby she'd once held in her arms all those years ago. You're yet to fully grow into your lanky limbs but Frido can still see the faint outline of the small muscles underneath the baggy clothes you've worn for the plane journey.

She can't imagine that they'll remain that small for long, if what your parents have told her about your handball training has been true and your attempt to get onto the Swedish Olympic Youth Team is successful.

"What?" You ask," Why are you looking at me like that?"

Frido laughs, ruffling your hair fondly before grabbing your suitcase. "No reason," She says," I can't just look at my little sister?"

"You're being weird."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

Frido pokes you in the shoulder. "Is that anyway to talk to the person that's buying you dinner tonight?"

You grin, more of a half smirk than anything else. "It depends."

"On?"

"On if I'm choosing dinner or you're choosing."

"Be nice to me on the way home and I'll let you choose."

Your room is as you left it the last time you came to visit Frido with a stack of books up on the shelf, a blanket thrown over the little reading nook in the corner and one of your handball trophies on the bedside table.

"I changed the sheets and stuff," Frido tells you as she unpacks your clothes into the wardrobe," And I put some new snacks in your drawers. I know you like to snack in the middle of the night. Your old ones went out of date."

"Thanks. You didn't have to."

"But I wanted to."

Frido draws you closer to her. Almost six months ago, she could rest her chin on the top of your head but now it's more of an awkward angle because of your growth spurt.

"I'm just trying to make you comfortable," She teases," Because our parents sent me your gym routine. The life of a student athlete. You don't get a break even when you're on holiday."

You grin. "I'm just making sure I'm a better athlete than you."

"You can't compare football to handball. They're completely different sports."

You grin. "And yet I'm still outdoing you."

"For now," Frido says," We'll get to the gym and I'll show you that I've still got it."

"Yeah, right, old woman," You laugh," I can run rings around you."

"We'll see."

Frido, for her own peace of mind and so no one else sees, bans you from posting your triumph on the running machine on your social media later that day.

"You should have seen me in my prime," Frido says that evening as she eats dinner out of a box and pokes you in the leg with her toe.

You're on the other side of the sofa with your own box of food, grinning over at your sister as she pokes at you again.

"You wouldn't have been able to keep up," Frido continues," You'll see. Watch any of my highlight reels."

"I don't need to," You say with a grin," Why don't you watch some of mine?"

Frido flicks a piece of food at you and you smugly catch it in your mouth.

"Is it still the plan to quit?" She asks," When you're older?"

You groan, throwing your head back to look up at the light. "Did Mama and Papa put you up to this?"

"Don't deflect," Frido says," You can go far in handball, you know. You've got the talent."

"I don't know," You say after a long stretch of silence," I...I just don't want handball to be my everything, you know? I just...I don't know how feasible it is to have two jobs at once if I'm being an athlete."

"You're too smart for me," Frido says simply," So I don't know either but I know that if you're really set on it then you'll find a way to make it work."

"Really?"

Frido laughs. "Of course. You're smarter than people give you credit for. I mean, you managed to track down that guy that tried to steal Mapi and Ingrid's cats and you weren't even in the country for a week. You'll work it out."

"You think so."

Frido reaches forward to ruffle your hair. "I know so. Now, how about you grab that menu over there and we'll have a look about ordering dessert too?"

[lapdogchase]

on the topic of special ed. i specifically remember in 6th grade one of my best friends was in both the gifted-and-talented program (we were in the same group for english, we did secret book club together) and the special ed program, and. you know those like. stool chairs with round bottoms that u could rock back and forth on, for like, kids with accommodations for adhd or whatever, idk if that's universal, but they were widely coveted and you could only have one in a normal classroom if you had it on ur disability accommodations plan. but if you were in g&t you got to use them in the Secret Meeting Room where you'd do secret book club, right. and i kind of assumed the special ed room was like that too, like you get a bunch of fun items and stuff and everyone treats you like the smartest kid in the world. well it is Not like that.

but i remember one day specifically where my friend was having a really bad day and was on the verge of a meltdown and she was like hey can i take my friend with me to the isolation room. (it was called something like that, maybe solitary room? either way it was something that even at age 11 i was like. bro what?) and i was like. the what? and she was like Oh that's where you go if you're having a meltdown or something and you're in special ed. so we went down to the room and it was in a corner near a janitors closet and i'd never even noticed the door before. and we went in and it was this. narrow, brick room, probably like 7 feet wide and 15, 20 feet long? and it had bright fluorescent lighting that was still somehow jarringly yellow, absolutely nothing on the walls or anything, and at the back wall. one (1) singular bean bag chair.

and i was like. this is where they bring you to CALM DOWN????? and she was like. yeah you get used to it i guess. if you have a meltdown they lock you in here and then screaming won't bother people since it's out of the way. I have forgotten most of my memories from elementary/middle school but i still remember standing in the doorway to that room feeling. so deeply horrified by the whole thing. while my friend thought of it as completely normal.

and like. that same year, or maybe the year before, my little brother was in another school, and he was having a lot of meltdowns and Problem Behaviors (as they were called). and the staff would tell my parents "he had some Behaviors but we Restrained him and he calmed down :)" and. while i was a kid at the time so my parents didn't tell me most of the story. what i know is my parents almost sued his school (and would have if we weren't poor) because when they say they "restrained" him, they meant they locked him in a tiny closet alone until he stopped screaming and crying and hitting the walls. and he was a tiny fucking kid. he was like, 8 at the time? weighed like 50 pounds. my parents found out bc he was coming home with bruises. it's evil it's inexcusable and frankly i hope every adult who turned a blind eye to it dies.

and it wasn't just him, it wasn't just that school, i've heard so many horror stories from my friends who were in special ed & stories my parents have told me about their friends' kids & stuff i've heard online from ex-sped kids etc etc etc. like the way these kids are treated is like, near-universally horrific.

like, if you were neurodivergent in the way where you were "smart" and didn't bother or upset anyone, while it was Very Traumatic (for reasons that have been Posted about by many many people, i don't need to explain them here i don't think). we were treated SO much better than the kids who were in special ed, or who had impulse control problems or meltdowns or anything like that that Bothered adults. and those facts can and do coexist. and it upset me when i was like 15, bc i had that kneejerk "are you saying my trauma isn't that bad" sort of reaction, but like.

being undiagnosed neurodivergent came with its own trauma obviously. and being in the g&t program could be stressful and isolating. but at the end of the day, like. as much as it could suck. they were treating us like we were special, throwing treats in our enclosure, telling us how Smart we are and how we definitely have an iq of 120 or whatever. we'd have little snacks and learn long division and whatever. Whereas they were straight up abusing the kids in special ed. objectively the way they were treated was horrific and cruel and inexcusable. and far worse than the g&t program was. like sorry if it upsets you to hear that. but they weren't locking us in closets they were throwing pizza parties and letting us use the fun chairs. it's just not comparable at all really

[ktownshizzle]

Nerd & Nerdier | Chapter 3

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x reader, Jeon Wonwoo x reader; endgame? x reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Attempt At Comedy, Roommates au, Love triangle

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Moving in with two introverts should have been easy. Not when it’s Min Yoongi and Jeon Wonwoo, who decide they both want you. Unhinged, awkward, and nerdy as hell, they proceed to compete for your attention in the most unnecessarily dramatic fashion that culminates into a… rap battle.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Wildly gratuitous, You might 100% chance you’ll fall in love with both of them so that’s a problem, no mxm dynamics to be expected

✎ ˎˊ˗Chapter Warnings: reader felt violated while in the club, both men are down so bad

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.8k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 26, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Everyday I continue to find My People who understand the obsession with this cat and this ghost in a deep, cellular, molecular level. So here we go… Thank you Cathy Jae <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Ch 1 | Ch 2

Roommate Rule #3: If Your Bickering Roommates Start Acting Strangely in Sync, Something is Most Definitely Up.

After that night, a weird calm settles over the apartment.

No more rap battles. No passive-aggressive co-op games. No intense staring contests over meals.

It should feel normal, better even? But it doesn’t.

Plus, now, whenever you’re home, they’re both there. Always. Kinda hovering.

It’s never just Yoongi in the kitchen, grumbling about how you keep putting the spices in the wrong order. It’s never just Wonwoo on the couch, lost in a book but somehow still aware of everything you do.

It’s both of them.

At first, you chalk it up to coincidence. Maybe their schedules just aligned, or maybe you’re overthinking things. But then a whole week passes, and you realize—no, this is intentional.

And you have no idea what to make of it.

At work, a colleague from another department—Hyunjae—strikes up a conversation by the coffee machine. He’s nice, seems harmless, and when he asks you out to dinner, you say yes.

Because why not?

You don’t have a boyfriend. Your weird roommates haven’t exactly made anything explicit. And maybe—maybe—this is exactly what you need to clear your head.

That night, when you tell Yoongi and Wonwoo about the date, their reactions are... expected?

They don’t react that much. They don’t even comment on how you're looking hella cute with your lilac dress and heels. Stoic, as per usual.

Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding once. "Have fun."

Wonwoo barely looks up from his phone. "Yeah. Hope it goes well."

But their voices are just a little too flat. Their movements a little too controlled.

As you do a final check on the contents of your bag (card, keys, mint, lip tint), Wonwoo casually mentions that he’s streaming tonight—his gaming channel has been blowing up lately and Yoongi tells you to call him if anything happens. Guess that’s that.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not. Because the date was bad.

Dinner was okay, but when you went to the bar next door, the guy got pushy once the drinks started flowing. A hand on your waist that lingered too long. Fingers grazed your thigh like he had a right to.

You felt off. Uncomfortable. A little violated.

You told him off and walked away.

You lock yourself in the ladies bath room. Fuck. You stare at your phone. There’s only one voice you hear in your head as you stroll through your contact list. You just hope he answers.

Of course he does, on the second ring.

“Yoongi? Can you, umm, can you pick me up?”

"Where are you?" Yoongi asks, voice a little sharp. “Are you okay?”

You tell him the club’s name, and you barely get through the sentence of telling him you’re hidden away because you don’t want to be with your date anymore, before he says, "Stay where you are. I’m coming."

Fifteen minutes later, he’s here and the rush of relief mixes with the cool air as you exit the bathroom stall you've taken residence in.

You see him before he sees you. Black button down, dark jeans, and fire in his eyes, but when they land on you, something in his expression shifts—softens just slightly.

He’s at your side in an instant.

"You good?" 

You nod, but your throat feels tight. 

He exhales sharply, jaw clenched. "Where is he?"

You shake your head. "Probably gone. It’s fine."

It’s not fine, but you don’t want him to cause a scene.

Yoongi doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push even as you see him tensely run his fingers through his hair. Instead, his other hand find yours, wrapping around your wrist—not pulling, not rushing. Just there.

And then, without thinking, you step into him.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s just Yoongi. The way his presence alone has made you feel safe after a night of shaky thoughts.

Suddenly, the music around you fades. And all you feel is him. Warm, steady, strong.

His arms come up instinctively, one wrapping around your back, the other resting against the nape of your neck. You’ve never done this before, but somehow it feels like you have.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to when you feel his heart hammering inside his chest to mirror your own.

You breathe him in—a faint trace of cologne you're now so familiar with, something distinctly Yoongi—and you don’t know what to do with the way your heart twists inside your chest.

When you finally pull back, Yoongi searches your face. "Let’s go home."

You nod, letting him lead you out, your hand clasped in his.

You don’t sleep that night.

Not because of the date, not because of the club, but because of the voices in the kitchen.

You hear them some minutes after you turn off your bedroom light.

Hushed but heated.

You don’t want to eavesdrop, but you don’t exactly want to interrupt either. So you press your ear to the door and listen.

"You should have called me." Wonwoo’s voice is sharper than usual.

"She called me." Yoongi’s tone is steady but defensive.

"That’s not the point, hyung."

A pause.

"Then what is the point?"

Wonwoo exhales harshly. "You can't pull shit like this."

"Like what?"

"Like running to her first."

“You were streaming, when she called. You think I'd wait for you? She was crying…”

Your breath catches.

Silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating.

Then, quieter: "It’s not fair."

Something in Wonwoo’s voice makes your chest ache.

You don’t know what possesses you to move, but suddenly, your feet are carrying you toward the kitchen. Before you can think twice, you push the door open.

They both turn at the same time.

Yoongi leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Wonwoo stands stiffly near the sink, his jaw tight.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. "What the hell is going on?"

Neither of them speak.

You cross your arms. "I’m serious. You two have been acting weird for weeks. First, you’re constantly competing, then suddenly, you’re always together like some weird tag-team act. And now you’re fighting over who picks me up when I call for help?"

Still, silence. 

You swallow hard, but you’re unable to stop the nagging question in your head. "I need to know. Is this… Am I like a bet or something?”

“NO!” both men bellow.

You exhale a shaky breath. “Then what’s the deal?"

Silence. Again.

Yoongi and Wonwoo are both staring at you, like they’re waiting for you to say something. But instead, you exhale and lean back, crossing your arms.

“You know what?” you say, voice steady. “I think you two need to figure out if you actually…” Fuck you’ll say it if they can’t. “…like me… or if you just like competing with each other.”

That hits.

You let the silence stretch. Let them sit with it.

Because this whole thing—this weird, passive-aggressive, emotionally constipated mess—has never really been about you. Not the way it should be.

“I like both of you,” you continue, watching them carefully. “And maybe that’s selfish. But I don’t want to pick between two people who haven’t even stopped to ask themselves if what they feel is about me or just… winning.”

Yoongi looks away first. Wonwoo’s fingers twitch against his knee.

“So,” you say, standing up. “Figure it out. And let me know in the morning or… I’ll just move out.”

And with that, you leave them stewing.

Morning comes too fast.

When you step into the kitchen, you immediately pause.

Because—

What the fuck.

Yoongi is leaning against the counter, one hand tucked into the pocket of his sweats, wearing an offhandedly sexy fitted black t-shirt like he didn’t just wake up ten minutes ago. His hair is still a little messy, but in a good way—in the kind of way that makes you wonder what he looked like rolling out of bed.

And Wonwoo?

Wonwoo is sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone, looking like a fucking editorial ad in his oversized crewneck and glasses. The morning light is doing too much for him, highlighting his sharp jaw and the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against the table.

They both glance up when you walk in.

And they both smile.

Oh, hell no.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately, pointing at them. “You do not get to look this good this early in the morning.”

Yoongi chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. “Didn’t realize there were rules about that.”

“There are now,” you mutter.

Wonwoo grins, “You look cute when you’re grumpy, noona.”

You shake your head, unable to keep your cheeks from flushing despite being slightly annoyed with both of them, still.

Yoongi gestures vaguely. "You were right last night. About us. About this."

Wonwoo leans forward, fingers interlocked. "We both like you, noona. We won’t deny it."

Yoongi sets his cup down. “So we have an offer.”

You raise a brow, leaning against the counter. “Oh?”

Wonwoo tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction. “We’re going to take you on dates.”

You blink. “…What?”

“Dates,” Yoongi repeats. “One with me. One with him. Or more. Up to you…”

You stare at them. “And then?”

“And then,” Wonwoo continues, “you can decide.”

You narrow your eyes. “You two came up with this plan together?”

Yoongi shrugs.

You cross your arms. “And what if I don’t want to go on these dates?”

Yoongi answers: “Then we drop it. No pressure.”

"And if I don’t choose either of you?"

Wonwoo sighs. "Then we take the L."

…Huh. You hadn’t expected this.

You had expected stubbornness. Maybe even another argument.

Yoongi tilts his head as your eyes dart between the two of them.. "But let’s be real. That’s not happening."

"Yah!" You gape at him. "Are you fuckin’ serious right now?"

Yoongi grins. Wonwoo just waits.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the counter. “Bet.”

Yoongi lifts a brow. Wonwoo licks his lips, now smiling.

“Alright,” you confirm. “Show me what you got.”

And judging by the looks on their faces, you have a feeling they plan to.

A/N: To be in the middle of this love triangle is my most fervent dream, hope you enjoyed reading this! xo

QUESTIONS!!! Who should get their date first? Where should they go? Also, do you kiss on the first date? ;)

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[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I know I've commented on this before and I know it wasn't even a different comment, just said on a different day with different words.

But it is IMPORTANT that we can have this conversation. It's part of reconciling what we have been with what we might want to be.

At the time, Trump wasn't even a thing yet, I forget what it was exactly, but I **think** it was the Ferguson uprisings. My wife and I were living together for the first time and talking about this A LOT obviously because it was all anyone we knew was talking about and the stuff coming out of Ferguson was both exciting and terrifying. I think I asked her where she wanted to go if we decided to leave. And she just looked at me and asked "where is it you think we could go where this couldn't happen to me?"

I really hadn't understood what I was asking her until I got that reply. The idea that changing our environment wouldn't help her, was only about soothing MY feelings of safety, not about what would actually MAKE HER SAFER, had genuinely not occurred to me. I absolutely learned this from my mother, the whitest person in my family, who moved us every time shit got rocky. And for a minute as I thought about that, I remembered what it felt like the first time she took me away from the land I grew up on. We were not indigenous, but I was raised on Maidu land, and many local children's ecology and outdoor hobbiest programs were run by folks on the rez for their own kids, while being open to the wider community. I spent A LOT of time on Feather River with my friends learning about everything from basket making to fishing to the water table, to agricultural techniques, to beadwork, to more than I could ever remember. And I learned to see the land I lived on as part of me in the same way I was part of it. When that was taken from me, I quite literally destabilized and went....grief striken I guess. For a long time. And when I finally "got over it" I did so mostly by accepting that while I might never get to go home, that little valley was a huge part of what made me myself, and I would never let that go.

The fear, the sense of looming threat, it had made me vulnerable to the idea that fleeing would help, whether or not that was true, but more importantly it had beought me upsettingly close to forsaking something that quite literally I know I am not me without. And all so that in another ten years my wife might look at me and say "is anything different?"

And we had a really long talk after all this, with a ton more to it that is our business not the world's, but what we ultimately came to was "this is our home. And we will die here, be buried here, and be mourned and celebrated here. And if that means we have to fight the abuses and oppressive actions of the people who are here with us then we will, but our home is worth loving in that way."

Ever since, whenever I hear white usa citizens talk about fleeing to some perceived more progressive nation, I hear "where do you think I could go that this could not happen to me?" I think "why don't you love your home, the land, the people, the world that was built here, enough to fight for it when it is threatened?" I hear "it is easier to run than to resist."

And I think that's what people reacting poorly to this post don't get yet. Maybe never will, I don't know. "It is easier to run than to resist" is a terrifying thought that comes from a place of fear and helplessness. And it is difficult to hear the people who have benefitted the most from that thought being inflicted on others that they truly believe it. That they may truly and sincerely not understand how devastating it is to be forced to make such an unthinkable sacrifice only to have that sacrifice treated as rational and right by people who have never had to consider it before (even if perhaps their ancestors did).

Reconciling the racial history of this country will require all of us to stop being defensive about the emotional realities of indigenous people, people of color, the descendants of slaves and other owned/indentured people, and so many other communities in this country. The guilt and discomfort must become safe to experience or we will try to punish those who trigger it by asking to be treated as people.

Given the state of the world, that avoidance response is not one ANY of us can afford right now. If yours is still causing you to activate in response to conversations like OP is trying to have, then likely you are still very much at risk of radicalization in ways even you may not recognize.

the reason that white Americans going "I'm going to move to ___" during all this insults me so much is not bc I care whether they leave or go. I think it bothers me deeply bc it shows such a... Lack of attachment to the land that so so SO many people suffered and currently suffer for.

The indigenous peoples here were mass murdered for centuries for their own land. My people were brought here in chains for centuries, then bred like they were lower than animals, just to work this land. People of color here and abroad suffer just to maintain this place's spot in the global hierarchy.

A lot of BLOOD went into this soil that y'all's ancestors wanted so fucking bad, a lot of privilege (whether you want it or not) was built through so much suffering for you to have. And as soon as the going got tough, your only comment was "well, I wish I could settle somewhere else now". 😐 It just is truly a slap in the face, that y'all don't even care that much about what was committed for you to stand where you are.

And maybe if people acknowledged that privilege more I'd be less mad, but no. They claim to not even know 😭 like all right then

[voidofsunlight]

Title: Bad Day

Word Count: 708

Summary: You had a day—Choose your boy!

A/N: Hello! 💚 Trying out a new format—hope you like it! I won’t lie, I’m not super proud of this one, it’s my first attempt, but hopefully, you still enjoy the chaos. Sorry for not posting more tonight, it’s been a rough week. Enjoy!✨😊

Bad Day

It had been one of those days—the kind where nothing went right from the moment you woke up.

Your alarm hadn’t gone off, meaning you barely made it to breakfast before the food vanished. You spilled ink all over your notes in Transfiguration. Snape was in an even fouler mood than usual and took points from you for simply existing. And to top it off, you tripped while walking.

By the time class ended, you were drained, frustrated, and in desperate need of comfort.

Mattheo Riddle

You found Mattheo lounging in the courtyard, arms stretched behind his head as he stared up at the sky. Without a word, you dropped down beside him, resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear—a grounding rhythm against the chaos of the day.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle. "Rough one?"

"The roughest," you mumbled, tracing idle patterns on his shirt.

He hummed. "Was it Peeves again? Because I can totally set a trap for him later. I have a plan. It involves a bucket, some enchanted slime, and an alarming amount of fireworks."

One of his hands remained behind his head, but the other absently settled in your hair, twirling a strand around his fingers. "Well, lucky for you, I have no pressing responsibilities today. Feel free to use me as a human pillow."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re impossible, Matty."

He smiled, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. "You love me."

Tom Riddle

You marched straight into Tom’s dorm, arms crossed. "I require cuddles."

He blinked at you, unamused. "You require what?"

"Cuddles. Hugs. Physical comfort. Take your pick."

Tom exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Four seconds."

"What? Four minutes? Okay, I can work with that—" You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

"No, I said—"

"Four hours? Is this my lucky day?" you grinned against his chest.

He groaned but didn’t argue, just grabbed your wrist and tugged you onto the couch beside him. His arms settled around you, stiff but warm.

"Stop talking before I change my mind."

"You secretly love it," you teased.

"I tolerate it," he corrected.

"Thank you, Tommy," you murmured. He squeezed you a little tighter, humming in response.

Theodore Nott

Theodore was curled up on the common room couch when you all but collapsed beside him, burying your face into his shoulder.

"I give up. Today wins," you groaned.

He hummed in response, wrapping an arm around you. "That bad?"

"Disastrous."

"Hmm. Well, the good news is, you’ve reached the safe zone. No stress allowed here." He kisses your head gently.

You exhaled, shifting to get comfortable in his arms. "Thank you, Theo."

Lorenzo Berkshire

You didn’t even ask. You just walked up to Lorenzo, dramatically threw yourself across his lap, and sighed heavily.

He blinked down at you. "Uh. Hello?"

"I’m sad," you informed him. "Fix it."

Lorenzo laughed softly, shaking his head, but he didn’t push you off. Instead, he settled a hand on your back, fingers drumming idly.

"You are so needy," he muttered, though there was no bite to it. "Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood today."

Blaise Zabini

You found Blaise outside, sitting under a tree, staring off into the distance. He glanced up as you approached but didn’t say anything when you sat beside him.

After a moment, he asked, "Want me to hex someone for you?"

You smiled a little. "Tempting, but no."

He nodded and, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. "Alright. Just let me know."

It was simple, but it helped.

"Thank you, Blaise," you replied softly.

Draco Malfoy

Draco was in the middle of a passionate rant about something completely unrelated when you flopped onto the couch beside him and sighed. Loudly.

His monologue came to an abrupt halt. "Okay, what was that?"

You groaned in response, throwing an arm over your eyes.

Draco frowned. "Who do I need to fight?"

You peeked at him. "You’d fight for me?"

"I mean—I’d supervise while Mattheo fights for you," he corrected, "but yes, obviously."

You huffed a laugh, and he rolled his eyes before pulling you into a hug.

"Thank you, Draco."

PLEASE DO NOT COPY / TRANSLATE OR REPOST AS YOUR OWN!

[th3mrskory]

Lessons in Desire- Part 2

Pairing: fem!Reader x Professor!Logan

Warning: 18+ MDNI, SMUT, explicit language.

Part 1

Summary: In the classroom, their power dynamics shift, drawing them closer to the edge of what’s acceptable. Caught between desire and the threat of scandal, they push past boundaries, each unable to deny the magnetic pull between them. But with stakes this high, the real question is: how much will they sacrifice for a forbidden passion they can’t control?

Word count: 7.8 k

A/N: Alright, folks, I hear you. Loud and clear. Consider this my formal apology for the emotional torment, the tension, and, yes, the blatant blue-balling of Part 1. I know some of you were ready to throw hands. But fear not—redemption is here. Enjoy.

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The morning air was crisp, but the moment Y/N stepped into the lecture hall, a slow, suffocating heat curled around her skin.

She knew why.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she moved toward her usual seat, keeping her movements smooth, unbothered. If she hesitated, even for a second, she knew he’d notice. And she refused to give him that satisfaction.

He was already there, of course he was, leaning against his desk, arms crossed in that effortlessly relaxed way of his, watching students filter in like he wasn’t waiting for someone specific.

Like he wasn’t waiting for her.

Y/N did not look at him.

Instead, she pulled out her laptop, her fingers poised over the keys, eyes on the screen as if she were already deep in thought. A buffer. A shield. A blatant avoidance.

She felt him smirk. Didn’t have to look to know it was there.

God, he was insufferable.

The noise in the room settled, conversations dying down as Logan finally straightened, stepping forward with the kind of slow, deliberate ease that had no right being so compelling.

“All right,” he began, voice low and steady, filling the room like it belonged to him. Because it did. “Power and consequence, a delicate balance—one often dictated by impulse rather than reason.”

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose, already bracing herself.

“In every era, power dictates action. It shapes choices, defines relationships.” Logan’s hands slid into his pockets, his stance casual, his expression unreadable. But his voice—his voice was a loaded gun. “History is littered with stories of rulers and revolutionaries, leaders and subordinates. And in many cases—” his head tilted slightly, “—power is at its most dangerous when both sides refuse to admit what they want.”

A muscle in Y/N’s jaw ticked.

She didn’t shift in her seat. Didn’t move.

She knew what he was doing.

It was the same thing he’d done in their last encounter—teasing, testing, pushing.

He was talking about his syllabus. But he was also talking about them.

“Take Rome, for example.” Logan continued, walking along the front of the classroom, hands still in his pockets. “Julius Caesar consolidates power, and suddenly, the Senate is restless. They don’t trust him. Why?”

Silence.

Logan’s eyes flicked over the class, lingering—too long—when they landed on her.

Y/N refused to look up.

“Because they knew,” he continued, voice dipping slightly, “that once someone has a taste of power, they don’t let it go so easily.”

His words settled heavy in the air.

“And yet,” he went on, “some of the greatest conflicts in history weren’t about power itself.” His gaze swept the room. “They were about control.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into her palm, nails pressing into skin.

A few seats away, a student finally spoke up. “Didn’t power and control kind of go hand in hand?”

Logan’s lips twitched.

“Not always,” he said smoothly. “Power can be taken. Control has to be given.”

A shiver coiled down Y/N’s spine, heat pooling low in her stomach.

And Logan knew it.

His voice had dipped just enough to slip under her skin, just enough to force her to sit with the words—his words. And yet, he didn’t look at her. Not directly.

Instead, his eyes flickered across the room, casual, detached, as if he hadn’t just set fire to her nerve endings and left her to smother the flames on her own.

Another student, oblivious to the tension lacing the air, chimed in. “But doesn’t control imply restraint?”

Logan hummed, tapping his fingers idly against the desk.

“In some cases,” he admitted. “But true control—” he let the words hang for a moment, deliberate, sharp “—is knowing exactly how far you can go before you cross the line.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around her pen.

 Because that? That wasn’t about Rome.

“Caesar, for example.” Logan pushed off the desk, his movements unhurried, purposeful. “He understood that power was fleeting. He took what he could, pushed where he had to, but in the end?” He paused, tilting his head. “Even he wasn’t immune to the consequences.”

A few students chuckled under their breath.

Y/N didn’t.

Because she knew Logan. Knew how he played these games.

This wasn’t just a history lesson.

It was a reminder.

A reminder of that night, of the way she had let herself slip—just for a moment. The way she had let him touch her, pull her under, take something she had never intended to give.

And now?

Now, she was here, pretending to be unaffected while he stood at the front of the room, speaking in riddles that only she could decipher.

Logan finally glanced her way, just for a second.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

But long enough for her to see the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Long enough for her to realize that he was enjoying this.

Motherfucker

The discussion shifted, students bouncing theories back and forth about leadership, strategy, the fine line between control and collapse.

Y/N forced herself to focus, to stare at the screen of her laptop as though the glowing words of her notes were actually sinking in.

They weren’t.

Not when she could still feel Logan’s gaze grazing her skin like the edge of a blade, deliberate in its absence, cutting in the way he looked everywhere but at her.

A girl two seats down—Emily, maybe?—leaned forward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “So, Professor, would you say Caesar’s downfall was inevitable?”

Logan leaned against the desk, arms crossed, head tilting as if considering.

“Depends,” he mused. “Was it the betrayal that killed him?” A beat. “Or was it his arrogance?”

His words settled over the room, thoughtful. Almost careless.

But Y/N felt the weight of them like a hand at her throat.

Because that night had been arrogant.

She had known better. She had drawn her lines, kept her distance, resisted every damn pull he had on her. And yet, one moment—one misstep—had changed everything.

And now?

Now she was the one paying for it.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she tapped at her keyboard, forcing herself to take notes. She could feel her pulse in her throat, steady and insistent, but she pushed it down, locked it away.

She just had to make it through the next twenty minutes.

Then—mercifully—Logan moved on. The lesson drifted towards logistics, strategy, the mechanics of an empire’s rise and fall.

Y/N let herself breathe.

Until—

“Before we wrap up—” Logan straightened, flipping through a stack of papers before holding them up between two fingers. “Your midterms.”

A few groans rippled through the class. Some students slumped lower in their seats. Others sat up straighter, eyes flickering with expectation.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t graded those.

Her stomach turned slightly.

She had spent the past few days avoiding him—on purpose. Dodging his glances, his emails, taking the long way around campus just to make sure she didn’t have to face him. She had expected him to push back, to try and catch her alone.

But this?

This was unexpected.

She frowned, shifting in her seat as Logan started handing them back, his expression unreadable.

She had aced that exam. She knew she had.

And yet, when Logan finally reached her desk, sliding the paper toward her with an infuriating ease, she felt something cold slither down her spine.

Red ink slashed across the top corner.

C

Her head snapped up.

Logan didn’t stop.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her at all as he moved past, handing the next paper to the student behind her.

Her fingers curled around the edges of her midterm, heart hammering against her ribs.

This wasn’t a mistake.

It was a message.

She scoffed, quiet but sharp, barely more than an exhale.

Very well.

This was not going to end here.

She could feel the heat creeping up her spine, pooling low in her stomach—not just from anger, but from something darker, something thrilling.

He wanted to play?

Fine.

She would play.

For the rest of class, Y/N barely moved, barely breathed, fingers gripping the edge of her desk, her jaw locked so tight it ached.

Logan, of course, was unbothered. Completely composed. He carried on as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t just tossed a match into an open field and walked away.

She didn’t react. Not then.

But when class ended, when the other students stood, stretching and gathering their things, when she heard Logan dismiss them with a low, even, “See you all next week,”—

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even pretend to pack up.

Instead, she sat perfectly still, one hand smoothing over the graded paper, staring down at the lie written in red ink.

She waited.

Listened.

And when the last of her classmates filtered out, when the door finally clicked shut behind them—

Only then did she rise.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Logan was still at his desk, flipping through papers, pretending to be unaware of her presence.

She took a breath. Stepped forward.

And when she spoke, her voice was sweet. Too sweet.

“You’re awfully generous, Professor.”

Logan didn’t look up.

“Am I?”

She hummed, holding the exam between two fingers, twirling it slightly.

“I mean, a C?” A pause, tilting her head. “You could’ve at least failed me. That would’ve been more convincing.”

That got him.

The edge of Logan’s mouth twitched—just barely, just enough for her to see.

But he still didn’t look up.

“Maybe I went easy on you,” he mused, voice low, dragging as he flipped to another page in his papers. “Maybe I thought you deserved a little mercy.”

Y/N let out a soft, breathy laugh, stepping closer, just enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the desk.

“Mercy?” she echoed. “Is that what you call it?”

Then, because she couldn’t help herself—because he had started this—

She leaned in.

Not enough to touch.

But enough for her next words to slide between them like a blade.

“Seems a little desperate, Professor.”

That got his attention.

Logan’s head finally lifted, darkened eyes locking onto hers, sharp and unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The air between them crackled.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, flipping the page in front of him. “I have a meeting.”

Y/N blinked.

For a second, just a second, her breath caught in her throat.

Then, slowly, she smiled. Sharp. Cold.

“Of course you do.”

Y/N lifted her paper slightly, the red mark on it almost taunting.

Then, with a slow smirk, she pressed it against his chest.

“Enjoy your meeting,” she murmured.

And then—before he could say a thing—

She turned and walked out.

******

The restaurant hummed with warmth, a mix of clinking glasses, low conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter rising above the noise. The scent of charred steak, garlic butter, and freshly baked bread filled the air, making the already cozy space feel even richer.

At their table, tucked near the window, the girls were deep into their second—or was it third?—bottle of wine. Plates sat half-empty, dessert forks clinking as they passed around bites of Leah’s birthday cake.

“To another year of surviving this godforsaken institution,” Leah declared, lifting her glass high, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“And looking hot while doing it,” someone added.

“To Leah,” Y/N smirked, clinking her glass against hers.

“To all of us,” Leah corrected. “Because, honestly, we deserve it.”

Laughter rippled through the group. The drinks kept flowing, the conversation weaving between weekend plans, internship gossip, and the ever-evolving drama of their university’s social scene. It was easy, normal.

Y/N leaned into it, letting herself get lost in the rhythm of her friends’ voices, letting herself forget about—

“Oh, speaking of school,” one of the girls piped up, tipping her glass in Y/N’s direction. “How’s the TA life treating you?”

Y/N blinked, the shift in topic jolting her for half a second.

Leah turned to her, lips twitching. “Yeah, how is our dear Professor Howlett?”

Y/N kept her expression even, swirling her wine. “Fine.”

One of the other girls snorted, raising a brow. “That’s it?”

Y/N arched a brow back. “Would you like a full dissertation?”

“No, but I’d like a little more detail,” Leah cut in, leaning forward. “Because, from what I heard—” she paused, grinning like she had something good, “—you’ve fallen from grace.”

Y/N frowned, feigning nonchalance as she took a sip of her drink. “What are you talking about?”

“You tell me.” Leah smirked. “A month ago, you were his golden child. He actually smiled at you. Now?” She let out an exaggerated sigh. “He looks at you like you personally set his car on fire.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she could feel the way they were watching her.

“Oh my God, you totally pissed him off,” another girl cackled.

“I did not,” Y/N said smoothly.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, seriously, what did you do?” Leah pressed.

Y/N tapped her fingers against her wine glass, tilting her head. “Maybe he just finally realized he’s an asshole.”

A few of the girls laughed, but Leah just squinted at her, too perceptive for her own good.

Y/N held her gaze, unfazed.

“Whatever you did,” Leah drawled, sitting back, “he’s been pissed. He even started handing out graded exams himself.”

Y/N stilled, barely a flicker of reaction, but Leah caught it.

Bingo.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about.”

“Leah,” Y/N warned.

“No, no, no. Wait.” Leah grinned like she was piecing together the most delicious gossip of the year. “You’ve been helping him grade for months. And now, all of a sudden, you’re out of a job?” She let out a slow, dramatic gasp. “You did piss him off.”

Y/N rolled her eyes again, sitting back in her chair.

“Oh, babe,” Leah continued, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “Do you need a new professor to suck up to?”

Y/N smirked, unbothered. “No, but you might, considering your last paper was absolute shit.”

Leah gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “I am the victim here.”

“Oh, sure,” Y/N deadpanned.

The conversation carried on, laughter spilling over the table as Leah launched into a dramatic retelling of her latest attempt at flirting with her philosophy TA. Something about eye contact, Nietzsche, and an existential crisis mid-hookup.

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink, letting herself relax into the warmth of the evening. The wine hummed pleasantly in her veins, the weight of everything momentarily pushed to the edges of her mind.

Until Leah, still mid-rant, suddenly froze.

Her eyes flicked past Y/N’s shoulder, widening slightly before she smirked, slow and sharp.

“Well, well,” she murmured, swirling her drink. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, the coolness of it grounding her, anchoring her in place. Logan.

Logan, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, one arm draped over the back of the booth, fingers absently rolling his whiskey glass. His body language was relaxed, easy. But his eyes?

His eyes were locked onto hers.

And he wasn’t alone.

The woman across from him was gorgeous, her red-painted lips curved into something lazy, knowing. She leaned in just enough to make a point, her hand brushing against Logan’s forearm as she whispered something in his ear.

Y/N didn’t hear Logan’s response.

She didn’t need to.

She saw the smirk that followed. The tilt of his head. The way his lips parted slightly, like he was amused.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn,” Maya murmured, her brows lifting as she took a sip of her drink. “Guess Mr. Howlett’s got a life outside of terrorizing students after all.”

Leah snorted. “And it looks like he’s got good taste.”

Y/N hummed, her expression unreadable, her blood thrumming with something sharp and tight and unbearable.

He was doing it on purpose.

Because, of course, he was.

Y/N refused to look away first.

If he wanted to play this game, fine.

She lifted her glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. Then, just as Logan lifted his own glass in some silent, taunting toast—

She turned away.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Leah exhaled, shaking her head. “Must be nice,” she muttered, tipping her glass toward Logan’s date. “Imagine being wined and dined by that.”

Y/N just smiled, feigning boredom, indifference.

But she could still feel his eyes on her.

Still feel the weight of his gaze, burning against the side of her face.

It was subtle—calculated. The way his deep, rough laugh suddenly cut through the restaurant’s hum, just loud enough for her to hear. The way his fingers traced absent circles against the table’s edge, slow, deliberate. The way he leaned in just a fraction closer to the woman across from him, speaking low, lips almost brushing her ear—

Almost.

She let her friends’ conversation wash over her, grounding herself in their presence, their laughter, their easy, carefree energy. She refused to let Logan pull her into whatever game he was playing.

It was almost amusing.

Almost.

Maya gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks, grinning. “Alright, I say we hit a club after this.”

Leah groaned. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

“And?”

“And I’m not trying to fail.”

“God, you’re so responsible,” Maya sighed, rolling her eyes before turning back to Y/N. “What about you? You coming?”

Y/N took another sip of her drink, letting the question linger before answering, “Why not?”

Logan stiffened.

It was brief, nearly imperceptible. But she caught it.

And so did he.

Y/N turned, meeting his gaze head-on.

His jaw tightened.

Her lips twitched.

And then, as if he was nothing more than a fleeting thought, she rose from her seat, gathering her things.

“Alright,” she said to Maya, tossing a few bills onto the table for the check. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

Because as she walked away, she felt it—the weight of his stare, the frustration rolling off him in waves, thick and heavy and burning with something he hadn’t quite tamed yet.

Good.

Let him simmer.

******

Logan was late.

A rare thing. An unacceptable thing.

And it was because of his damn car, which decided this morning—of all mornings—that it wasn’t going to start. He’d wasted fifteen minutes trying to fix it himself, another five debating if he should just put his fist through the hood, and another ten waiting for a uber to show up.

Annoyance curled hot in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a vice.

Fine.

It wasn’t the first time the universe threw obstacles in his way.

At least he had someone reliable to handle things.

So as he sat in the back of the uber, Logan pulled out his phone and sent a quick, no-nonsense text.

Tell them I’ll be late. Start the lecture.

Short. Clear. He didn’t need to say more. Y/N would handle it.

Except—

She didn’t.

The second he stepped into the lecture hall, his mood went from bad to worse.

The room was chaos. Conversations rang out unchecked, students still standing, still filing in, notebooks tossed onto desks with all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning.

Logan’s gaze flicked toward her usual seat.

Empty.

His jaw tightened.

He let the pause stretch, let his frustration settle in his bones, before he strode down the steps to the front of the class.

When he spoke, his voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“Sit.”

The command landed with immediate effect. Conversations died. Chairs scraped against the floor.

A few students exchanged wary glances, picking up on the fact that their professor was in no mood for patience.

Logan set his bag down on the desk a little harder than necessary. The silence stretched, thick and expectant, but he didn’t give them anything—not yet.

Instead, he rolled up his sleeves with slow, deliberate movements, exhaling through his nose before finally speaking.

"Last class, we talked about power. About control.”

He turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker, and dragged the words across the surface in sharp, precise strokes.

“Today,” he continued, voice smooth, “we’re shifting to influence.”

Another slow line drawn beneath the word.

“How it’s used. How it’s abused. And—” his voice dipped lower, his gaze cutting through the room— “how those who think they have it often don’t.”

A beat of silence.

Logan let it linger, let the weight of his words settle over the students before he turned back to face them.

“Influence,” he went on, stepping forward, “isn’t about brute strength. It’s not about who yells the loudest or who has the biggest army.”

His hands slipped into his pockets as he paced.

“Real influence is quieter. Subtler. It’s knowing exactly what someone wants—” he tilted his head slightly, “—and deciding whether or not you’re going to give it to them.”

He caught a few students exchanging glances, intrigued.

They had no idea.

Because Logan wasn’t talking about history. Not really.

He was talking about something else entirely.

Something sharp. Something frustrating. Something that had the nerve to not show up today.

Y/N.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

She had never missed a class before. Not once. Not even when she had every reason to.

And yet—here he was, staring at an empty seat.

His grip on the marker tightened as he forced himself to keep going.

"History is full of people who thought they had influence,” he said, dragging his attention back to the class. “People who assumed their power was absolute. That they had control over those beneath them.”

A slow, measured breath.

“But control is a fickle thing.”

He turned back to the whiteboard, scrawling another word beneath Influence.

“Perception.”

“The truth is,” he continued, “most of history’s so-called ‘great leaders’ weren’t actually in control. They were at the mercy of perception. The illusion of power. And illusions—” he capped the marker with an audible click, “—can be shattered.”

A few students scribbled in their notebooks, nodding along. Others sat back, watching him with quiet focus.

But Logan wasn’t watching them.

He was watching the damn clock.

Waiting.

Expecting.

The door never opened.

She never walked in.

His jaw ticked.

Fine.

If she wanted to play games, she’d have to try harder than this.

Logan finished the lecture with practiced ease, but his patience had thinned to a knife’s edge. By the time class ended, he was done pretending.

As students packed up their things, Logan leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp as it swept over the room.

Then his eyes landed on her friend.

She was taking her time, slow in the way only someone deliberately avoiding something could be. Flipping through her notebook, adjusting the strap of her bag—stalling.

Logan wasn’t in the mood for patience.

“Where’s Y/N?”

It wasn’t a casual question, no matter how level his tone was.

The friend stilled for half a second before flicking her eyes up to him. A knowing look. Curious. Wary.

“She didn’t say much last night,” she said eventually, shutting her notebook. “We left the club, and then… she was gone.”

Logan’s jaw ticked.

Gone.

He didn’t like the sound of that.

Didn’t like that they hadn’t seen her after.

Didn’t like the way the friend was looking at him now, sharp and assessing, as if putting pieces together.

“I let her know I’d be late this morning.” His voice was calm, but the words had an edge. A reminder. A fact.

The friend tilted her head, considering him. Then, with something just shy of a smirk, she said, “Guess she had more important things to do.”

A slow exhale through his nose.

Logan held her gaze for a beat longer before pushing off the desk, his movements controlled, precise.

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

If she was trying to make a point—

Message fucking received.

******

Logan didn’t leave the classroom right away.

He lingered.

The students had cleared out, their chatter fading down the hall, but he stood by the desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the empty chair where she should have been.

She hadn’t shown up.

Not for class. Not for him.

His jaw ticked.

The room was still, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. He exhaled sharply, reaching for his coffee. The cup was empty.

Great.

With a muttered curse, he grabbed his things and strode toward the door. The sound of his own footsteps echoed in the now-empty hallway, steady, controlled.

Controlled.

Power can be taken. Control has to be given.

The words from his own damn lecture slithered back to him, unwanted. He scowled, pushing through the building’s heavy front doors and stepping outside. The air had cooled, the lingering heat of the day fading into a crisp breeze.

He barely noticed.

His mind kept circling back to her absence, to the night before. To the moment she had downed her drink, barely even looking at him as she walked away.

She knew he saw her. She knew he was watching.

And yet she hadn’t given him the satisfaction of even a reaction.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag as he made his way across campus, past clusters of students, past the coffee cart where she sometimes stopped between classes.

The cup he usually found sitting on his desk—her order, slid across with an offhand comment about him needing it more than her—hadn’t been there today.

It was nothing.

So why the fuck did it feel like something?

By the time he reached his office, his patience was worn thin. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, and he dropped his things onto the desk, rolling his shoulders back.

A heavy exhale.

He should be grading. Preparing for the next lecture.

Instead, he reached for his phone.

No messages.

Nothing.

His jaw clenched.

Fine.

He leaned back, rubbing a hand along his jaw before pulling out a test paper—the one she should’ve been helping him grade. The one he had deliberately marked lower than it deserved, just to watch her reaction.

Except there hadn’t been one.

He scoffed under his breath, tossing the paper aside.

This is ridiculous.

His gaze flickered to his laptop, fingers already moving before he fully decided.

If she wouldn’t come to him—

Maybe it was time he sent for her.

Logan wasn’t the type to chase.

Not students. Not women. Not anyone.

And yet—

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the email cursor blinking like it was mocking him.

Subject: Need Your Assistance

Y/N,

I need help reviewing the material for next week’s class. See me in my office in an hour.

He stared at it, jaw tight, his other hand gripping the armrest of his chair.

It was a weak excuse. He knew it. She would know it.

But it was better than nothing.

With a quiet exhale, he hit send—and sat back, arms crossed, waiting.

One hour.

Two.

Nothing.

He scowled, checking his inbox again like the email would magically appear.

His hand moved to his phone before he could think better of it.

She had never ignored him before. Not really. Not like this.

He tapped her contact. Called.

No answer.

Logan exhaled through his nose, setting the phone down with more force than necessary.

Fuck this.

She wanted to play games?

He pushed back from his desk, grabbed his keys, and left without another thought.

Why did this bother him so much?

Was it the fact that she had ignored his email? His call?

Or was it the way she had walked out of that restaurant without a second glance—without giving him the satisfaction of a reaction?

His fingers curled around the steering wheel.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he was done waiting.

******

The hallway was quiet, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. Logan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as he knocked. Once. Twice.

A pause. Then, soft footsteps on the other side of the door.

When it finally opened—

He didn’t know what he was expecting.

But it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Y/N stood there looking… put together.

Not sick. Not disheveled from a long night. Not the wreck he had pictured, curled up in bed nursing a hangover.

No.

She looked like she had just come from a class—not his, obviously, but somewhere.

Somewhere else.

His fingers curled slightly against his palm.

Her brows furrowed just a little, eyes flickering over his face. Like she wasn’t expecting him.

“…Professor?”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. “You didn’t show up.”

Y/N blinked, adjusting her bag strap. “I know.”

His jaw tightened. She wasn’t even offering an excuse. No flimsy I wasn’t feeling well, no Sorry, I lost track of time.

Just—I know.

He stared at her for a beat before tilting his head. “You’re my TA.”

She nodded. “I’m aware.”

Logan let a slow exhale drag through his teeth. “Then you should also be aware that skipping your job isn’t an option.”

Y/N’s expression remained infuriatingly unreadable. “I’ll make up the hours.”

He huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Not how it works, sweetheart.”

Something flickered in her eyes at that—something sharp—but she didn’t take the bait.

Instead, she lifted a brow, crossing her arms. “Would you like me to submit an official apology?”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

She was playing with him.

“I’d like you to do your damn job,” he said evenly.

Silence.

She held his gaze, unwavering.

Then, slowly, she leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head. “You’re upset.”

His fingers twitched. “I’m annoyed.”

“Because I missed class?”

His jaw clenched.

Yes. No. Maybe.

Logan inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “Because you didn’t even have the decency to let me know.”

Y/N’s expression remained infuriatingly calm. “I didn’t realize I had to report my every move to you.”

Logan stared at her, eyes dark.

That tone. That dismissive little tone.

Like he was just another professor. Like he was someone who could be ignored without consequence.

Like she hadn’t walked away from him last night without a second glance.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

“Fine,” he said, voice low, smooth. “I’ll just make sure the department knows you’re too busy for this position.”

It was an empty threat. They both knew it.

Still—her brows lifted slightly, like she was finally paying attention.

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head. “I’ll be there next class.”

Logan held her gaze for a second longer.

“Make sure you are.”

They just stood there, neither moving, neither speaking.

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the doorframe, but her expression remained unreadable. Logan’s jaw was tight, his eyes dark, unmoving.

She should’ve closed the door. Should’ve ended this.

But she didn’t.

And neither did he.

The hallway was too quiet, the seconds stretching thin between them. Something unspoken hung in the air, thick and heavy, like a breath held just before a storm.

Then, slowly, Y/N exhaled, tilting her head.

“…Is there something else you wanna say?”

Logan didn’t blink.

Did he?

Maybe.

Maybe he wanted to ask if she had gone to that damn club just to make a point.

Maybe he wanted to say that she should never ignore his calls again.

Maybe he wanted to take a step forward, close the space between them, just to see if she would move.

But he did none of those things.

Instead, Y/N let out a quiet hum, eyes flickering over his face. “Or can we renegotiate my grade?”

Logan’s fingers twitched.

That smart mouth. That fucking attitude.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Watch it.”

Y/N only lifted a brow.

And for a second, just a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped—to her mouth, to the curve of it, the way her lips almost parted like she had caught the motion and dared him to look again.

But Logan forced his eyes back up, breathing slow through his nose.

“I’ll see you next class,” she said smoothly.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t move.Neither of them moved.

Y/N stood there, her chin tipped just slightly, the sharp glint in her eyes something between defiance and amusement. She knew exactly what she was doing. Exactly what kind of fire she was playing with.

And Logan—Logan was this close to forgetting every goddamn rule.

His fingers flexed at his sides, jaw tight, breath slow and measured. The logical part of his mind, the one that still had a grip on reality, told him to leave. Turn around, walk back down that hallway, pretend this conversation had never happened.

But the other part—the part that had spent the last week stewing in frustration, in her absence, in the way she had looked right through him at the restaurant and walked away like he was nothing—wasn’t listening.

His eyes dragged over her, slow, deliberate.

She looked perfect. Effortless. Put together. Like she hadn’t ignored his calls, his emails. Like she hadn’t left him waiting.

That got under his skin more than it should have.

“I’ll see you next class,” she repeated, voice smooth, tilting her head like she was dismissing him.

Logan didn’t fucking move.

Something in the air shifted.

Tension thickened, curling, twisting, stretching taut like a wire about to snap.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t shut the door.

And Logan—Logan didn’t walk away.

Instead, he took a slow step forward.

Just one.

Her breath hitched. Not much. Just a fraction of a second. But he caught it.

His head tilted, studying her.

Waiting.

Daring.

Logan exhaled, slow and steady.

He should go. He should.

His lips parted, but whatever he meant to say—whatever line he still thought he could hold—

It disappeared.

Because Y/N took a step too.

Closer.

Not much, but enough.

Enough that he could smell her perfume, light but intoxicating. Enough that the heat of her skin seemed to seep into him. Enough that her lips—soft, parted, waiting—were just there.

And Logan—Logan wasn’t a man of patience.

Not when it came to her.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Fingers curling around her wrist, tugging—just slightly, just enough.

And Y/N—Y/N didn’t pull away.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t do a goddamn thing except look at him, pulse fluttering under his grip, her lips parting as her breath caught—

And that was it.

That was all it took.

His mouth was on hers in a second, rough, desperate, furious, like he had been holding himself back for too long and finally let the dam break.

And fuck, she kissed him back.

She met him, matched him, fingers threading into his hair as she tugged, mouth opening under his like she had been waiting for this just as much as he had.

The heat of her burned.

Logan pressed her back against the doorframe, fingers digging into her waist, tasting the sharp bite of her earlier smirk on his tongue.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

It was frustration and tension and a week’s worth of unspoken words spilling between them in gasps and teeth and heat.

And fuck, she wanted.

He could feel it in the way her hands clenched in his shirt, the way her hips tilted toward him without thinking, the way she let out the smallest, breathiest sound against his lips—

A sound that almost made him lose it.

Logan’s mouth crashed against hers like he was done holding back, done pretending this didn’t matter. His hands were already on her, fingers gripping her waist, sliding beneath her sweater to touch bare skin, hot and possessive.

Y/N gasped against his lips, but she didn’t stop him—wouldn’t stop him. Not when she had wanted this just as much.

Not when she had spent nights replaying every look, every touch, every moment he had gotten too close and then pulled away.

Not this time.

Her fingers tangled in his shirt, fisting the fabric as she yanked him closer, drinking in the low, needy sound he made in the back of his throat. His body pressed into hers, hard and unyielding, like he wanted to cage her in completely, like he wanted to remind her exactly who had been in control this whole time.

But she wasn’t about to make this easy for him.

She tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, just enough to make him groan, just enough to push him further, and fuck, she felt the way his fingers dug into her hips in response.

She had never seen him like this.

Never seen him lose control.

And it was intoxicating.

"Shit," Logan growled against her mouth before his lips left hers, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. His teeth grazed the delicate skin there, and Y/N sucked in a sharp breath, nails raking over his shoulders.

“You just gonna stand there, professor?” she murmured, breathless, teasing. “Or are you actually gonna—”

Logan lifted her.

Just—effortless, like she weighed nothing, like he was done listening to her mouth. Her back hit the door, her legs wrapping around his waist as his hands slid beneath her thighs, fingers flexing against bare skin.

“I warned you to watch it,” he muttered, voice rough, barely restrained.

Y/N smirked, dragging her fingers up into his hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench. “Or what?”

Logan growled.

And then he tore her sweater off.

Just—over her head, tossed somewhere behind them, forgotten the second his hands were back on her, mouth covering every inch of exposed skin.

And Y/N—

Fuck.

She was gone.

She barely had the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind them before Logan was moving, walking them deeper into the room without ever letting her go.

It was desperate. Messy. Clothes lost between touches, gasps swallowed between kisses that grew rougher, hungrier.

By the time they hit the bed, she was already his.

And neither of them had any intention of stopping.

Logan wasn’t gentle.

Didn’t ease into it.

Didn’t give her time to think, to second-guess, to do anything but feel.

Because fuck, he had held back for too long.

His mouth was on her again before she could catch her breath, rough hands roaming, sliding over bare skin like he was starving—like he wanted to commit every inch of her to memory.

Y/N arched beneath him, body humming with something raw and electric as his lips dragged down, down, teeth scraping, tongue soothing—leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

“Logan,” she breathed, fingers fisting in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

He groaned, deep and rough, his grip tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress.

She felt him everywhere.

Overpowering. Unyielding. A fucking force of nature.

Her breath hitched when he slid lower, lips teasing, testing, eyes flicking up to meet hers—dark, hungry, wild.

Then he smirked.

And ruined her.

Logan was all rough edges and raw hunger.

No hesitation. No pretense. Just heat.

His mouth was everywhere—dragging down the column of her throat, teeth grazing, lips soothing, hands gripping like he owned her. Like he’d finally snapped that last thread of restraint and was making up for lost time.

Y/N gasped as he pushed her back against the mattress, his weight pressing into her, solid and hot and relentless.

Her shirt was gone before she could blink.

So were his.

He wasn’t gentle when he kissed her—didn’t take his time, didn’t tease. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, like he wanted to taste every breath she took.

His hands were rough, calloused, dragging over soft skin, fingers tracing, kneading, gripping as he slid lower.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her skin, voice gravelly, thick with something dark and needy.

Y/N barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on her again, trailing down, teeth scraping, tongue flicking—until she was whimpering, fingers tugging at his hair, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

Then he groaned, deep and guttural, hands tightening on her hips as he dragged her closer, mouth hot and wet and sinful against her skin.

“Logan—” Her voice broke, back arching, pleasure coiling tight in her stomach, dizzying and overwhelming.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t let up.

Didn’t stop until she was shattering, nails digging into his shoulders, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

And when she finally collapsed against the sheets, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths—

He smirked.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

Y/N blinked up at him, dazed, lips swollen, body still buzzing.

Then—slowly—she smirked back.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

Logan’s eyes darkened.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

And then he was kissing her again—hungry, desperate—like he wasn’t done with her yet.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

Logan didn’t take his time.

Didn’t waste a second.

The moment Y/N smirked up at him, all challenge and temptation, he was on her again—his mouth claiming hers, his hands gripping, sliding, possessive.

She gasped when he flipped them, her thighs straddling his hips, hands braced against his chest. His skin was hot under her fingertips, muscles shifting, tensing—barely restrained strength, coiled and waiting to snap.

She felt the hard press of him against her, thick and heavy through his jeans, and fuck—the way he was looking at her, all dark eyes and barely controlled hunger, like he was going to ruin her—

Her breath hitched.

“You gonna sit there all night?” Logan drawled, voice low, rough. His hands settled on her hips, fingers digging in just enough to make her feel it. “Or are you finally done playin’ games?”

Y/N tilted her head, nails dragging down his chest, slow and teasing.

“You’re the one who showed up at my door, Professor.”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, something dangerous flashing in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered, flipping them again until she was under him, caged in, no escape. “And look where that got us.”

Then his mouth was on her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, tongue flicking over a peaked nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, nails scraping, and he groaned, pressing his hips into hers, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him.

“Logan—”

Her voice broke, pleasure coiling tight, anticipation thrumming under her skin.

Logan lifted his head, gaze locking onto hers—dark, heavy, unreadable.

“Tell me you want this.” His voice was low, rough, but his grip on her waist gentled, thumbs stroking slow circles against her skin. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Y/N stared up at him, heart hammering.

She should say no.

Should tell him this was a mistake.

That this could never happen.

But then he rolled his hips against hers, slow, deliberate—

And she broke.

“Don’t stop.”

Logan cursed under his breath, something in his expression cracking—then he was moving, shedding the last barriers between them, pressing her into the mattress as he lined himself up, the thick head of him teasing her entrance.

Y/N gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, aching for more.

And Logan—

Logan just grinned, sharp and wicked.

“Hope you know what you’re askin’ for, sweetheart.”

Logan buried himself deep, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as Y/N arched beneath him, fingers clawing at his back. Heat coiled tight, sharp and electric, every nerve in her body lighting up as he set a ruthless pace—one that left no room for hesitation, no space for second thoughts.

She gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, but Logan only groaned in response, dragging his teeth over the curve of her throat, sucking a mark into her skin like he wanted to brand himself into her.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice raw, strained. His hands slid beneath her thighs, hitching them higher around his waist, and the shift had her choking on a moan, her body bowing into him.

The smirk that curled his lips was devastating. “That good, huh?”

Y/N barely had the presence of mind to glare. “Shut up.”

Logan fucked her like he was making up for every moment he’d held back. Like he was claiming something that had always been his, something he’d spent too long pretending he didn’t want.

And Y/N—she let him.

Let him grip her thighs, spread her open, thrust deep until she couldn’t do anything but take it, body writhing under him, breath stolen from her lungs.

“Logan—” His name slipped out like a prayer, like a plea, her fingers fisting in his hair, dragging, desperate.

Logan chuckled—dark, low, smug as hell. But the amusement didn’t last. Not when she clenched around him, not when she rolled her hips just enough to have his breath stuttering against her skin. His grip on her tightened, bruising, grounding.

Then he was moving again, relentless, dragging her right to the edge and keeping her there, teasing, playing, testing just how much she could take before she broke.

Y/N’s head tipped back against the pillows, lips parted, breath shaky. “You’re—” She swallowed hard, a moan slipping out before she could stop it. “You’re such an asshole.”

Logan huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead to hers, breath warm against her lips. “Yeah?” His hips snapped forward, hitting just right, and she gasped, hands fisting in his hair.

The cocky bastard smiled. “Say that again.”

She would’ve. Really. But then his fingers slid between them, pressing against that sweet spot, circling, teasing, relentless—

Y/N shattered.

It tore through her like wildfire, pleasure rolling through her in waves so intense her vision blurred, her body shuddering, nails biting into his back as she clenched around him.

Logan groaned deep in his chest, a curse slipping from his lips as he followed her down, thrusting once, twice—then stilling, his entire body going taut as he came with a sharp, wrecked gasp against her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the only sound in the room their uneven breaths, the heavy pound of their heartbeats still echoing between them.

Then—slowly, carefully—Logan shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him, his arm heavy around her waist, grounding her.

Y/N swallowed, still catching her breath, and when she glanced up, Logan was already watching her—eyes dark, unreadable.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat, didn’t try to fill the silence with something meaningless.

And maybe that was worse.

Because it left room for reality to settle.

For the weight of what they’d done to creep in.

For the dangerous, quiet truth to curl between them, thick as smoke.

Neither of them had any regrets.

And that?

That was fucking dangerous.

© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[yunsound]

Chinese Mythology: The Four Dragon Kings

Does anyone remember Ao Guang? Or the other three Dragon Kings? Or did anyone watch Ne Zha 2025?

You may then know of the Four Dragon Kings of Ancient China (四海龙王). 

Historically all four of them are male- some recent adaptations will show one (or more) of them as female just for fun. China, even in ancient times, did not have four seas around it- the four dragon kings each correspond to a body of water in the cardinal directions. 

Ao Guang

The big guy, Ao Guang, the Dragon King of the East, does have a “sea”: the East China Sea. 

A carving of Ne Zha fighting Ao Guang (we all remember how that went, right?)

We know and love Ao Guang since he’s the one who got Ne Zha killed (after both he and his son got their asses beat) and is also the guy who gave Sun Wukong his mythical weapon, the Ruyi Jingu Staff (maybe will make a post on mythological weapons at some point).

His third son, Ao Bing, is famous for getting his tendons plucked out by Ne Zha.

Subtitles: I'll pull your tendons out, see if you can still hurt anyone after this! (sorry for Ne Zha being kind of naked, he's a kid who was just taking a bath)

Ao Guang is the biggest, most powerful Dragon King.

In the Fengshen Yanyi (Investiture of the Gods post here), he’s a big dickhead who forces people to give him offerings or he’ll bring them drought and disaster. He’s very powerful, and is the leader of the Four Dragon Kings.

He’s also the sexy dragon dilf dad in Ne Zha 2. 

I just cannot get over this character design, oh my goodness.

Ao Run

Ao Run, pronounced Ow Rwen (also sometimes called Ao Ji) is the Dragon King of the West. 

He does not have a “sea”: in fact, he rules over the biggest lake in China, Qinghai Lake. It’s big enough that we consider it a sea, I guess. It used to be considered an actual sea (like, connected out to the open ocean) probably because it’s huge, but it was probably never actually a sea. 

Lake Qinghai has shrunk a lot. You can tell in this picture: right now it’s about the size of Trinidad.

See all that dry land? Used to be lake.

It’s very blue, which is why it’s called Qinghai 青海 (blue sea). Qing generally refers to a bright blue-teal shade. 

Ao Run’s son, Ao Lie, is the dragon that is sentenced to death by the Jade Emperor for setting fire to Ao Run’s palace accidentally and destroying a whole bunch of stuff. In the end, Guanyin Pusa spares Ao Lie’s life and sends him on the Journey to the West with Wukong, Tangsen, Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing. You may recall that Tangsen had a big fancy white horse- that’s Ao Lie!

You may notice in this picture everyone else's names are labeled except for the horse. It's kind of sad- he's a little irrelevant.

A huge downgrade, from being a fancy dragon prince to a horse, but you can’t say he didn’t deserve it. 

He's also featured in Fei Ren Zai (a very funny comic/animation series about mythical figures in modern-day also featuring Ne Zha, Wukong and Erlang Shen).

You may remember Ao Run from Ne Zha 2, 2025 as the sexy dragon lady with the killer sky-splitting manicure. 

Sorry, she did things to me when I first saw her appear in her human form.

Ao Shun

Ao Shun, pronounced Ow Shwen, is the Dragon King of the North.

He also does not have a “sea”, like Ao Run. His patron body of water is what’s now known as Lake Baikal (Wikipedia better not fail me, I actually had no idea where the North China Sea was supposed to be). 

Lake Baikal is the deepest lake in the world, it’s right up there in the south part of Siberia. North enough for you?

Back when the Han dynasty was fighting the Xiongnu (the Huns in Disney’s Mulan, basically), they beat the Xiongnu in a battle here. They saw this huge-ass lake, and decided they’d refer to it as the North China Sea. Lake Baikal is larger than Belgium. A little scary, no?

In Ne Zha 2, he was the freaky purple-green guy with blades all over his body. You may remember him fighting Ao Bing in a very exciting battle sequence. I’m not aware of any myths where he’s of any significance. 

A hard pass. Sorry, second uncle. Your big brother and younger sister are much hotter.

Ao Qin

Ao Qin, pronounced Ow Chin (敖钦) is the Dragon King of the South.

The South China Sea of recent geopolitical tension fame is in fact a sea. Other than Ao Guang, he’s the only one with an actual sea. There’s not much to say about Ao Qin, he’s not that relevant.

If you remember him from Ne Zha 2, he’s the big red one who’s dumb as bricks..

The Four Dragon Kings are really not that important aside from Ao Guang and Ao Run. Ao Guang is a key mythological figure- he appears in many myths, and is a semi-major character in Journey to the West.

Ao Run contributes mainly by giving Tangsen a horse in the form of his son. Poor Ao Lie. 

In the 1979 Ne Zha Conquers the Sea, they are all seen briefly scheming with Ao Guang to go Karen-style and ask for the manager (Jade Emperor).

They're all siblings (since they have the same last name, Ao), with Ao Guang being the oldest brother. The order of ages past that is a little harder to figure out- from what I know, their ages are

Ao Guang

Ao Shun

Ao Qin

Ao Run

I actually don't know where Ao Run is in the ranking, I just know Ao Qin is younger than Ao Shun. As such, Ao Run could be either the youngest, the second youngest or the third youngest.

[scary-grace]

¹¹⁵⁾ “you’re drunk, honey.” for the three word prompts!

Thank you for the prompt! I originally wasn't sure which direction to go with it, but then I had an idea for a follow-up on one of the Valentine's Day prompts, and I kind of ran with it. As usual, if it's not your speed, let me know and I'll come up with a different one! Post-canon, 3k, angst trending fluff. A follow-up to memory garden.

begin again

You never met Shigaraki Tomura, but you bring flowers to his death site every Valentine's Day. This year you bring them on his birthday, too.

“You’re drunk, honey.” The bartender slides your card back across the counter to you, and you look down at it like you’ve never seen it before. Sure, it belongs to you. You remember handing it over and opening a tab – and ordering way too many drinks for your public-servant salary – but it feels like you were watching from the backseat while it happens. A lot of things feel like that lately. “It’s time to head home.”

Your heart sinks. “It’s only nine,” you protest. “I can’t go home.”

“Yes, you can.” The bartender sets down a receipt for you to sign. Her eyes look kind, you think, but she’s not budging. “It’s time for you to go home, because it’s time for me to go home, and the kid who’s coming up next shift isn’t going to cut you off like he’s supposed to.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll tip him and bat your eyes and he’ll do whatever you want,” the bartender says, and sighs. “He’s a real bleeding heart. Can’t resist a pretty girl having a bad night.”

You’re not pretty, and it’s not a bad night. It’s the latest in a month and a half of them, nights where you can’t sleep unless you take sleeping pills and you have nightmares unless you drink. If you’re being rational about it, you can admit that it’s been coming on for a while. But if you’re being honest, you know for a fact that it started on Valentine’s Day this year, when you brought flowers to Shigaraki Tomura’s death site and imagined that you heard his voice.

You don’t know what went wrong with your quirk, but ever since Valentine’s Day and your visit to Japan’s loneliest death site, your ability to cope with the things you see through your quirk has collapsed. Every new death site you walk over triggers more than just a flashback – it cues up every similar vision, a whole flood of last moments that no one was ever meant to see. It’s not just what you see at work. There are death sites all across Japan, and you could wander into one at any moment. Once you do, you can’t avoid seeing it, and once it’s inside your head, it never leaves.

And it all starts and ends with the last few seconds of Shigaraki’s life, something you can never unsee, something you can barely live with when you remember it. Maybe that’s why you’re so fixated on the fool’s hope your mind cooked up the last time you were at the death site. Your wish that it wasn’t too late, your hallucination’s response that it might not be. You’re only so fixated because you’ve convinced yourself that there’s something you can do.

You let the bartender usher you out onto the street, into a cold spring night. “You’ll go home, right?” she says to you. “All the other bartenders on this street are my friends. They’ll tell me if you show up.”

“I’ll go home.” You can’t face dragging yourself into another bar, dealing with another question about why the long face, seeing the wide eyes when you flash your ID and your forensics badge falls out of your wallet, hearing the questions about your job. “You’re right. I’m drunk.”

“That’s the spirit.” The bartender pats you on the shoulder, then flinches. “Honey –”

“What?”

“My quirk –” she starts, but you can stop listening after that. This happens every so often, when you run across somebody with a sensing quirk, and they react to you the way you must react when you step into a death site by accident. “Do you need help?”

“No,” you say. The only thing you can think of that would help is if you didn’t have your quirk anymore, and even though there are legal ways to do it, the government will never sign off. Your quirk makes things easier for them, and that’s what matters. “I just need some sleep.”

Sleep. Right. You’ll go home and try to sleep, and the sleeping pills will kick in just strongly enough to keep you from waking up out of whatever nightmare you have, and then you’ll wake up in the morning and go to work and do it all over again. Why not? You’ve got nothing better to do.

You mess with your phone while you wait for the train, flicking through your messages and apps, looking for something to distract yourself. Something catches in your head every time you swipe through, but it takes you a while to figure out what it is. Today’s date, April 4th. There’s something important about April 4th, isn’t there? It’s an unlucky day for anything, really. An unlucky day for everybody in Japan, you remember everyone saying in the early years, because it’s the day Shigaraki Tomura was born.

It’s his birthday. He was born the same year as you were, so it would be his twenty-ninth. You wonder how many times he ever got a birthday party, or a present, or even somebody to sing him the stupid birthday song. You used to hate people singing the birthday song to you. You’d get all warm and your face would turn red and you’d usually cry. You can’t go to Shigaraki’s death site and sing him the birthday song. But maybe you can do what you did on Valentine’s Day. A few flowers won’t hurt anything.

Finding flowers at 10pm is harder than you thought it would be. Most convenience stores are sold out of what they had, and you’re not bringing him fake flowers. By the time you actually find a bucket of flowers, old and starting to wilt, you’re this close to missing the last train out. You hadn’t thought you were all that drunk, but the more time you spend stumbling around, the more you start feeling the alcohol. It’s a good thing you took the bucket the flowers came in, too. After you’ve dropped them on Shigaraki’s death site, you can use it to throw up in.

You know this won’t fix anything. Shigaraki wouldn’t have wanted flowers to begin with, not on Valentine’s Day or on his birthday, and he’s been dead for eight years. This is for you more than it is for him, just something to do so you don’t feel useless, helpless. But you always feel like that. Red Cap isn’t a heroic quirk, in spite of what the police tell you about how much it helps them. It’ll never save anyone. It only activates in the first place when it’s already too late.

You’re used to the battlefield being empty when you visit, but you’re not used to making your way across it in the dark, and you stumble into death site after death site, reeling from flashback after flashback. Just because Shigaraki’s death was the worst one you’ve ever felt, anywhere, doesn’t mean that the other deaths that happened here weren’t terrible all on their own. By the time you reach Shigaraki’s death site, you’re close to tears, frustrated and embarrassed and shivering in the windy spring night. The sooner you drop the flowers, the sooner you can go home.

But once you’re poised at the edge of Shigaraki’s death site, you find yourself in the same spot as last time – sure you should say something, totally lost for words. For lack of anything better to do, you start dropping flowers, hoping you’ll come up with something. “Happy birthday,” you start, as you scatter anemones, hyacinths, daffodils. “I didn’t remember until late and I had to get flowers at the convenience store. That’s why they’re, uh – like that.”

Wilted. Dying. You glance down at the death site, but the flowers have vanished completely. Have they always done that? You scatter more, watching closely this time as they melt away into the earth. “I haven’t been able to sleep since the last time I came here,” you say. You hear the same thing you always hear in your head: So what? He sounds different in your head than he did out loud. “And maybe I only wish I could save you so I could save myself. But saving you wouldn’t take away what I saw. All the things I’ve seen. So maybe it’s too late for both of us.”

You’re down to the last few flowers. You drop them one at a time. Rain lily, lilac, crocus, all of them vanishing the moment they touch the earth. You wonder what will happen if you touch it, if you’ll vanish, too. Right now, when you’re drunk and exhausted and teetering on the edge of tears, it doesn’t feel like it would be the worst thing in the world.

You set the last flower, a white rose, down on the spot where Shigaraki Tomura died, and it vanishes beneath your fingers – and in the same moment, a hand erupts from beneath the ground and seizes your wrist in an iron grip.

You recoil on instinct, and the hand tightens its hold enough to make your bones creak. Its palm is rough, its fingernails ragged, its index and middle fingers completely gone. You know whose hand this is. Anyone who watched the news or opened a newspaper knows whose hand it is. It’s impossible. You came here and lost your mind completely. You must have, because a man who’s been dead for eight years is holding onto your wrist.

You aren’t vanishing the way the flowers did. He’s not trying to pull you under. His hand is shaking from the force of his grip, but he’s holding on, nothing more. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel it – the strain of another adult’s bodyweight against your arm and wrist, thrashing and straining, twitching in spasms that threaten to dislocate your shoulder. You look at Shigaraki’s fingers, locked around your wrist hard enough to bruise, and see that his fingernails are going blue.

He’s suffocating. He’s alive down there – somehow – and he’s suffocating. Hundreds of questions flood through your mind, questions about how this happened, about why this happened, about whether it’s your fault that the Symbol of Fear has returned. Hundreds of questions, and none of them matter. Drunk and worn through as you are, you know what this comes down to. No one saved Shigaraki Tomura when it mattered. It’s not some lost child down there; it’s a villain, someone who did terrible things, someone who almost broke the country in two. When you said you wished you could save him, you didn’t mean that lost child – you meant the adult, the one who died in hopelessness and loneliness and fury and pain. You said you’d save him. Are you going to?

It’s not a question. You twist your hand in Shigaraki’s grip, wrap your fingers around his wrist in return, and pull with all your strength.

He comes up choking on dirt, struggling to cough around the earth that still encases his chest, and you yank harder, pulling his shoulders free. Shigaraki’s other hand breaks the surface, scrabbling at the dirt – why isn’t he using his quirk? – before pressing flat and pushing downwards. With that, you’re able to free him to his ribcage, to his waist, and Shigaraki coughs, clods of dirt spilling from his dry lips. He’s still coughing as you pull him free the rest of the way. One final heave that almost topples you backwards into another death site, and Shigaraki Tomura is doubled over on his knees in the dirt, taking deep, ragged breaths of air.

He’s shaking. He’s still holding your wrist. His other arm wraps tightly around himself, as if that will help, and when he speaks, his voice rattles. “Cold –”

No kidding. It’s April, the temperatures still drop to freezing overnight, and he’s naked. You pull your hand free of his and start unbuttoning your coat. Some part of you that’s still sane in the face of all of this points out that you’re drunk enough to struggle with regulating your body temperature, that you could freeze yourself, and you ignore it. Shigaraki Tomura startles when you drape your coat around his shoulders. His head snaps up, and his crimson gaze locks onto yours.

You remember the light of madness in his eyes, as visible in a still photo as it was on a live feed. It’s gone. You knew it would be, because it was missing when he died, and if a person’s conscious in their last moments, they’re exposed, missing every mask they’ve worn and every truth they’ve hidden from. You’ve thought, more than once, that you’ve known the dead whose death sites you walked over better than anybody else. You’ve thought about how sick that was. You felt it when you were talking to Spinner, and it made you want to scream.

Shigaraki tries to speak, coughs into his fist and tries again. “You meant it.”

“I – yeah.” You don’t like that you had to think about it. You don’t like what it says about you that you hesitated for even a second. “I don’t understand. How are you – here?”

“I never left,” Shigaraki says, and your stomach lurches. “I don’t know how I’m – back.”

You don’t either. You don’t have a clue. Even the most overpowered awakening of your quirk wouldn’t give you the ability to raise the dead. And it’s not hard to imagine that someone who spent their life in as much misery as Shigaraki did might have mixed feelings about coming back. “Are you mad about it?”

Shigaraki thinks it over. His face is more expressive than you thought it would be, and you see the answer settle into him before he speaks. “No.”

He’s alive, and he’s not mad at you for being somehow involved in bringing him back. Now that you’ve settled that, you have a problem. Or ten problems. Or five million problems, because you didn’t just help resurrect somebody who’s been dead for eight years – you brought back the Symbol of Fear, someone instantly recognizable, somebody whose mere appearance struck terror into people’s hearts. What are you going to do?

A moment later, Shigaraki asks the question himself. “What happens next?”

“Um –” If you’d thought there was any chance you weren’t hallucinating, you’d probably have come up with a plan for what to do next. “How do you feel?”

“Cold,” Shigaraki says. You nod. “Hungry. Thirsty.”

Clothes, then food, then water. Or water, then food. That feels doable, as long as you start with clothes. Where are you going to get clothes for him? It’s not like there’s a convenience store around. For that, you’ll have to get him back to the city, which means you have to get him on the train – how did this even happen? How did you go from leaving flowers for Shigaraki Tomura once a year to literally pulling him out of the ground? This can’t be happening. This is insane.

“Hey,” Shigaraki says, and you snap out of it. “You can go.”

“What?”

“This isn’t what you signed up for. And I can make it on my own.” Shigaraki draws your coat tighter still around his shoulders. “I’ll keep this, though. It’s still warm.”

It’s warm because you were wearing it. Shigaraki’s here because you took his hand. You saved him, sure – for what? It wasn’t just anger and pain you felt when you first crossed Shigaraki’s death site, it was loneliness. Loneliness like you’ve never felt anywhere, from any other flashback, a kind of loneliness that can’t be fixed by giving someone a hand up. Saving someone means more than just helping them up when they fall. It’s about figuring out why they fell down. It’s making sure it doesn’t happen again.

Besides, you can’t just turn a supervillain loose to wander the countryside. You have a responsibility here – to him, to everybody, and to yourself, because for once, it’s not too late. Just this once, you can use the awful things your quirk shows you to do something good. “You can keep the coat,” you say to Shigaraki. “But you’re coming with me.”

You’re unsteady as you get to your feet, but Shigaraki’s worse. You have to catch him to stop him from falling face-first into the dirt, and even once he has his feet under him, he can barely stand. You duck under his arm to support him and he stiffens. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” you say. You sounded way too sincere about it. He’s going to laugh. “If you fall you’ll get mud all over my coat.”

Shigaraki scoffs quietly, his voice still roughened from the dirt. The sooner you find some water for him, the better. He doesn’t try to pull away from you, so you start the long, slow shuffle back across the battlefield. You remember to grab the bucket just in time. It could be evidence, although what it would be evidence of, you have absolutely no idea. No one is going to believe this. You barely believe it, and you watched it happen.

Crossing the field is its usual nightmare, made worse by the fact that Shigaraki’s slowing you down, but unlike when you crossed before, you’re not holding back tears. You’re still drunk. Your head is still full of things you’ll never be able to unsee, and you’ll still have nightmares tonight. The only thing that’s changed is having something you can do. You never realized how much that could matter until now.

“You only come back once a year,” Shigaraki says as the two of you near the edge of the field. “It hasn’t been a year yet.”

“I had to,” you say. “It’s your birthday.”

That doesn’t explain anything. You know what the Shigaraki you always imagined would say to that: So what? The real Shigaraki, the one that’s naked except for your coat and stumbling along at your side, is quiet until you’re at the road, the lights of the train station visible in the distance. “I’ve had worse ones.”

tag list: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @cryptidfuckerofficial @lvtuss @issaortiz @evilcookie5 @deadhands69 @shigarakislaughter @minniessskii

[plethorawrites]

I'm back to my once in a blue moon Roy post. And again, I can't stop thinking about how any person he dated HAS to be approved by Lian.

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

It doesn't matter how much Roy Harper likes you or how perfect he thinks you are, if Lian doesn't like one of his partners, he'll break up with that person the next day.

He obviously waits a while to see if he even likes you enough to introduce you to her, but once he makes that decision, it's nerve wracking. He wants her to approve. He really does. And you want her too as well. He drones on about her constantly. Basically the entire first date was him relating every question you asked him back to her somehow.

Favorite place to go? The zoo, because Lian loves it. Favorite food? Grilled cheese, because he makes it for her so much he got hooked. Favorite color? It changes when hers does because everything she owns switches shades too. But he's partial to the color closest to her eyes.

And you're just as excited and nervous to meet her, knowing exactly how important she is to him. Lian is a good judge of character, she can know instantly if someone is wrong for her dad and she doesn't want them around him.

With you, it's the same as all the others. She's standoffish, curious but hesitant, asking you questions that only seem to have bad answers the way all kids somehow manage to do. And you're panicking, admittedly, not only at the questions, but at seeing Roy slowly deflate when he realizes how judgmental his daughter is.

At some point he excuses himself from the room for a moment, either to take a call, or try to take a breath because he's suddenly thinking about ending the relationship. But the second he walks away and both you and Lian can see the disappointment in posture, you both soften. Mostly her.

"...He works a lot," she told you, almost like a deterrent.

You nodded softly. "I know."

There was a pause, her princess crown falling a little bit. "Things with mom didn't end well," she mumbled.

You fixed her crown. "I know that, too." Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear you scooted closer to her on the couch. "I don't want to replace your mom, Lian. I just...want to love your dad."

She looked up at you. No one he brought home ever said the L word before. Not unless it was in some patronizing way as they talked about her while squishing her cheeks.

Her lips quirked, fighting a pout. "He's always busy," she repeated with emphasis. "I don't even see him for a week or two." She knew why, of course, and never blamed him. It still hurt.

Things suddenly clicked for you, realizing Lian was less worried about you, and more worried about you stealing her time with him.

"Well...maybe when he's gone, you and I could go somewhere? Do you like the aquarium?" You suggested hesitantly, watching her furrow her brows in skepticism as she nodded. "And maybe when he's back, we could all do something too, like a movie..." She seemed to relax a little, still pouting. "I'm not trying to steal him from you. You're the most important thing in his life, you know? You'll always come first."

...

A while later, Roy had all but prepared his typical break up speech, planning to tell you he liked you a lot but needed to take care of Lian and her needs first before focusing on himself. It hurt more this time, though, rehearsing it, than it usually did.

He walked back into the living room, freezing when he saw you braiding Lian's hair, a blanket pulled over her lap as she clicked the buttons on a remote.

"Oh, there you are," you said, glancing up. "We were going to watch 'Brave', do you want to join us?"

He blinked a few times, glancing at his daughter to ensure she wasn't just pretending. Then again, she never went along with anything she didn't actually want to do.

Roy nodded slightly, sitting next to Lian, squishing her in-between you two as she found the movie on the TV.

"You should make us popcorn," she practically demanded, starting the movie and glancing back at you as you finished her hair. "He makes really good popcorn."

You nodded curiously, giving her a small smile. "You ever tried it with M&M's in it before?"

Her eyes widened, head snapping towards her dad as if already asking for it. "O-okay, yeah, I'll check if we have any," he muttered, standing up, sparing a glance over his shoulder as he saw you pulling a blanket over Lian's lap while she passed her favorite princess crown to you.

It seemed she did approve, this time.

[miwiheroes]

Hii, not really a question but I'm rewatching s2 and I noticed a parallel between the "we like steve... but we don't love steve" and Nancy stammering quite a bit to say "I- I do" and Mike having a similar response during his fight with El. I don't really know if you or someone else had already noticed that but felt the need to say it

Dropping Byler Evidence Every (Other) Day Until Season 5

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Day 32: Murray's Conversation w/ Jancy . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .

@j-gvellthings hope u don't mind I hijacked ur ask to use for my post thing i just think this is uber interesting <3

Honestly, that whole conversation with Murray and those scenes could absolutely apply to Byler and Jancy at the same time. In some moments, I feel like what he says could actually apply to Mike more than Nancy.

Jancy say they're "just friends" here ^^ and obviously,,, if you've watched literally any romcom or show with romance in, you'd know that if someone is a little two defensive about the two of them being friends, then the audience is supposed to imply that they could be something more than that -- which happens with Byler in S4, when Mike unnecessarily calls them friends. It's not in the same context obviously, but Mike takes it romantically.

Murray also says that Jonathan and Nancy have 'shared trauma' which is apparently the 'real shit' (meaning the apex of the conversation and the most important thing). Now, this obviously applies to Jancy because they went through a lot and that's what creates this meaningful bond between the two of them. Steve does not understand what Nancy's been through -- Jonathan does. And vice versa i guess.

Byler also have this exact dynamic. Mike was with Will during S2 when all that shit happened - and the subsequent dynamic has shifted so Mike seems like the only one that really understands what Will goes through. They also both go through the same types of bullying, which is shown in S1.

Some examples of their 'shared trauma' dynamic are:

Will says that Mike shouldn't tell anyone else about his True Sight because 'they won't understand' - S2E02

Mike says that Will is quiet today and Lucas brushes it off, but Mike sees it as something deeper - S2E01

Will only tells Mike about D'art and Mike is the one to shout at the others and gets rid of his problem for him - S2E03

At the Snow Ball, Will looks at Mike when a girl asks him out, because he's so used to checking with him for things - S2E09

Mike asks Will if he's okay at the movie theatre because he's so in tune with Will's emotions surrounding scary stuff (they were about to watch a horror movie) - S3E01

I only really named ones in S2 because that's the season where Murray actually says that so I feel like it has more value when it's all in S2

"Trust issues am I right? Something to do with your dad."

Obviously, we all know that Will's had issues with his homophobic father - so has Jonathan, so it can apply to both of them. Most of Will's internalised homophobia can be traced back to bullying which includes his father.

It is shown right from the beginning of the whole show that Lonnie calls Will slurs, and attempts to make him like things that any 'normal' boy should want. Jonathan counteracts this by telling Will that he shouldn't just like things because people tell you to and telling Will that it's much better to be a 'freak' than normal.

This homophobic bullying could arguably lead to trust issues for Will - his internalised homophobia from his dad is what is keeping him from telling Mike the truth. He's afraid that Mike 'won't like the truth' because of the things he's experienced in the past.

Now, the one where Murray calls out Nancy is way more interesting:

"You. You're harder to read."

Nancy is of course, harder to read than Jonathan because she hides so much -- she's harder for the audience to figure out because she's in a relationship already. Even so, I think this applies to Mike even more than Nancy. We have Nancy's POV. We can often see what she's thinking and feelings, but with Mike, we haven't had his POV and private thoughts and inner conflicts since S2. For two whole seasons, there has been barely a moment of introspection for Mike. The audience has constantly questioned what the hell he's thinking and why he's acting this way.

It's simple -- he's supposed to be harder to read.

"Probably, like everyone, afraid of what would happen if you... accepted yourself for who you really are"

HELLO? I think when i rewatched this I was a little confused because the wording of this sentence does not really allude to Nancy's issues alone. She is, of course, afraid of accepting who she really is, but it's hard to see that as her main character arc. She's more afraid of leaving the safety of Steve, but this wording is just so oddly familiar to someone telling someone who's queer to accept themselves.

Literally Mike's arc - he's afraid of what would happen if he accepted himself. If he accepted himself - it would mean he realises he doesn't love El, which means he's failed her and has to break up with her. He might lose her if he accepts himself. Idk, the wording is just tooooo suspicious to just apply to Nancy here.

"retreated back to the safety of... Name?" "Steve"

This is kind of insane UM,,, so Nancy uses Steve as her safety blanket because he's a well-respected, popular person at school and has a lot of money, which is similar to her parents' situation. Being with Jonathan is the less secure option, but it aligns with her true feelings. Which means the audience should want her to be with the person she actually loves rather than someone she doesn't want to lose purely based on safety.

Mike literally does this returning to the safe option thing 3 times in the show...

Mike slowly realises that meeting Will was the best thing he ever did, not meeting El, not helping her etc. This happens over the course of S2, and Mike accepts that El is gone, placing her in the same category as Bob when talking to Max. When El comes back, he's torn between the two, and we can see this dilemma in the Snow Ball scene. Will is off with someone else - Mike is questioning why he's feeling like this and what he should do - so he sacrifices his true feelings for what he feels is the greater good and what he should just do, which is to stay with El.

At the end of S3, Mike realises something and is scared of what this could mean. He realises that he has been trying to change himself too much over the course of the summer and just wants things to go back to the way they were. In S4, he attempts to cover up his feelings and push them down because he's afraid of what would happen of he accepted himself, and pretends to be in a normal, healthy relationship.

During S4, Mike realises that his relationship with El is something that he's insecure about, and often confides in Will about this. He alerts to Will that he should have 'explained himself' to El, rather than telling her I love you, implying that he doesn't want to say that ever. He agrees with Will that the truth could hurt someone he cares about. He's worried that El doesn't need him anymore, and is happy when Will tells him that she'll need him no matter what - but he still has to be encouraged by Will's words to say I love you to her. This is for the greater good - what he thinks will keep her alive and what he thinks she needs.

So again, Mike and El's relationship is built on commitment and safety - being with Will is the least safe option because it would mean having to look inside himself, accepting himself, and possibly losing El, who he still cares about.

"We like Steve." "Yes!" "But we don't love Steve."

This one's pretty self-explanatory and was the original point of the ask above - Nancy has literally in this season told Steve the words 'I love you'. You can say those words even when you don't mean it, the writers aren't that stupid to be worried that the viewers will suddenly go "OH BUT WHAT ABOUT THAT ONE TIME-"

But, obviously, before Nancy went off with Jonathan, the last thing she talked to him about was their argument about her not being able to say I love you to him - in that argument, when asked to tell him, she stumbles and goes "Really?" before they're interrupted. Then she can't say anything. She can't say it because it's not true.

Sound familiar? - while there are many more nuanced aspects to Mileven's scenes in S4, it is arguably similar to the Stancy's plot that Murray is talking about. Nancy 'likes' Steve, but her feelings aren't deeper than that. She cares about him, but that doesn't have to necessarily mean she loves him romantically. In the same sense, Mike blurts out "I care for you" instead of "I love you" during their argument.

Nancy stumbles over her words trying to deny it - which is the same with Mike when he gets confronted about it in S4, leading to him trying to gaslight and become defensive, using words like "ruin" and "ridiculous".

All I'm trying to say here is that the Duffers aren't strangers to writing a plot where a character is repressing their feelings and using a relationship as protection in order to hide who they really are. And the lines are written to be so non-specific that we can't ignore that they can easily apply to Byler as well as Jancy.

[ctrl-alt-tahu]

So, I finished reading this post right as the alarm went off for me to make supper, and if that alarm hadn't gone off, it would probably have been subsumed in "the Scroll," but instead it had a chance to really sit and stew while I was cooking and putting the dishes away and...

I am fond of Fiddler on the Roof. I grew up with it, because we lived too far out of the city to get over-the-air TV and my parents didn't spring for cable or satellite. Instead, I grew up with videos, and because my mom loved the musicals of her childhood (think: Rodgers and Hammerstein--she was born in 1961), this was one of them.

I'm not Jewish at all. To borrow a phrase from my favourite author, "I can only reply that I regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people." Indeed, I grew up sufficiently far from urban centers that I don't know of having ever met anyone Jewish until after I left high school. My experience of Judaism was exclusively filtered through the Christian Bible and media--so Fiddler on the Roof was arguably rather important.

Certainly, I didn't understand what was going on the way someone Jewish would--I was the Catholic in-law in the earlier posts. And, as kids go, I was non-American enough and nerdy enough to have some interest in history, so I eventually had some idea what a pogrom, but I didn't get it; I didn't see the whole movie as a horror story. But I did recognise that it was a downer ending. I couldn't have articulated why, probably because I didn't see what a Jewish viewer did through the first parts of the film. But the ending did cast a shadow back over it. If nothing else, it yanked a the film from being a comedic set in la-la-land firmly back into reality. It kind of worked, if you didn't know what the Jewish viewers know, like the abrupt end of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but backwards.

I haven't thought too much about Fiddler in the intervening score of years, but if I did, it was sort of through that lens of being a kid and of it taking place "a thousand years ago" (rounding). Like, I sort of knew it had really happened... ish... to real people, but it wasn't something I thought about.

But now?

I'm still not Jewish (sorry--though I have been tempted). But I understand more than I understood as a preteen. Maybe it's the resurgence of Czarist Russia in the early 2020s... maybe it's the "rise of Fascism" vibe of the current "roaring" 20s... I don't know, but it doesn't feel like real life "back then." It feels like real life right now.

I'm absolutely floored that it's supposed to be set in 1905. This is what churned around in my butter-tub of a head putting away the dishes. As a kid, I had thought it set about 1880. I don't know why and I don't know what difference that 25 years would make--the last 25 years have flown by way too fast--but it made the difference I guess in my head that Fiddler was a period piece to me, rather than something "20th century."

The movie was released in 1971. That means a 10 year-old kid in 1905 was only 76. A 20-year-old (say... Tevye's daughter), would have only been in her mid-80s. In other words, the pogroms were in living memory.

(As an aside, the nearness of history shouldn't shock me, but it constantly does. In this case, it really shouldn't shock me. My own non-Russian great-grandparents were ALSO fleeing Russia in the 1900/1910s. I even sort of knew that as a kid. I just... didn't put it together.)

The tsarist pogroms are out of living memory now--barely. I don't think I ever really thought about what the end of living memory meant, but in my lifetime, living memory has ended for a few things (not all of them serious): the Victorian era and WWI, for example, and now we're fast going to see more things pass. All of which is to say that all things I and my generation assumed because we grew up "in living memory of" can't be assumed.

The span from the pogroms to today isn't even two lifetimes, but it only takes one to forget.

Dear God, did you have to send me news like that, today of all days? I know, I know we are The Chosen People, but once in awhile, can't you choose someone else?