#without the rectangles you’d never know would you

[flhoarder]

Lucky for 41 channel 8 isn’t televised otherwise news hours you catch a Couprisful of RCM officers carrying guns pulling up to a major crime scene stepping out of the MC like Jamrock Autumn-Winter ‘51 Haute Couture with some rectangles on

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo x f!reader. cw: food mentions and suggestive theming. he refers to reader as sunshine.

this is a bit of a love language exploration. reader’s giving love language is acts of service (😔 never beating those allegations) and gojo’s is giving physical touch with a dose of words of affirmation. wc 1.3k

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune

There are times when the simple daily acts of taking care of Satoru feel like the sole thing you were put on earth to do.

Not in the fashion of the maids he was raised by, tutting over his wrinkled yukatas and forcing him to eat the slimy natto he’d swallow through a pout with eyes as watery as the oceans that color them, but as if you’re the well from which his energy springs. He wouldn’t think about little things like slowing down to eat, rest, drink, and enjoy without someone there to remind him to do it. The curse and blessing of being as close to otherworldly as one can be without entering the uncanny valley.

This realization came to you long before you admitted to anyone that you were enamored with him. Back when you were a pair of bratty teenagers and you’d only ever seen him munch on konpeito with a hand wrapped around a bottle of melon soda to wash the scratchy sugar crystals down. You were appalled at how little he cared about himself (you didn’t take excellent care of yourself either in those days, judgmental one…) but you took it upon yourself to start taking better care of yourself and him by proxy in the process. A small act of compassion for a friend would never hurt, you reasoned easily at 17.

At that point, your role was merely sharing bentos or onigiri you made for yourself with him, trading a bite of your tuna filled rice for a sip of his soda - the indirect kiss aspect of this ritual made him giddy for more years than he’d like to admit aloud - or some of the star shaped sugar crystals in his palm that he’d toss between your lips and teeth when you’d open your mouth wide enough to catch them.

(You’d stick your tongue out far enough to allow him to watch the sugar melt away and turn into a colorful splotch. His big eyes, animated as ever, widened further with each bright green and orange spot that appeared and washed away in a flash. This little ritual is also how both of you learned to French kiss but that’s a memory to reminisce upon another morning.)

The two of you experienced some terrible things your first year and his second year of high school. A certain part of you felt bad for how unapproachable and closed off he seemed after Suguru’s departure and you know now that the acts of kindness had a larger impact than intended. A stray cat that gets fed always returns, after all.

He keeps returning. You thank the stars above morning, noon, and night.

Now, caring for him is as steady and effortless as the click, click, click of the knob thay controls the flow of gas on your stove as a flame ignites beneath your rectangle shaped tamagoyaki pan. Oil sizzles and the sound of it mingles with the shower running across the apartment and Gojo’s singing that is somehow louder than both of these happenings.

No wonder the neighbors hate you.

Whatever off key song he has come up with at least makes you giggle while pouring enough egg into the pan to start the process of making breakfast. Some days you are both too busy to sit down and share these moments but you still make sure he eats, a bento always tucked into his bag that matches the one in yours. Thankfully you are both off today so you get to enjoy the process rather than rush through it.

“It smells amazing.”

You didn’t hear him shut off the shower, too busy pouring and positioning egg to notice wet footsteps across the floor and heading directly toward you. A towel is slung carelessly over his hips and you giggle when he drapes himself over your shoulder, his hands dangling down the front of you. Shifting your face, you meet his with a smile and pretend to frown when water droplets fall out of his hair and onto your shirt.

“Whatever happened to good morning?”

He looks up at you from the corner of his eye and then feigns a bright idea coming into his head, shaking it and making more droplets fall on you at the same time. Giggling, you try to simultaneously monitor your eggs and him at the same time.

“You’re so right, how could I forget!” He clears his throat dramatically and stands up, hands wrapping around your waist. He bends to whisper in your ear. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You glance up at him with a too fond smile. When did you become so soft? You’re no better than the sugar that used to melt on your tongue, more than charmed by his sweet words and tender touches. It may be written all over your face but you do your best to hide it, raising your brows and sighing dramatically.

“That’s better.”

Clicking off the heat and shooing him as much as you possibly can, you pull the hot pan off of the stove and deposit your eggs onto a cutting board. Even a few seconds of time apart makes Satoru antsy so he’s by your side long before you can miss him, an arm draped around your shoulder and a hand on his hip.

“Thank you for doing this. I know the sun makes you hiss before 10 so it means a lot.”

Rolling your eyes, you slice the tamagoyaki and he hums his approval immediately. Steam wafts through the air and you have to admit that it’s making your mouth water, too.

“You’re the only person I’d do it for,” you mutter under your breath and he laughs, leaning to kiss your cheek. “You’re a liar. You’d do this for anyone who needed it.”

You continue slicing and he removes his hand from his hip, reaching to grab one of the already cooling slices off of the cutting board and stuffing it into his mouth. It’s still too hot and whatever he was going to say next is lost completely when he burns his tongue. He breathes through his mouth for a second to cool the eggs down the rest of the way and you groan.

“Mouth closed. You’re an adult, I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”

Now that it has been sufficiently cooled down, he chews the mouthful and swallows. He knows you’re joking so there’s no hurt feelings, just a cheeky grin and a dramatic eye roll.

“I was going to say, before your breakfast tried to murder me, that I’m grateful you do it for me and not just because we live together.”

The way he beams down at you is all the thanks you need, his smile as big as he is, but the words make you squirm. You’ve never been good at accepting praise or compliments no matter the amount of them you’ve been given.

“Yeah, yeah. I did it willingly when I was just your late night call too, I know.” He scoffs and shakes his head, reaching for another piece of egg. You slap his hand away playfully. “You’ve never been just a late night call to me, you know that.”

This is true and you lean into his side, aware again that he’s naked except for that damn towel. Wrapping your arm around his waist, you tickle his side and he whines.

“Go get dressed. I’m feeding you natto this morning.”

Satoru Gojo, alleged grown man, whines again. Loudly, childishly, pathetically. You giggle at his dramatics and slump when he puts most of his weight on your shoulder, drooping.

“Really?” He asks and you shake your head. “No, we’re having salmon. Go get dressed.”

He shakes his hips and the towel wrapped around them threatens to fall right in the kitchen and you tap his side with a coy smile.

“Goooooo,” you urge. “The sooner you do the sooner we can eat and then our day can really begin.”

Raising your eyebrows suggestively, he picks up on your meaning immediately and holds the knot of the towel against him while he hurries to your room to pull on some sweatpants. They’re his favorite for easy access and he’s more than prepared to give you his thanks in the form of as many orgasms as you want as soon as you’ve both fueled up.

[icycoldninja]

FLUFFCEMBER DAY#10: (Loki x Reader)

The Prank

“Alright, let’s go over the plan one more time,” You sighed exhaustedly, bending over a crudely drawn blueprint of your house that had been created with a pack of old crayons you’d found hidden in a nearby drawer.

“Thor’s gonna walk into the house from here,” You pointed to a big orange rectangle that represented your front door, “which gives him a clear view of the living room. He’s gonna look around for me for a while, then he’ll likely poke around in either the kitchen or the dining room,” you tapped your fingers on a blue square and a green rectangle. “I will be in the dining room, standing on the table, and as soon as I hear him coming, I’ll scream at the top of my lungs. That’s your cue, Loki.”

“And I shall come scuttling out from under the cupboards right as that big oaf walks into the room, giving him the fright of his life, which hopefully ends in a fatal heart attack.” The dangerous smile on his face told you Loki was entirely serious.

“No.”

“Oh, alright, just a…bit of cardiac excitement, then.”

“Cardiac excitement…what the hell are you on?” You repeated under your breath, turning away and scratching your head, glancing briefly at the wall clock behind you. ���Well, Thor’s gonna be here any second now. Better get to our positions.”

You never thought you would be standing in your living room helping Loki of all people execute a prank, but you didn’t know that a couple of days ago or you would have never decided to host a social event. A few days prior, you had invited Thor over for dinner because you wanted him and Loki to bond in manners that didn’t involve death or near-death experiences. A nice, quiet dinner with just the three of you seemed like the best way to do it, so of course, it was unanimously accepted. You should have known Loki had some kind of devious plan the moment he said yes—there was no other reason why he would agree so quickly to spending some time with his brother, whom he otherwise never got along with.

And as expected, the god of mischief was up to something. His current idea was arguably more tame than previous ones, but only because you put your foot down and told him that no blood shall be spilt within your house, especially on the living room carpet. Though he acquiesced your demand, the pompous ass also expected you to do something in return, and that was to help him with his scheme, which turned out to involve rats. Well, really, it was Loki pretending to be a rat with his magic, a giant one at that—he’d given you a sneak peek of what you’d be dealing with so you could decide how much screaming would count as an appropriate reaction, and you had to admit, that thing he became was horrifying. It was the ugliest, hairiest, most hideous rodent you’d ever seen—had you not known that furry creature was actually Loki, you would have fled the house the moment you saw it. Though both of you knew that Thor wasn’t afraid of rats by any possible stretch of the imagination, you were sure that he wouldn’t be expecting something this huge, especially not on Earth, so it was safe to say he’d get startled, at the very least. Why Loki needed to borrow some crayons to draw a blueprint of your house for such a simple prank was beyond your knowledge, though. Perhaps it was just one of those things only crazy Asgardian gods understood.

Climbing onto the dining room table, you found your philosophical-leaning thought process cut short. Now was time to act—literally, because your doorbell was ringing.

“Come on in, it’s unlocked!” You shouted. Just a few seconds later, the front door swung open, heavy footsteps filling the hall. You remained upon the dining room table, looking around curiously, trying to spot where your accomplice was hiding, but you couldn’t. Now that you thought about it, you didn’t recall seeing him enter the dining room at all. Had he come in earlier without your knowledge? Or was he setting you up for something? Oh God. Was this a trick?

Trying not to become a paranoid conspiracy theorist even though you had several justifiable reasons to, you remained in place, listening as Thor stomped through the halls, calling your name, wondering where you were. The footsteps got closer and closer to the dining room door, and once you felt they were close enough, you let out a blood curdling screech loud enough to be heard from across the street.

Thor burst into the dining room, Mjolnir at the ready, expecting some kind of hellish denizen to jump out at him. Instead, a huge rat came running out from under the dining room table, looking more like a shadowy blur than anything else. The creature chased its prey back into the kitchen, and judging by how the shouting and thumping seemed to be getting further and further away, they were either going further into your house or outside; you silently hoped for the latter.

Once the commotion had died down a little, you cautiously set foot into your kitchen, relieved to discover that though various things had been knocked over, nothing was damaged, especially not the pots of food you were keeping warm on the stove. You travelled out into the hallway and looked around, quickly observing that the front door had been left wide open, and there was some distant clamoring echoing from down the street. You cautiously thrust your head out the front door and saw nothing remarkable; a few of your neighbors were enjoying a relaxing evening stroll, an elderly lady was walking her dog—typical behavior for your neighborhood. Sighing, you shut your door and returned to the kitchen. With any luck, those two fools would return in time for dinner, and if they didn’t, you could send them leftovers.

The brothers returned about half an hour later, both in human form. They walked in right as you were setting the table, one frowning and covered in leaves, the other grinning, a couple of fresh bruises present on his forehead. You shot the latter a look that you hoped conveyed what could not be said at the moment, those words being, “Are you happy now, you bastard?” Judging from the little snicker he gave you in return, your message was received.

“You have to admit, though, that was hilarious,” Loki later whispered at the dinner table, while Thor was busy scarfing down your cooking.

“Yeah, it was,” You admitted, daring to crack a smile. “We aren’t ever doing that again though.”

“Is that so?” Loki laughed. “I think not. Invite him for breakfast next time, keep things unique. Oh, and wait a few weeks so he doesn’t suspect you’re my coconspirator.”

“I think he already knows—”

“No, he does not. Trust me.”

“We are not doing this,” You hissed, “Never again. Nuh uh. Absolutely not.”

“Yes, we are,” Loki snickered, playfully smacking your shoulder. “Absolutely.”

[mr-1-2-3-4]

Keys’ past

Blood and gore warning-

It was December of, whatever day or year it was, Danny had forgotten almost everything, actually they did, they couldn’t remember anything except all the long years at the lab or facility. Danny couldn’t remember how long they were at the lab, or anything before or outside the lab.

They have been through so many test, they changed so much mentally and physically a lot, Danny was no longer the blonde hair tan-ish skin child they used to be, their skin was a white-pale color, their pupils or pupil was a rectangle shape, fucking with their vision a bit more than their other eye already does, and their hair color was a light dusty brown color. And their mental health was terrible, like it wasn’t before. They have changed a lot.

Danny laid awake but with eyes closed, strapped to an operating table, hearing the never ending hum of the fluorescent lights. Danny opened their eyes slowly, clearly they were drugged again for “not cooperating”, Danny looked around the room noticing a case and Dr.Gui, the man that has been experimenting and running tests on them for years, hating they survived all of them, being the reason the way they are.

Dr.Gui turned around with the same evil look in his eyes, it’s clear he found happiness in hurting others.

Dr.Gui-“looks like the mama’s boy is awake? Boy, girl whatever you are”

Dr.Gui put on gloves and unclipped the case, taking out something with a red hazmat logo

Danny-“what… is that…”

Dr.Gui chuckles and walks over to Danny with a syringe, something from what they could see, it was a mix of red and black

Dr.Gui-“something that was shipped over here, something called “The Cradle” or something. Knowing the countless tests you have survived, I thought you’d be the lucky one to try it out first. And if you don’t survive, I will tell you this, your life or what you know is a lie, and most of your fake file is a lie”

Danny looked at him, wanting to be surprised but couldn’t find it in them to give Dr.Gui the satisfaction.

Dr.Gui walks closer putting a gas mask on Danny so they wouldn’t try to bite, and for how tight it was they couldn’t move their head much. Dr.Gui injects the needle without warning and started to push on the back of it, Danny jerked their head away and Dr.Gui grabbed them by the hair and scolded them, and went to tighten the gas mask when all power went out, Danny’s wrist and leg cuffs came undone, which Danny honestly didn’t even know that was a thing, but they didn’t think about that and rolled off the table, crawling behind something as Dr.Gui started looking around in the dark.

The problem was, Dr.Gui didn’t know where Danny was, and Danny didn’t know where Dr.Gui was. Dr.Gui pulled out a flashlight they found in the dark and shined it around. Danny ducked behind some boxes, they saw the light beam glide over a fire ax in its case on the wall. Danny waited a bit before crawling over to it, and punched the glass, grabbing the ax and Dr.Gui heard the glass breaking.

Dr.Gui shined his flashlight over and his blood ran cold a bit looking at Danny, once a defenseless and a “I give up” attitude patient, now was hostile with a sharp fire ax a slightly crazy look in their eyes, his cocky attitude faltering a bit

Dr.Gui-“you… you don’t have the balls to- t- to attack me”

Dr.Gui said, he was always so confident and was never armed around Danny, knowing they would never be able to attack him, but now in front of him, was the thing he’d never thought would happen. Danny was drugged out on whatever the hell happened with “The Cradle” that he couldn’t be bothered to read the files. The lights flickered back on, as the speakers apologized about the power outage and something with the snow and hail. Danny walked closer to Dr.Gui muttering stuff in whatever language they knew or could remember

Dr.Gui-“Keys, Danny we can talk! Remember you're the very key that can get us what we want if you keep going through tests and we’ll give you whatever in return! What you want, right!?”

Dr.Gui backed up looking around for anything he could used to defend himself, then he saw Danny raise the ax and swing it then

Chop

Dr.Gui's head flew off his body, his body falling limp to the floor, his head hitting the wall, blood going everywhere, Danny looked at Dr.Gui’s head, his lifeless eyes wide, Danny walked over to it, and turned their ax over and raised it again and slammed it down

Crunch

Danny looked down at the gory sight in front of them, Dr.Gui’s head barely recognizable. Danny dragged their ax over to Dr.Gui’s body as they walked, kneeling down and picking up the blood cover level 5 keycard, the one with the most access at the site Danny was in. Danny opened the door and walked out and saw doctors and other staff who didn’t even hear Dr.Gui, walking around. At first they didn’t even see Danny, but when they did they immediately freaked out and called combat units.

Danny, far from being in the right headspace for whatever was happening to them, just started attacking anyone in their path, picking up keycards as they did, killing a few combat personnel. Danny walked to the holding cells dragging their blood ax and looked at each one, letting some patients out.

Danny walked through the lab still on a killing spree, they made it to the 1st floor when they were stopped by Combat units, Danny looked at them, studying their gear, slowly walking over dragging their ax, picking up pace before attacking, coming out with mild injuries and some big. They couldn’t get out the front door so they jumped out a window landing on glass. Cutting themselves more as the snow and hail were heavy. Danny looked around and the only thing they thought about was getting out of the site grounds.

They walked over to the fence, throwing their ax over, they climbed the fence feeling the barbed wire cut into their flesh but they didn’t care much, hopping over somehow and landed on their hands and knees, Danny looked at their shaky and bloody and slightly gory hands, their skin was a mess, they took off their socks and rapped them around their hands, ripping them a bit to fit. They grabbed their ax and walked off listening to the sounds of the sirens fading in the back. They kept walking until they saw a highway. They didn’t have enough energy and collapsed in the snow, the snow numbing their body, helping with the pain, as hail and snow fell on them.

Danny gave up all hope and was just happy they wouldn’t die in the lab as whatever side effects of the drug they didn’t know about wore off a bit. They looked down at their clothes, covered in blood, from themselves and others, then to their ax and hands covered in their makeshift bandages, they started crying slightly knowing they were nothing but a monster, or danger to others and themselves, or so they thought of themselves, not knowing they technically had a right to kill. They were only under 18, and they just went through all of that.

But what person doesn’t go through trauma, no matter the amount or age.

Mr.1234-

[paa-official]

Dialogue

[Audio tape clicking]

My name is Alethia Wilson. I’m reporting at august 15th 1969 and I’m at the Alamo County Police Station, Nevada. This audio tapes main purpose is for protocol and will mostly be used by me. This and following recordings are top secret and will be classified information owned by the government once my work on this case is done.

My carrier is focused on interrogating criminals and similar. But I’ve only been in this field for a short time and I haven’t gathered much experience. As a woman, it is difficult to get many gigs, therefore I am happy to be able to take this case. I will try my best to get the suspects to speak, while being calm and collected.

Not to many days ago the area 51 has reached out to us to interrogate four suspects, two male and two female. Before that I didn’t even knew this area really existed, but my hopes to see this location in person were swept away, as I was told the interrogation was moved to a location nearby.

Those four suspects didn’t speak a word to the other interrogators, which is why I was booked to fly over from New York. Because of them not speaking, the area 51 staff started being suspicious of them being soviet spies. But I share a different opinion. If they were soviets, they couldn’t sneak into the most location of the world, without someone not noticing their accents. Maybe there is more behind all of this and I’m getting behind it.

The first suspect I’m interrogating is someone special. Everybody's fingerprints were taken and sent through every database across the US and no matches were found, but I think it’s obvious that this one couldn’t.

It looks like it is one of the male intruders. According to the data of the physical observation, he is 1.82 meters tall, has yellow eyes, fiery red hair and a blue skin. He has a muscular build and apart from the mentioned details he seems very humanoid.

Among the items he carried with him was a black rectangle, which could be turned on with a button on the side. Unfortunately no one could do anything with it, because it was blocked by some sorts of a pin code. The only purpose it could bring us; emphasis on purpose; was displaying a time. Although there was some strange delay, with which the time didn’t match with any timezone of the soviet union. Or any timezone of the entire world.

He also carried two sword handles with him, which both didn’t have any blades. Even I cannot fathom the purpose of this items. He also wore an advanced metallic armor of some sorts with countless burns, scratches and dents from bullets.

The motivation is unknown due to the lack of communication. That’s why I was called in.

[Pausing audio tape]

[Door that’s being opened and handcuffs attaching]

Good morning. Before we start, my name is Alethia Wilson. I would appreciate you to introduce yourself, because your name is not stated in your file.

…

You would do us all a big favor, if you’d just talk with me. It would even help yourself get out of here as fast as possible.

… Wilson you say. Alright, how can I help you?

Excellent. Can you state your name for me please, before we can properly start?

Yes, of course. I’m Apath Wilson. A-P-A-T-H, some people never managed to write my name down correctly.

Mhm, Wilson. So we are namesakes

Oh, I know. That’s why I’m talking to you.

What do you mean by that?

We will get to that later.

Alright. How about we start with you telling me, why you and the other three broke into the area 51?

Uhhh… Nope.

Well, then not, I guess. Would you like to tell me about your origin?

… Are you sure about it?

I’m pretty sure. I need to know everything.

Well, if you have this much free time, I mean who am I to dictate how you should spend your free time, right?

Right…

Just one thing: Can those three men behind the mirror stop being pissed, because I’m talking to you but not to them? I’d appreciate that very much.

… How do you know there are exactly three men?

I’m an empath. I can sense how much they’re pissed off right now.

Empath? You mean you can sense the emotions of others?

And manipulate them, if I want to.

… What else can you do?

I mean, I can shape shift.

Pff.

You don’t believe me?

Pardon me, but I find it quite difficult to imagine you shape shifting into someone else.

[Take on Alethias appearance]

[Chair falls over] Holy shit!

I told you. Do we wanna start talking about my origin?

Can… can the others do that too?

No. The others are human. I’m a griever.

A griever?

Yes. All griever have an ability. But everyone has just one. I, on the other hand, have two, which isn’t normal.

And why do you have two?

Let me start with, where I come from.

[callipraxia]

headcanons from mania🔥🔥 (take two because tumblr sucks ass)

- you wear granny glasses

- you live in a really nice house with a fireplace and a stack of firewood always next to it and a bunch of blankets

- you like hot cocoa

- your job is like. Corporate. but also cool. not exactly a dream artistic job but the closest you’ve got and you like it a lot and takes up a lot of your time. Also seasonal. But that’s basically canon. I’ll never figure it out

- you have like. A Lot of books on one hugeeeeee shelf. you’d invest in a library like room if you had the space but you don’t so it’s alllll on one shelf

- you have a warm palette like wardrobe. millennial fashion sense but not necessarily millennial yourself

- you’re like. Fourty (I’m sorry if this is egregiously wrong)

- infodumping queen literally Everywhere. no restraint

- blogs from their bed with a patterned blanket over your leg, a cat next to you, and your busted laptop on said lap (got the laptop fact from your comment on burn fast burn bright a superrrrrr long time ago, but I do remember it. top ten comment ever FR!!!)

- your fic notebooks are full of notes and lore we’ll never see in your fics/universes and I would probably kill people to get my hands on it and read it all with fresh eyes

- we’ve never gotten your pronouns or gender . that is 100% valid but I’ve Wondered. I’m thinking a she/they, but I stick to they/them to be safe, I hope that isn’t too presumptuous of me

- not exactly a hc but wherever the name calli came from. is that your real name or a Username thing. I remember tentatively using it a Long Time Ago, and it just caught on. am I responsible for that. I don’t know and I’m too scared to find out. Tell Me though

I did not reread this but yeah. you don’t have to respond to everything but now that it’s been prompted I’m Thinking About it. also hi. I’m glad you’re okay!!! soooo much stuff has changed but I’m so glad you’re still here no matter how sappy or weird that sounds. A good luck on ur school year fic!!! :)

Sorry for the late reply; I’ve been sick as a dog, among other issues. On the mend now, though, so….

you wear granny glasses

Not really, at least based on the results I got when I googled “granny glasses.” They are sort of soft-cornerned rectangles in dark brown plastic, with just the faintest hint of a proto-cat’s-eye on the top corners.

you live in a really nice house with a fireplace and a stack of firewood always next to it and a bunch of blankets

It’s not a particularly nice house, but we do have a wood-burning stove for heat in the living room, and we definitely have a lot of blankets. Think of the residential portions of the Mystery Shack, without any of the big interesting rooms and all on one floor, and you'll probably have a good idea what it looks like. The 70s made a more lasting impression on the decor here than the 80s did, though.

you like hot cocoa

This is accurate.

your job is like. Corporate. but also cool. not exactly a dream artistic job but the closest you’ve got and you like it a lot and takes up a lot of your time. Also seasonal. But that’s basically canon. I’ll never figure it out

Basically, if it involves school tests, I’m your girl, and I therefore work insane hours from February to June and then assignments are more sporadic for the rest of the year. As for whether or not I like it...It’s unexciting, but that’s what I was looking for in a job, and I wouldn’t say I dislike it. I get to work from home (very important now that my grandmother can’t stay by herself for long periods anymore), and my work days take the form of “someone writes a list of tasks, will leave me alone while I work on it, and will give me a reward for ticking all the boxes in a timely fashion.” I’ve always liked that format, with results ranging from “I was good at being a student, so much so that I actually enjoyed taking standardized tests” to “also Gardenscapes and Letter Soup, between them, ate my life over Christmas this year, while I was too sick to read and needed something to fill the hours until it got late enough to decently take the PM cough syrup and go to sleep.” It produces a mental state that’s (relatively) focused but also fairly unemotional, which is a nice break from even the pleasanter forms of ADHD brain-chaos. Sometimes the flurry of ideas is a lot of fun, but sometimes you just want a rest, you know?

you have like. A Lot of books on one hugeeeeee shelf. you’d invest in a library like room if you had the space but you don’t so it’s alllll on one shelf

I wish it would still fit in one shelf, even after creating three rows of books per shelf, but alas – about ten years ago, I discovered the joy of the Friends of the Library sale and it’s Fill-A-Bag Sunday. Cram as many books as you can manage into a paper bag and pay ten dollars for the lot. Suffice it to say I have a lot more books than I would otherwise. My bedroom no longer has anything even vaguely resembling “wall space,” and I’ve spilled over into the living room and the General Storage Room...it’s not quite as bad as it sounds, since these rooms are all very small, but it really has gotten a bit silly no matter how I slice it.

you have a warm palette like wardrobe. millennial fashion sense but not necessarily millennial yourself

Based on what I got from the Google - I can work with millennial tops, the alleged millennial trousers are a hard ‘no’ for me. I much prefer gen Z’s adoption of wide-legged trousers, both because I think I look better in them and because I find them much, much more comfortable, at least as long as the waist is fitted.

As for color palettes...I think my thing is more ‘bright�� or ‘saturated’ than warm or cool? It should not really work for someone as fair-cool as me (I have trouble finding foundation colors to match sometimes), but I think I look as good in orange and red as I do in turquoise and rose. My one thing is, I can pull off light shades of blue or yellow, but they have to be pretty saturated, if that makes any sense. Anything too grey-looking or faded/washed out-looking or dusty-looking just...doesn’t work. At all. At least in my opinion, and “is this reasonably comfortable?” and “do I think this looks nice?” are my main/often only considerations when it comes to all things sartorial.

you’re like. Fourty (I’m sorry if this is egregiously wrong)

Eh, 33, 40, same difference. Or at least less than a decade’s worth of difference, anyway ;)

infodumping queen literally Everywhere. no restraint

This is accurate and I wear that crown with pride, though I do understand why people can get annoyed when I get too close to speaking in five-paragraph essays, lol.

blogs from their bed with a patterned blanket over your leg, a cat next to you, and your busted laptop on said lap (got the laptop fact from your comment on burn fast burn bright a superrrrrr long time ago, but I do remember it. top ten comment ever FR!!!)

This is pretty accurate. It’s either that setup with my laptop or that setup with my phone. Also, yay memorable comments!

your fic notebooks are full of notes and lore we’ll never see in your fics/universes and I would probably kill people to get my hands on it and read it all with fresh eyes

This might be the headcanon of yours that’s furthest off the mark! Most of the lore is both ultimately info-dumped into the story (or at least its footnotes) and is mostly kept all in my head. FWJB Parts I and II are the only things I ever wrote that had even a semblance of an outline.

we’ve never gotten your pronouns or gender . that is 100% valid but I’ve Wondered. I’m thinking a she/they, but I stick to they/them to be safe, I hope that isn’t too presumptuous of me

Oh, yeah, sorry about that – I’m a she/her. Not presumptuous of you at all.

not exactly a hc but wherever the name calli came from. is that your real name or a Username thing. I remember tentatively using it a Long Time Ago, and it just caught on. am I responsible for that. I don’t know and I’m too scared to find out. Tell Me though

I’m not sure if you were the very first to dub me Calli, but I do seem to recall you were at least an early adopter. You very well could have been the first. It’s just from the username, though, and the username is a result of me playing with word roots while half-asleep one night during the period where - despite how out of practice I was, and how terrible I've always been at coming up with usernames - I was starting to seriously consider making an AO3 account and actually writing the GF fics percolating in my brain…Long story still kinda long, I stuck a bit of this and a bit of that together, then swapped out some letters to make it flow smoothly/look like a word, and like a word I’d find aesthetically pleasing to look at.

also hi. I’m glad you’re okay!!! soooo much stuff has changed but I’m so glad you’re still here no matter how sappy or weird that sounds.

Aww, you’re sweet. Good to ‘see’ you, too, especially since Christmas gift cards mean I can probably finally read <i>Good Omens</i> at some point in the near future and thus comprehend that half of your fics!

[olderthannetfic]

Oooooh. Niiiiice.

I see I shall have to contend with my nemesis, blocking, but these are definitely worth a try. (And yes, this is the kind of thing I meant. Would I know they’re Tolkien-inspired just from looking? Maybe not, but I can see plant motifs and interesting shit going on. They immediately give me a fantasy-ish vibe.)

#I’m curious about your PetiteKnits comment#I’ve never liked her much bc her idea of a 3XL is a 47-51 inch bust#like girl that’s an XL with 1-5 inches of positive ease that ain’t no 3x#knitting

Last time I was into knitting, the big names were Kaffe Fassett and Alice Starmore. They might have made your eyes bleed with 80s intarsia, but at least you were getting a product you’d never get without making it yourself. I mean, some might argue that they wouldn’t want to wear a Kaffe Fassett sweater out in public, but those people are cowards. ;D

PK is a heinous snoozefest of fast fashion-looking oatmeal-colored everything. Now I do love me a good greige minimalism personalityless sweater. They make me feel like a rich person instantly. That white one I knit up from my mystery yarn does this for me. I’m sure my copy of the Handsome Chris will too once I finish it.

Obligatory shot of freehanded white blob:

But why on earth would I pay money for a pattern that’s like “Make the most boring basic sweater possible, but hold 57 strands of mohair together while you do it”? If I want to use hairy yarn to hide my mistakes, I can do that without paying someone else for the privilege.

I don’t have special beef with PK. Hers are merely the most popular of a wave of worthless patterns one should be able to devise for oneself just by looking at an example pic.

If they were fitted to a curvy figure or something, I’d understand: those calculations are a nuisance, and it makes sense to pay for someone else’s time spent figuring out the increases and decreases. But these things are uniformly rectangular sacks designed to hang attractively off of a pencil thin figure wearing leggings. It’s the rich lady doing errands before yoga look.

Look at this nonsense:

Literally, why?!

This kind of sweater doesn’t even look hand-made in the high fashion way. All of them look like they came from the mall. Just shop at a thrift store if you want fast fashion but don’t want to support the industry actively! Or freehand them!

I also think the entire trend of holding yarns together is stupid as fuck. I’d rather pick the correct weight of yarn for a project. I’m unimpressed with how much of it is about getting a halo on literally everything. This particular snoozefest (here for those who inevitably want to waste money on the pattern) is fingering + lace. Just get a fucking DK yarn, a hairy one if you must!

I don’t need 3XL (though, yes, I hear PK was a bitch about adding more sizes), but I do have actual T&A, so I don’t care about the taste of the no butt-having boxy sweater lovers. You see the same thing, only less beige, from Tayler of Wool Needles Hands. I find her entertaining, and I think her taste in sweaters looks great on her, but it’s less suitable for me.

Skeindeer actually has boobs and a tummy, so I have more confidence that the basic shape she’s thinking of first is closer to what I want. And her aesthetic is not shapeless bag hanging from shoulders. I don’t think she does a ton of shaping, but her patterns are designed to look good stretched over a body with some curves.

What I’m actually knitting right now is the Cassidy, which looks bland as fuck but was recommended to me by a college knitting club friend for its subtle but effective shaping.

If I want to wear a giant-ass rectangle, I can just open any of my knitting books from the 90s and knit the lovely cabled sweaters therein. Or I’ll freehand it because knitting an oversize sack in a drapey yarn is easy.

--

So, in conclusion, this video, but about sweaters:

After scrolling through a bajillion pages of the current fad for greige 10 mohairs held together plain sweaters, I have finally found a designer worth buying patterns from! If only they had this scale pattern on a sweater!

[psithurista]

Stuck

pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, mentions of Steven Grant x F!Reader word count: 4.1k rating: Explicit 18+ warnings: Improper use of contact details in a workplace, brief mention of injuries, mentions of alcohol, oral sex (f receiving), protected PIV sex, brief overstimulation, some scratching. Anything I haven't flagged appropriately, please let me know x

an: My understanding of Marc and Steven's 'system' is that Marc is conscious of Steven's life, while Steven, as an alter, is not conscious of Marc's. This is an expansion of Marc's (maybe slightly selfish) attempts to assist with Steven's romantic life, based on the detail that Marc had apparently tried to set up a date for Steven without him realising. The reader is not aware of their disorder, and Marc doesn’t tell her, but she is aware that he is not Steven when she gives consent.

You stop by Steven's place one night after work. Somebody else answers his door.

part two

Standing outside the door, you consider, once again, that you are not supposed to be here.

You weren’t supposed to work late tonight. You were supposed to leave with everyone else; get home early, get a good night’s sleep for once. You felt good about the decision—so good, in fact, you’d felt the tension melt away from your temples, leaving you free to sink comfortably into the embrace of the stack of didactic labels and exhibition programs spread in front of you.

It wasn’t until the clatter of a vacuum cleaner startled you back to reality that you’d finally looked up from your screen to find the entire office around you had faded to darkness; the rest of the archival team long gone.

In your frustrated subsequent rush to leave, you’d nearly missed it. Just barely managing to juggle your bag, your thermos and your keys, the little white rectangle on the floor leading out to the museum’s exit had looked like a piece of litter; nothing worth paying attention to. You couldn’t say what it was that had made you stop and clumsily crouch to pick it up.

It’s lucky you did. The black lanyard clipped to the top had been camouflaged by the carpet. Turning it over, you’d met the dark, sleepy-lidded gaze of Steven Grant. Of course. Out of every single staff member, he would be the person most likely to drop his ID card.

He’s also the person most likely to hold the door open for you, or stop and help pick up a folder full of dropped papers, or to dash out into the street to give you his umbrella—this being the most recent example, having only happened a few weeks before.

You’d developed something of a crush on him; drawn in by his sweet nature and earnestness—his animatedly bright love for the exhibits that of a first-time visitor, not a man who sees them day in and day out. And, secretly, you’d stifled more than one undignified snort at his cheesy jokes; though nobody else had seemed to find them funny.

You’d shoved it down, trying not to feel too wounded by the nervous, stunned way he’d waved before skirting around you in the halls at work, or stumbled over his words, hurrying off with his shoulders hunched after you’d wished him a good morning one day as you passed the gift shop. He didn’t seem to want to talk to you. And that’s fine. You’d left him alone, even as you still harboured your soft spot for him.

Sweet, absent-minded, gentle…and on his absolute final warning. You’d overheard as much just this morning when Donna was tearing him a new one for inexplicably missing an entire week’s worth of work, while he’d stammered some flimsy apology about being sick in bed.

You should just leave the ID card on the counter of the gift shop. He can pick it up in the morning. Never mind that Donna will probably be in earlier than he will, and find it first…and drag him over the coals again.

You’d stood there, deliberating, chewing your lip, remembering the way he’d looked that afternoon as you’d slipped silently into the break room to make a cup of tea. Slumped sleepily over the table; a library book in one hand, a falafel wrap in the other. Wearing colourful, mismatched socks; a dark, loose curl hanging across his forehead.

So, your second poorly-considered move of the night: breaching privacy policy. Well intentioned or not, you definitely weren’t supposed to access the staff directory to find his home address.

Now, outside the door, you shift your weight from one foot to the other. Looking down the street, you feel cold and nervous. Should you ring the buzzer again? Maybe it’s broken. Maybe he doesn’t even live here anymore. Maybe he’s moved and forgotten to update his records.

Then a click, and a quiet beep. Bewildered, you test the door to the building, and find it’s been unlocked.

Okay. You take a hesitant step forward, then pause. He’s inviting you up. Right? He unlocked the door; he must be inviting you up. The foyer is empty as you step inside, brutally self-conscious.

“Oh, God, Steven,” you mutter to yourself, shut safely in the lift. “Please don’t report me to HR for this.”

By the time the doors open on his floor, you’ve almost convinced yourself to turn around and head straight home. It’s sheer force of will that gets your feet moving, one in front of the other, until you’re at his door. You just need to slip the ID under the gap and leave him to it.

You kneel to do just this, when the door swings open. You’re face to face with a pair of knees, and your gaze travels upward, your face tilting.

He leans his weight comfortably to one side, his arm propped against the doorjamb, a faint smile playing around his lips as he looks down at you. You swallow.

He looks…hot. There’s no other word for it. You can’t tell what’s changed, exactly…he looks no less exhausted, but he seems to be wearing it remarkably well. The shadows underneath his heavily-lidded eyes accentuate their darkness; their depth.

Gone is the hideously baggy jacket he was wearing at work, as is the novelty-print button down. Instead, a dark, form-fitting shirt stretches tight across his chest, pushed up to bare his toned forearms.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You open your mouth, close it again. You hurriedly stand, awkwardly straightening your skirt back down over your thighs. “Um. Hi, sorry, I wasn’t going to disturb you.”

He grins; a flash of white. “You’re not disturbing me.”

You blink, confused. His voice sounds…off. Is he making fun of you? Is that an accent? He’s still considering you, his expression open and vaguely amused. You can’t remember why you’re here. Has he always had such high cheekbones?

“Would you like a drink?”

You stare at him, stupidly. “Huh?”

He tilts his chin, gesturing back into the flat behind him, but his eyes don’t leave your face. “I was about to make a drink. You want to join me?”

This is not the response you’d expected. You swallow again, feeling a little hot. “I. Um. Sure.”

He steps aside to let you in. His flat is dim and cluttered; books and decor piled haphazardly on every surface. It’s not an entirely unpleasant overall effect, you consider, peering around. The warm lamplight makes it feel cosy; almost like a tiny jazz bar.

You plonk your bag on top of a leather-bound collection of translated poetry, digging through it. “I have your ID card. You dropped it. And I thought…well, I didn’t want you to get in trouble again. You don’t deserve the way Donna speaks to you.”

“Thanks, that’s really nice of you,” he says, distractedly. “Just leave it anywhere.”

You drape the lanyard over the back of a chair, and wander off to snoop at his profusion of stuff.

“Old-fashioned? Or G&T?” he says, the top of his curls sticking out from the open door of a low cabinet, half-tucked behind a bookcase.

You turn away from the glowing fish tank in front of you, something tickling in the back of your mind. You step toward him, frowning. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

He stands, and places two glasses on top of the counter. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you said you didn’t. At the Christmas party.”

He nods to himself, as though he’d forgotten, turning and leaning against the counter. You creep another step closer, your eyes narrowed. He’s looking at you with a directness you find slightly disconcerting. You can’t seem to drag your eyes away from the bow of his top lip. His posture, his voice…

He’s not just hot. He’s gorgeous. Exuding confidence. Some shift in his body language; a certain quirk of an eyebrow here, the timbre of his voice there…it’s difficult to believe this is the same guy you once busted crying over a dog video in the break room. He’d denied it, of course, scrubbing his hands over his face, but you’d been able to tell. Even the way he blinks is different; slower, easier, calmer.

It hits you like a freight train. “Holy shit,” you breathe. Somehow…impossibly…this isn’t Steven at all. “Who are you?”

His lips are pressed together thoughtfully, still slightly lifted into an easy little smile. As he speaks, he leans in, tucking a loose wisp of your hair behind your ear. “You can call me whatever you want, beautiful.”

You’re utterly thrown off. “Oh. Thank you. Um. You’re…beautiful too.” You laugh, nervously, swaying toward him. Internally, you cringe. What are you saying? Heat muddles your head; creeps out to the tips of your toes and fingers. You wet your lower lip with your tongue, still staring helplessly at his mouth. “But I don’t understand. Are you…his brother?” I don’t care, you think, dizzy. He called you beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful.

“It’s a little hard to explain,” he says, his face close to yours.

You feel like your insides are liquefying. “Okay,” you breathe, your voice embarrassingly weak, “so expla—”

His lips meet yours, and you let out a strange little squeaking noise. He kisses firmly, almost with an insistence, but it’s slow. His lips coaxing yours apart, the heat of his breath, his tongue, softening your entire body.

Your knees wobble worryingly, and he smooths his hand down your back, holding you against him as you bend weakly in his arms. He walks you backward, across the flat, humming a low note of amusement into your open mouth as you stumble over the lip of a rug.

When the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, you drop gracelessly onto your ass, panting up at him. “Is this…are we really doing this?” you manage, your face hot.

The extent of your secret daydreams had seen you cosying up with Steven on a cool afternoon, peeking over his shoulder to see what he was reading, or curling your fingers around his underneath the table at that cute vegan bakery down the road from your place, oat lattes in front of each of you. You never got quite this far.

He leans over you, tilting his head, brushing his lips across your jaw. “That’s up to you.”

Your heart is thrumming in your throat, and you reach for him, wanting to feel him under your fingers. He feels solid enough. Okay. “Okay.” You nod, biting your lip, spreading your knees as far as your tight work skirt will allow.

He lowers himself to his knees, catching first one foot in his hand, then the other, coolly easing off your shoes and dropping them to the floor with a pair of low clacks.

You gawp down at him, positive that your eyes are comically wide. But he just continues smiling privately to himself, coasting his hands up the outsides of your thighs, shucking your skirt up, finding the edges of your underwear.

“Do you…want me to help?” you gasp, feeling awkward, unsure whether you should stand up to let him slide them off. He doesn’t answer, lifting your ass in his palms, rolling your underwear off in a fluid, practised movement.

He knows what he’s doing. Clearly. You don’t need to help him out. You didn’t think it was possible to feel any hotter, but with this realisation, you’re suddenly on fire. Your skin prickles; leaving you feeling slick and overly sensitive.

His nose brushes the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs apart. “Oh my God,” you hear yourself say, flopping onto your back. Warm breath fans over your skin, and then his lips; dragging lightly, the feel of his tongue pressing gently into the soft give of your leg.

As he works higher, your breaths grow shorter. He’s barely even started yet, and he has you shifting your legs, squirming into the bed. His hands gently encircle your knees, holding them apart, and you hear the quietly wet glisten as he spreads you open. You make an undignified little choking sound. “Doing alright up there?” he drawls, his strange accent resonant.

The sound of his voice alone has you squeezing your cunt in anticipation. “Um, yeah. Doing…doing well. Thank you. How about you?” You wrinkle your nose, staring up into the shadowy beams of the ceiling, wishing they’d come tumbling down to crush you. He’s too smooth. You’re embarrassing yourself. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

He laughs quietly. “Yeah, I’m good.” Then his nose meets your cunt, and you lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.

He closes his lips around your clit, his mouth hot and close. His tongue rolls against you, steady and skilful, and you rock your hips unconsciously up to chase his movement, bumping into his nose.

This feels nothing like the clumsy, half-hearted efforts you’ve experienced in the past. This is masterful; attentive, glorious. Better than your own fingers. Better than your vibrator. You’re already seeing stars.

He grips your thighs, pinning you in place while you whimper and gasp. You can feel his jaw working as he drags each little sound out of you; every movement unhurried but deliberate. You crane your neck down to watch; his thick curls tickling at your sensitive inner thighs.

You jolt as you meet his gaze. While the entire lower half of his face is pressed between your legs, you find his attention still fixed to your face; his eyes inscrutable. You have the crazed, ridiculous urge to wave down at him, even as your legs begin to shake and cramp with the tension of holding still. It would be such a Steven move, you think.

He works firmer, and you choke out a tiny curse, grasping fistfuls of the sheets. It might be because your thoughts have drifted, but it’s at that moment you notice the tiny scar just above his left eyebrow. You know exactly where he got it: walking dozily into the edge of a packing crate down in the collection stores. You remember it vividly. You’d even had to write up the incident report for it while he’d dug a bandaid out of the first-aid kit at the security desk.

So…he is? But he isn’t, he can’t be. You’re so confused. You’re too far gone to figure it out.

The pleasure is winding tighter, and your leg jerks alarmingly in his grip as your abdominal muscles tense to the point of breathlessness. Your head swims from lack of air, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath, sucking in a frantic lungful just as time stops around you.

You cry out wordlessly as you come, suspended in the moment, arching up off the bed even as he calmly pins you in place.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…” You don’t even realise you’re saying anything until he’s climbing up over you onto the bed, grinning again, pressing his finger to your lips.

“I know, I know. Shh,” he says, his humour palpable. You can’t seem to get enough air in, and you shake your head at him, your eyes wide.

“Oh my God,” you finish, breathless.

He traces the outline of your breasts through your work shirt, still buttoned to the top. “You want to keep goi—”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already reaching down to yank your shirt from where it’s tucked in under your rumpled skirt. “Yes, keep going, Ste—whoever you are.”

He shifts your hands away, opening your shirt far faster and with more dexterity than you would’ve managed. One-handed, he pulls his own shirt over his head, and you stare at the lean muscle of his torso; scarred and toned and beautiful.

The thought of Steven caring enough to cultivate a body like this seems laughable. His chest muscles flex as he kicks his pants down. So, this is your answer. Your heart lurches uncomfortably. This feels like a betrayal, despite the fact that there’s nothing going on between you and Steven.

And yet, the man now tossing your bra over the side of the bed looks so much like him. You dart a not-very-subtle glance down, and see his cock is hard, flushed, thick. Beautiful. Awestruck and filled with renewed heat, you trace the edge of his bicep with your fingertip. “Do…do you think it’s okay? Doing this? In his bed?”

He shrugs. “Well. Technically, it’s my bed.” He places a strange, ironic emphasis on ‘my’, then stretches up to reach toward the nightstand.

Nothing is awkward about him. Even ripping open the condom, rolling it over the length of his cock, shifting his weight onto his knees over you. Every movement fluid, easy; like that of a man who trusts his body implicitly. It’s unsettling, but it’s unbearably sexy.

He gently cups your face, his thumb stroking across your lower lip. “Still good?”

You nod, and he tilts his hips forward, and you exhale breathily as he slowly eases you open.

“That feels…oh,” you groan, dazed. He sinks deeper, angling himself downward, and you could swear your eyes roll back.

He’s nodding slowly, gently easing himself back before sinking back in, deeper than before. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. God, you’re pretty. No wonder he likes you so much.”

You don’t have time to figure that out before he’s rocking into you again, more smoothly this time. He cups your breast, groaning quietly, and you let your head tilt limply back as he begins to set a steady, beautiful rhythm.

Your bones feel like melted caramel; thick and syrupy and warm. He feels perfect inside you; the ridge around the head of his cock stroking at your g-spot, even through the layer of latex.

Your grasping hands are curling and uncurling in the covers, when you find the edge of what feels like a bicycle chain lock with a buckle at the end. You turn your head to the side to squint at it, shaking it free and finding the other end affixed to the column at the foot of the bed. You blink at it. “Is this…?”

“You should probably ignore that,” he murmurs, covering your lips with his own. He tastes of you, tangy and slippery. You moan weakly into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, reaching up to feel the softness of his hair. The bed thuds hollowly against the bookcase behind it with the force of his movements inside you.

He stays deep. Barely withdrawing; grinding himself inside you. You aren’t sure whether it feels any good for him. But God, it feels good for you. He noses along your jaw, his lips at your neck, gathering your limp body up into his arms to hold you close.

You’d like to be more engaged. Pull your weight a little. Make him feel as incredible as he’s making you feel. But you’re too pleasure-drunk; floppy and lazy and warm underneath the weight of him. The best you can manage is a lifting of your hips to meet his, and he pauses, letting you clumsily work out your own disjointed rhythm. “Can I…? I’d like to…” you trail off, unsure what you’re even asking for.

But he seems to understand all the same. He shifts to the side, gripping your hips and taking you with him as he turns onto his back, until you’re straddling his waist, his cock seated deep inside you.

It’s immediately even better. You gasp down at him, and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, a faint sheen on his forehead. “S’this what you wanted?” he murmurs.

You nod, encouraged, and lift your weight onto your knees before sinking yourself down onto his length. This time, he’s the one who groans. It travels straight to your cunt, and you clench around him, the feeling exquisite.

“Careful with that,” he breathes, his hands on your waist, holding you steady. “You’ll make me…oh, fuck—”

You hadn’t meant to do it again, but it’s hard to control yourself. Everything feels incredible. Grinding yourself down onto him, sheathed all the way to the base, where his neatly trimmed dark curls are already stuck damp to his skin with a combination of sweat and your arousal.

You rock your weight back and forth just a little faster; the movement catching at your breath, and your head drops limply forward as you brace your hands onto his chest.

There’s too much blood pounding in your brain. You feel dizzy and desperate, riding down harder, your inner thighs tensing with the movement. You feel as though you’ve been there for hours, but it hardly matters; it’s good, you think, the softness of your breasts rippling upwards with each bounce, it’s so good, so good…

Too soon, you can feel yourself reaching a renewed peak and, needy with the sensation, you chase it down, your legs cramping with your sustained effort. You can feel yourself growing weaker; trembling with exertion and overwhelming pleasure.

You feel as though you’re racing your own stamina toward your release, whimpering brokenly, grinding yourself down. It’s an awful thought; you’re desperate to continue, but your movements are losing their rhythm; too weak to continue. You can’t bear to stop, but you have no choice.

He doesn’t let you.

Seizing the softness of your ass in both hands, he drags you back and forth against him, forcing you to keep riding, even after you’re too weak to move yourself. You could be a toy in his hands as he pulls you onto his cock; thrusting up into you, gritting out something obscene as his cock twitches inside you.

You can tell he’s growing close, and the thought is enough to nearly push you over your own edge again. He fucks you harder now; your head rocking back on your shoulders, and your cries are softer, more breathless as your entire body tenses.

Your orgasm crashes over you, near-violent, and instead of slowing, he speeds up, forcing you toward immediate overstimulation as his hips smack up against your slick skin. You mindlessly sink your nails into his chest, hard enough to break the skin.

His brows draw together and he hisses, long and harsh, and you’re worried you’ve hurt him, but then he curses, his hips stuttering as he empties himself into the thin layer of latex separating you.

Panting, you unpeel yourself from his hot skin, slumping onto your side on the bed. He reaches over, mindlessly stroking his hand along the length of your side, down to the swell of your hip.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you say, your attention caught on the way his hair sticks in ringlets around his ears. “I’ve never done that before. Jumped into bed with someone I’ve only just met.”

“Mmm,” he returns, his palm gentle on your skin, dark eyes lazily half-lidded. “Have we? Only just met, I mean?”

You frown at him, bewildered. You don’t know how to answer that.

When you stand, your bare feet hit the cool wood floor at the foot of the bed; weirdly grainy, as though in need of a thorough clean. You shake out your bra before you put it back on, sand skittering out of the cups. He stays reclined, watching as you straighten your skirt and tuck your now-wrinkled shirt back in.

He slips out of the bed behind you, stepping back into his pants, leaving his chest bare. As he walks you to the door, you realise your nails have left painful-looking little crescent moon-shaped cuts in his skin. They’ll probably fade after a few days, you tell yourself, but you feel slightly guilty all the same.

You need the loo, but you’re too shy to ask. You itch to get home and mentally sort through the events of the night. As though in a dream, you turn to leave without saying goodbye. But he catches your elbow, pausing you just outside the door. “He doesn’t know how to show you, or tell you. But he likes you. A lot. Give him a chance.”

It should be a wildly strange thing for him to say, considering what you’ve just done together, but in the context of the entire nights’ disjointed, unreal sense of overall strangeness, you know precisely what he means. Your heart swells in your chest, and you nod, shy, a tiny smile lifting your lips.

“I’ll, um. See you around,” you tell him, not knowing if that’s true.

You wait until you’re back in the lift before you slip your shoes off to shake out the loose grains of sand still stuck to the bottom of your feet.

[unohanadaydreams]

for the eroge game !!! can we get college professor (or student whichever ur more comfortable w!!)! Toshiro with a romantic/horny college student(she/her)! reader getting it on in an empty classroom?? ♪(´ε｀ ) love u btw

It’s safe to say Toshiro being a professor teaching students largely the same age as him would be canon if Bleach were a college AU. He IS a genius, after all.

You didn’t put like a phase you wanted but I’m just gonna make this a Good End bc this seems like something Toshiro would RESIST doing until the end of a route.

Features: teacher/student dynamics, Toshiro’s first role play session, romance + smut wombo combo

Bleach Your Heart: The Otome & Eroge Ask Game

PROFESSOR! TOSHIRO HITSUGAYA + STUDENT! READER + GOOD END

You squeaked as your bare thighs slid against the waxed wood of his desk, finding it too cold for a Summer afternoon.

Toshiro stood before you with his arms crossed, stern.

“Don’t you want to come over here and ravish me, Professor Hitsugaya?”

He stiffened at his title, his eyes cutting to the windows and doors, belying his nervousness. “This is my place of work.”

“Obviously. That’s what makes it so fun.”

You’d taken precautions, knowing it would be the only way Toshiro would agree to so much as hold your hand in his classroom.

Standing on a plastic chair, you’d hooked all five pairs of blinds to the floor, closing the South facing wall of windows off from the outside.

The classroom felt odd without the warm sun streaming down on the desks, but Toshiro demanded thoroughness. So you’d brought construction paper from home, borrowing his scissors to cut them to shape and taped them over the rectangles of glass embedded in the two doors, one on each end of the room, opposite of the windows.

Arriving first for once, you’d been smug, locking the door behind him.

His eyes narrowed under the harsh fluorescents, trying to close in on a reason to push you away.

The white shock of his hair bounced lightly when he shook his head, coming up empty.

You lifted your leg, letting your foot trail from his chest to the front of his pants, before letting it dangle back against the desk.

“Come here, Toshiro,” you said, dropping his title to ease him. “We can just kiss if you want.”

Lulled, he came forward, his arms unwinding, drawn to your bare thighs. The cuff of his white button-up tickled a shiver up your spine as one of his hands trailed up your leg. His green eyes kept you frozen with their intensity as placed himself between your thighs.

“Why do I humor you?” He didn’t seem to need an answer, the thumb of his right hand skimming your bottom lip. But he didn’t go further, his eyes still flitting to the door in his peripheral.

From first, second, and third impressions, you never imagined someone like Toshiro would be touching you, much less humoring you about any from of classroom dalliance.

He seemed carved from the expectations everyone had for him, including his own. Professor Hitsugaya and Toshiro were two separate people in your mind but it was clear the distinction wasn’t so simple for him.

You kissed him before he could change his mind, cradling his face in your hands, his cheeks growing hot as his breath filled your mouth.

Tugging him closer, you threw your legs around him and he responded quickly, his hands supportive and firm under your thighs.

You rolled his bottom lip between your teeth and he gave a low groan that sunk to a satisfied sigh. The front of his navy dress pants were tight and your hands twitched against his shoulders at the feel of it flush against you.

“Aren’t you tired of humoring me,” you whispered against his lips.

Face aflame, Toshiro seemed stuck, his body straining closer while he resisted responding.

That was something he simply couldn’t hide—his innate shyness to intimacy. He was so used to the clear boundaries of professional relationships. So suited to professor or colleague but uncertain about the rules of lovers.

His insistence to tutoring you, on ensuring none of his students leaving his class reflecting a failing on his part by departing with a failing grade, had been the start of it all.

Toshiro was a person, whereas Professor Hitsugaya was a sculpture of ice, frozen in a prison of his own talent and sense of responsibility.

Toshiro met your eyes with hesitance and you smiled prettily for him, grinding against his hardening boner in encouragement.

“Y-you’re a horrible student,” he said, his palms sweating against your skin.

Nodding enthusiastically, you fisted the lapels of his button-up, “don’t you just wanna teach me a lesson?”

He got better as he went, his tone hardening, jerking you off the desk by the belt-loops of your jean shorts.

By the time you’d been raised back onto the desk, Toshiro was gone and Professor Hitsugaya was giving you a stony stare that swirled excitement in your stomach.

He didn’t undress, only shoving his pants and underwear down enough to let his cock spring free.

You’d always been taller, but it didn’t make him less domineering or you less eager to be an obedient student. Eagerly, you bent your head down to kiss him again.

“Please treat me well, Professor,” you said after he’d kissed you hard, your chest heaving for breath, your nipples squished against the cotton of his shirt.

His face was pure business as he eased into you. “As long as you study diligently.”

But your wet entrance was greedy to have him fully inside and your rhythm stole his coolness, his act unraveling much faster than he’d built it up. He groaned as you tightened around his cock.

Forcing you to lie back, he squeezed one of your breasts before enveloping your nipple with his hot tongue. Your moan was sharp, your body sliding on the smooth desk as your swirling hips beckoned him faster.

“Toshiro,” you panted as he leaned over you, stretching to kiss you as his thumb circled your pulsing clit. “I’m really—I’m so close, you’re so, so good.”

“C-call me Professor again,” he said, trembling on that same cliff you were close to falling from.

His eyes were glazed and barely open as you gave a breathy laugh and pulled him down by his white hair.

“I love you, Professor.”

Toshiro shuddered, his thumb racing against your clit and his hips thrusting tense and uneven, “again.”

You whispered into his mouth, “I love you, Professor Hitsugaya” and went stiff before you could say it again, your body wracking with pleasure that ran so hot, you felt frozen in the wave of it.

He followed with a few more uneven pumps, your pussy no longer allowing him to pull out more than inch or two.

After a few minutes of basking in his body on top of yours, you brushed your nose against his and kissed his cheeks, nose, and lips.

“I love you too,” he said, calm, squeezing your hips, then your waist, then your breasts.

“I figured, since you humored me enough to fuck me in your precious classroom.”

He slid away, tying up the condom he’d used, throwing it in a plastic back, and shoving it in the trashcan.

“Shut up. It was just this once.”

You laughed deeply and stood, letting Toshiro dress you.

“I remember you saying something similar the first time we kissed.”

He rolled his eyes, picking at the cuffs of his shirt, “Since when do students question their professors?”

“Am I risking a failing grade in being a girlfriend now?” You kissed him again, straightened his tie.

“Yes. Now get the vinegar spray out of the cabinet and help me clean your mess,” Toshiro’s mouth was smug.

You complied, laughing again, heart squeezing to see him hiding a laugh behind a cough. “My mess!! Take some responsibility, why don’t you.”

“Grab the disinfecting wipes, too.”

[five-rivers]

Ancestral 9

“So.  Aconite?” asked Danny during a lull in the stream of treatments and tests.  “Isn’t that wolfsbane?”

"Yes," said the doctor, looking rather nervously at Matthew.  

At least, Danny thought she was looking at Matthew.  His vision was still kind of blurry, a reasonable side-effect of having poison splashed into them.  She could have been looking at the family in general, all of whom were squeezed into the room.  Apparently, as long as they stayed out of the way of the doctors, it was best for security purposes to have them all together.

“Both the tests on what was recovered from you and what was recovered from the cup indicate that the wine was dosed with massive amounts of aconite, and your symptoms match.  It’s a very, hm, traditional poison, so treatment is well known.  We’re monitoring both your blood pressure and your heart rate, and you’ve been given an activated charcoal treatment and atropine.”  She paused.  “You seem to be recovering, although your heart rate is still much lower than we’d like.  I’m actually surprised you’re still conscious…”

“That’s normal for Danny, now,” said Jack.  “Well, maybe not this low, but his heartbeat is pretty slow all the time, now.”

“It isn’t in his medical records,” said the doctor.

“Had him checked back in the US.  I guess it never made it here.”

“We had other concerns at the time, Jack,” said Maddie from where she was sitting in a chair next to Danny’s bed.

Oh, yeah, Danny had the impression he was missing a metric ton of significant looks.  

“Well,” said Danny, “I feel… not great, but okay?  Like, my skin is still pretty numb, kind of like when you get an anesthetic from the dentist.”

There were, however, significant looks that Danny wasn’t missing.  Apparently, he wasn’t seeing the ghosts with his physical eyes, but with something else, because they stood out sharply from their blurry surroundings.  Right now, they were looking at him like Jazz did, when he said he wasn’t hurt after a fight.  

Really, he was fine.  Spooked, but fine.  

(In some ways, it was sort of a relief to know that he was human enough to be affected by poison.  Being half dead had a tendency to make you hyper aware of your own mortality and dubious of it at the same time.)

“But, back to it being wolfsbane.  Why wolfsbane?  You’d have found that if that was why everyone else…  I mean, they don’t think you’re a werewolf or something, do they?  Is that a thing?”

Matthew sighed.  “No, I’m not a werewolf.”  Another sigh.  “Unfortunately.  I’d love to only have to worry about wolfsbane and silver”

“No, that’s not what’s going on,” said Maddie.

“So what is going on?  I think I deserve to know, having been almost killed and all.  Are you going to try again with the coronation?  And- And has anyone found Vivian yet?”  He tried to send an apologetic expression Vivian’s way, for using her as a conversation pivot.

“Doctor Hys,” said Matthew.  “This discussion is about to touch on both family matters and those of state, so if you can continue your monitoring else where…?”

“Of course, your highness.  May God and the ancestors bless you.”  Danny saw the door, briefly, as a rectangle of slightly dimmer light, and then the doctor closed it behind herself, and the family was alone.  

“The Assembly is discussing regency,” said Joanna.  

“Which they really should have since the beginning,” added Eugene.

Danny wasn’t so sure of that.  He wasn’t clear on all the details, but regents had fewer powers than a sitting monarch.  They couldn’t change throne policies - like the one about approval of foreign businesses, Danny realized - or appoint new Secretaries - which would leave the Speaker hearing spy reports.  Great-Grandma Rose had been Alfred’s King’s Secretary.

Other countries would probably have a conniption about the conflict of interest.

“It makes more sense than declaring one of us king or queen without the trials,” agreed Joanna.  “They were set on it, but now they think the poisoning is a… bad omen.”  There was a guilty sort of satisfaction in her tone.  

Maddie scoffed.  “Can you not?” she asked.  “Here, with my son seriously injured, can we discuss this like rational human beings who live in this century?”

“If we were dealing with rational human beings,” said Irene, “we would.  But a person willing to commit so many murders isn’t rational.  Nor are… humans in general.”

“Mom,” said George.  

“I want to know about Vivian as well,” said Jazz.  “There has to be something about where she went.”

“The investigation there is ongoing,” said Matthew.  “For the rest of Danny’s questions… To start at the beginning, you wouldn’t know this, but in the very distant past, there was a legend that members of the royal family with the favor of the spirits and the ancestors were immune to wolfsbane poisoning.  So, of course, any member of the royal family who was successfully poisoned didn’t have their favor.”  His blurry form made a shrugging motion.  “It’s been discredited nearly that long - there were herbalists back then who were occasionally able to use belladona to counter some of the effects of aconite poisoning - but that particular method of assassination has become traditional for signaling certain grievances.”

“Did Lord Kyppe have those grievances?” asked Iris, darkly.  

“He’s maintaining that he had no idea.  Which, considering his position, is very nearly as bad,” said Matthew.  “Even if he turns out to be innocent, the traditionalist faction will be out for his blood.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Jack.  “Forget them!  Maddie and I are out for his blood!”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” said Matthew, dryly.  “And, then… You are right that we’d be able to tell if- if everyone else died of aconite poisoning.  It decays quickly, but not that quickly.”  He shook his head.  “We–”

He was interrupted by a phone ringtone, a high-pitched electronic version of the Avlynyse national anthem.  

“Hello?” answered Sophia tremulously.  There was some shifting as she moved through the room.  “Alright,” she said, voice already cracked and tearful.  “I’m sitting down.”  There was a beat, and then Sophia made a high, keening sound.  

“Mom?  What-  What’s wrong?”

Another phone started to ring (still with the national anthem, but a slightly more traditional version), and Matthew swore.  “What?” he snapped.  “Oh, God.  Are you sure it’s her?  Yes.  Yes.  We’ll make the announcement… shortly.”  Matthew took a deep breath and closed his phone with a snap.  “They found Vivian’s body.”  

There was quiet.  Danny was sure everyone had already at least suspected that Vivian was dead.  Having it confirmed was something different.  

“Oh,” said Leo, weakly.  “Oh.  Do they… do they know how…?”

“You don’t want to–” started Matthew.  

“She’s my sister.”

Matthew exhaled slowly.  “She was beaten to death.  They stole her Key and the Lesser Seal.”  He inhaled again, loud enough to be heard.  “We’re going to need to make a public statement.  And–”  His phone tweedled.  “And the Assembly wants to have a special session to hash out a regency decision, and–” another tweedle, “and, ancestors.”  More tweedles.  “It’s going to be never ending.  My family is dying, and–”  He fell silent.  

“Matthew?” asked Irene from the same general area Sophia was in.  Were they hugging?  Maybe?  “What’s wrong?”

“Investigation just found that someone replaced the contents of Grandma’s capsule pills with nitroglycerin,” said Matthew, tersely.  “Matches with her symptoms… heart stopped, but not the other signs of anaphylaxis, darn it.”

“That’s… three different causes of death, isn’t it?” asked Jazz, thinly.  “Four different methods, if you count the wolfsbane.  That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” said Matthew.  “It could be six, for all I–  Nevermind that.  We need to get back to Kyr Argyn, for the special session, and ‘figure out what the future will look like.’”

“We who?” asked George.  

“Adults,” said Matthew.  “Anyone eligible for regency.”

“Not me, then,” said Eugene.  

“You, too,” said Matthew.  “Just because some idiots in the newspapers called you a bastard a few times doesn’t mean you aren’t perfectly legitimate, legally speaking.”  

“Wait, what do you mean I’m legitimate?  I thought–”

“You can’t expect me to leave Danny,” interrupted Maddie.  “He was just poisoned.”

“Legally, everyone currently in the country–”

“I can stay, Mads,” said Jack.  “Me’n Jazz’ll hold down the fort with Danny here.”

“We really do need you to come,” said Matthew.

“Fine,” said Maddie.  “Danny, I–”

“It’s okay, Mom.  I’ll be fine.  I am fine.”  

Maddie patted his hand.  “We’ll have to disagree on that.  Jazz, if you notice anything unusual, let your father and the doctors know right away.  And– Who from security will be staying with them?”

Matthew rattled off a list of names that Danny instantly forgot.  

“Right,” said Maddie.  “Let them know, too.  Danny, just… try to be safe.”

Well.  Ouch.  Danny would have everyone know that he always tried to be safe.  And careful.  And a lot of other things.

It took a few most of a half an hour for everyone to move out.  Apparently they had to coordinate with the security team, get everything lined up beforehand, etcetera.  

“I think,” said Danny, “that I’m in shock.  Emotionally speaking.”

“That makes all of us,” said Jazz.

.

Jazz couldn't give him the kit until they were alone and Jack had dozed off.  

"Security took me back to the house to get some of your clothes and things.  You're going to have to help me, though.  I don't know what's best for poisoning."

Neither did Danny, really.  Surprisingly, poison, contact or otherwise, wasn't something he had to deal with all that often.  Except for blood blossoms… and whatever was in Vlad’s stupid knockout gas, and those spiders that one time… did Spectra’s weird ghost mosquitoes count as poison?

Next chance they got, Team Phantom would have to look into poison remedies.  

“Energy tablet for now,” said Danny.  “Then, um.  The little jar of eyewash.”  The eyewash was a dilute solution of ectoplasm and salt, usually used for eye injuries, or the irritation that he sometimes got from his eyes deciding to be flashlights, but it could help. It’d be nice to be able to focus his eyes again.

Jazz passed over the tablets almost immediately.  The eyewash, however…

Danny sniffed at the jar.  “This isn’t the eyewash.”  It was, in fact, the blood blossom cream.  After a few additional natural portal related journeys, Danny had found that while just being near blood blossoms in ghost form was agony, touching them in human form gave him a nasty, itching rash.  And hives.  And… And there was a thought there, but it wouldn’t come loose.  

“It’s the only jar you have,” said Jazz.  

Danny frowned.  “Oh,” he said.  “I might have…  Not brought the eyewash, I guess.”

“Why?”

“It’s liquid.  You’re not supposed to bring liquids on planes.”

“We had a private charter flight.”

“I didn’t know that when I packed.”  He handed the cream back to her and chewed on the energy tablet.  Ecto-dejecto and weird dehydrated orange juice powder.  Yum.  

Not.  

“I brought something else as well,” said Jazz, pulling something small and square from her purse and unfolding it.  

Danny squinted.  “Jazz,” he said, his whisper dripping with as much disappointment as he could squeeze in, “is that a ouija board?”

“I thought it could help with, you know.”  She leaned in, and if the only witness wasn’t dead asleep, she would have definitely given them away.  “With communicating with your invisible friends.”

“Can we not say things that make me sound crazy?” asked Danny.  “And I know you can’t be serious.  Ouija boards are trademarked by Hasbro.  Nothing trademarked by Hasbro can possibly be spiritual.”

“I don’t mean like that,” said Jazz.  “I mean, regardless of what it’s supposed to be used for, it’s still got the alphabet on it.  If the ghosts here can’t write anything out, they can at least point and you can read what they’re saying.”

Good idea, except… “I can barely see, Jazz.  Everything is little blobs of color.”

“Okay,” said Jazz, “but you can still see well enough to point where they’re pointing, right?”

“Well… yeah.  I can see them pretty well, actually.”

“Great,” said Jazz.  “Then, I’ll read off what you’re pointing at, okay?”

Danny looked up at Gwensyvyr, who shrugged, then nodded.  “Okay, yeah.”

“Then let’s start with Vivian–”

“She’s not here.”

“What?”  

“She went with Aunt Sophia and Lewis and Leo.”

“Oh.  Well.  That makes sense.  Who’s here, then?”

“Uh,” said Danny.  “A whole bunch of people.  And Gwensyvyr.”

Silence.  

“As in, the founder–” started Jazz.

“Of Avlynys Gwensyvyr?” they finished together.  

“Yeah, that Gwensyvyr,” said Danny.  

“Okay.  Um.  Nice to meet you…?”  Jazz paused for a long moment.  “This is really weird.  Did you see who tried to poison Matthew?”

Danny followed Gwensyvyr’s finger.  

“Hm,” said Jazz.  “That’s a yes.  Do you know their name?”

Gwensyvyr shifted.  

“No.  So.  That’s too bad.  Anyone else here know their name?”.

.

Matthew’s would-be poisoner, as it turned out, was a young, red-headed man with a press badge that said his name was Wallace Hadryn.  Right before the ceremony, he’d had a quick interview with the Cupbearer, and dropped two pills into the cup while distracting the Cupbearer ‘masterfully’ in the words of one of the ghosts.  

The pills had been red.  All but invisible against the dark wine.  They’d dissolved slowly, and the Cupbearer’s high-tech tests and traditional sip hadn’t affected him.  

“At least,” said Jazz, “not at the time.  I wonder if he might start feeling some symptoms anyway.”

Before that, none of the ghosts had been particularly paying attention to the young man, so they didn’t know who he’d talked to before, if anyone.  

As for who had killed the others…  The ghosts had no real idea.  They’d been repelled from the area, and had only seen ‘suspicious figures’ at a distance.  If that.  

That was bad.  It was very bad that whoever did this knew the ghosts were there and could get rid of them.  Or that whoever had killed them had coincidentally stumbled on something that could banish ghosts.  Even if they were weak ghosts.  

Gwensyvyr had suspicions, though.

There have always been those who seek to tear power from this land and all kinds of people leave ghosts, Gwensyvyr had picked out, letter by letter.  I fear this is a plan long brewed.  We have been growing weaker for some time, even before your grandfather’s death.  Cut off from allies.  Many of my kin have only woken for this latest tragedy, and will sleep again, perhaps forever, and some sleep still.  No hope for the future.  

At least, that's what Danny and Jazz had eventually puzzled out.  Wonderful their ancestor might be, it was clear she'd never practiced the art of spelling.  In any language.  

“You think the ones doing this are ghosts?” asked Danny.  

Perhaps.  Or they are guided by ghosts.  Look to the death of your grandfather, of your grandmother.  Look at those who preach progress and stability, but only think of paper gold.  She bared her teeth.  Look at their corporations and businesses.  These worms in the Assembly.  I call especially for you to look on Julius Skippa.  His father brought in that vile construction business.

“But why would they do it?” asked Jazz.  “Apart from the usual mundane reasons, I mean.  It seems like all they’d have to do is wait.”

There are sacred things our family has long been charged with, older than this kingdom.  Things that have been desecrated and not restored.  Things that I may not speak of.  Your grandfather was the last to attempt the trials.  Vyvyan was preparing for them.  

“They would have noticed something,” said Danny.  “Or the trials would have fixed some of it.”

Gwensyvyr nodded and pointed at yes.  I think, too, that the monsters wish to return.  To take more than what they have taken already.  Thus the seal.  Thus the key.  Would that I were stronger!  I would tear them to shreds if they tried.  

“But Matthew wasn’t going to do the trials,” said Jazz.  “Not right away, at least, and with everything else, it would have been easy to distract him from ever taking them.”

But Mathyw denied them.  On the phone, and later, in the halls of Kyr Argyn.  And I am not certain sure that we face only one enemy.

A ghost phased through the wall and made gestures at Gwensyvyr, who nodded.  

Keep safe, little syvyrys.  The title - applied to both him and Jazz - made Danny blink, then flush.  His numbness must be getting better, for him to feel that.  With you here, there is hope for the future after all.  Then Gwensyvyr took a step back from the board and made a closing motion with her hand.  

Jazz hastily closed and put away the ouija board.  Just in time.  Matthew had returned.  

“Jazz, Danny, how are you?”

“Fine,” said Danny.  

“As well as can be expected,” said Jazz.

Matthew smiled tightly.  “Jack,” he said.  “Maddie wants to talk to you.  Jack!”  He nudged Jack’s shoulder.  

“Whazzat?”

“Maddie wants to talk to you.”

“Alright, then,” said Jack.  “Will you–”

“I’ll watch the kids, yes.”

“Okay!  Stay safe, kids!”

“That was fast,” commented Jazz.  

“It didn’t seem that way,” said Matthew.  “You two didn’t realize there were monitored security cameras in here, did you?”

Danny’s heart leapt into his throat.  From the way Jazz froze, he suspected hers had done the same.  

It made sense that there would be, of course.  In retrospect, security wouldn’t have left them alone like this otherwise, but that meant…

“How long,” asked Matthew, voice trembling with some emotion Danny couldn’t place, “have you been a syvyr?”

[unohanaswetdream]

THE KNOWING PT. 1/3

Now we're lying about the nights

Hiding all it behind the smiles

Take a look at what you did

You probably thought that you'd break my heart

You probably thought that you'd make me cry

But, baby, it's okay

I swear it's okay

♡♡♡ summary: Everyone and everything must follow their designated life cycle, it is impossible to avoid.

 AO3 | PT.1 | PT.2 | PT.3

2.5k words

A/N enjoy my overuse of italics >.<

WARNINGS - spoilers for season 5, ep 3 - 18+ please - gun violence causing death - mentions of addiction and usage of drugs - unhealthy/toxic depiction of relationships - swearing

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You did not even know how you got here, one second you got a call from Ignacio saying to come to Los Pollos Hermanos leaving you to drop everything due to your lover being back from his trip to Mexico. The next second you were in the office of the boss of Los Pollos Hermanos where he apologised for having to do this, to being out in the desert god knows where, standing under the scorching sun without a cloud in the sky. You were 100% sure that if you were destined to make it out of here alive you were going to get killed by skin cancer because of course today was the day you decided against sunscreen.

You enjoyed your silly little worrying over not wearing sunscreen as it helped to get your mind off of this astonishing situation you got yourself into. While you had no idea what was happening,  all you knew was that the situation called for you to shut up and act like nothing was out of the ordinary.

You knew Ignacio was into something ahhh… not quite legal due to his extensive range of accessible drugs laying around his house and the gun that he constantly had in his jacket which you’d always play with. Yet, you never asked or questioned why it was like that and in turn he never pried into your private life. That was the only rule or boundary you both had even though it was unspoken.

But you thought he was smart enough not to bring you into his fucking shit. Never set expectations because that just sets you up to have them crushed and this unfortunately had set up the theme for today.

Looking down you watched the love of your life all bloody kneeling in the dirt, a rectangle piece of duct tape was covering his mouth , for god knows what reason. You could not deny that even in this state he was still as godly as ever, his shirt covered in blood clung to his bulging biceps, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off his perfectly sculptured forearm while the top three buttons of his shirt were undone leaving his top part of his chest exposed. You had to restrain yourself from coming up to him to run your hands up and down his chest.  The tough, bloody and slutty look you fell for.

The love of your life, you repeated in your head, was he really the love of your life ? Did you guys really love each other ? What was love ? Did love show its self in one way or many ways ? Maybe it was love even though it was sick and twisted, maybe not. Your mind not knowing how to categorise your relationship, every attempt led to a dead end.

You let out a subtle sigh, why did humans love to categorise things in tiny neat little boxes only to know it will result in numerous problems down the track ?

Thinking back about your relationship with him, you could not think of anything that brought you genuine happiness, joy or love… all it was, was fighting, jealousy and sex.

You and Ignacio would hold each other all sweaty and out of breath , the atmosphere would be heavy with the smell of sex, you would confess your undying love to him and promise to divorce your husband however, you’d still wake up early to make your husband breakfast and give in to his begs of wanting you to dance with him while he cooks. Ignacio would return your feelings and promise that he would kick Amber and Jo out for you yet, go home, drug them up and fuck them like he fucked you.

 And yet you both believed each other’s lies.

When you would become sick of the lies, you’d go to his house when he was not there, just for Amber and Jo to open the door, you would give them a big insidious grin while shoving a little zip lock bag that was in your hand into their faces so they could let you in. You would fuck around with them until Ignacio would come home so he would catch you with his girls. You implanted fear into his head, you implanted the idea that you would take his little play toys away from him, leaving him all alone.

And he did the same to you. He would plan a time for you to come over for a date, leaving the door accidentally open so you would walk in only to hear the noises of soft moans and harsh grunts, balls slapping against skin and the smell of a combination of drugs. Ignacio would loudly exclaim how they were such good girls and that he would never kick out his sex toys because they feel so good to fuck, no one compared to them. He implanted fear in your head, he implanted the idea that you would never be good enough for him let alone your husband, leaving you all alone. 

You both had the same fears, loneliness. Hence, why you both had backups of backups to give yourselves a sense of security. 

You both never treated Amber and Jo with kindness or respect, let alone like humans. You could not even remember regarding them as such, that bitch or those bitches were almost exclusively used to refer to them. Did taking away their humanity make you and Ignacio subconsciously feel better about the way you treated them ? They were vulnerable people who you both preyed on, exploiting their addictions and loneliness, so they could become your little pawns in your relationship. A little tug of war formed between you and Ignacio, and you used both the girls not caring how it would impact their mental health, their esteem, their over reliance on drugs or their fucking livelihood’s.

You always stopped yourself from reflecting back on how you treated Amber and Jo, but when you would find yourself thinking about them, you’d just snort a line, take a shot or take a hit so you could forget what an awful human being you were to them.

Could you even consider yourself a human being ?

You saw yourself in them, so you took it out on them, saying they were embarrassing, lonely and out of control but that was just you. You did everything and anything to belittle them so you could feel somewhat more in control of your life and that you were better than them, more worthy than them.

You judged them without ever getting to know them, when did you ever ask about their day and not if they had the drugs you fancied for the night.

Deep down you wished you never met this man, Ignacio.

Still not taking responsibility for your actions, huh?

When you guys ever did anything for each other, it was when the end goal was to make the other jealous the other hurt or the other angry.

Yet maybe there was love, the way you brushed his cheek with your thumb when he had a hard day, that was love ? If not, then why would you do that ? It was love, fucking his girls was love, you just wanted to show him that you were hurting, that you were better than those mindless addicts. Your love and worthiness were better than theirs combined or even times two.

He too in his last minutes alive thought the same as you, your relationship may have been a bit bumping. But I mean who’s isn’t ? He’d wash your hair as you complained about how needy and clingy your husband was for always wanting to be near you, joining in when you’d clean the house or always be over your shoulder when you cook to see if you needed anything. That is the type of things people do for each other when they are in love, they listen to their partners woes.

You thought about how love manifested in the relationship ? Surely sex, right ? Making love getting fucked it’s all the same. You fuck when you are in love, you make love when you are in love. Ignacio fucked you because he loved you and you let him because you loved him. 

But you were often curious on what constituted making love ? Was there really a difference between that and fucking ? Obviously, you made love with him as you guys were together but as you thought about it you found it increasingly hard to remember what it was like to make love to Ignacio… maybe it was because it was so good you forgot ? 

Maybe just maybe the little voice in the back corner of your mind whispered that it was because Ignacio wanted you, he created the façade of being sweet and charming until you were in his grasps, never able to leave. Stuck with a man who never cared about you beyond you being a new and different toy.

But realisation had the obsession to always arrive late so they could have their big and grand entrance allowing all the eyes to be on them.

A loud bang causing your ears to ring snagged you out of your thoughts, to only find Ignacio laying on the floor, gun in his hand and a hole in his head that was continuously oozing out his blood. The smell of dried blood mixed with his fresh blood infiltrated your nose.

You could not keep it in, you just could not, you had to laugh, a full belly laugh ripped through you as for a second you had thought he would get you out of this mess his mess, ah expectations such a silly thing.  But of course, the selfish boy was selfish until the end. He feared being alone til the very end, so he acted with all the power he had to make sure it did not happen, in turn leaving you alone.  

Destiny will have it that you will be alone, perhaps as an accumulation of your sins.

Just noticing you now, due to your inappropriate laughing, Juan Bolsa turned to Fring sounding unpleased,  ‘who is that ?’.

Fring looked at you with a blank face then back at Bolsa ‘that is Ignacio’s partner and we have grounds to believe they helped with the murder of Lalo Salamanca’.

Bolsa huffed ‘are these so called grounds, enough to kill an innocent person like them’ pointing at you.

Frings voice was light like he was talking to his close friends, ‘it is up to you, I just wanted to provide the Salamanca’s an extra treat due to the incriminating accusations that I have endured to show my agency I have in serving this family’.

Something told you this was absolute bullshit, the slight coldness in his tone - that no one else seemed to pick up -  exclaimed that he did not give a flying crap about serving this so-called family,  the way this Fring man carried himself screamed I do not serve anyone but me, he seemed far too smart to do someone else’s bidding. You were almost positive that this Fring man was planning something, something big and that this Lalo Salamanca dude was just the beginning of his reign.

The way they were talking was not like they were figuring out whether they should kill you or not but instead like they were planning a party for you and were casually discussing what kinds of foods to get for it.

In this moment you had no idea what to feel. Ignacio left you alone to endure whatever dumb shit this was, it did not make sense, was this the consequence of loving him ?

But Bolsa did not reply.

And Fring just turned away and walked back to the car, Victor and Tyrus following suit, you however, had not one fucking idea what to do so you just copied them.

For a second you were hopeful that you were being let go, you were already eager at the thought of starting anew, unfortunately, your fate was sealed as soon as you heard a ringing of a bell from behind, sending a shiver down your spine, slowly you turned your head around to see what was happening. Within seconds of the bell ringing, one of the twins had whipped out their gun and before you knew it, a tear began to crawl itself down your face, as time had been the slowest you had ever experience, slower than when you would plank for a minute. In what felt like slow motion,  bullet after bullet came whizzing towards you, aiming between your eyes.

While in every waking moment for the past year or so you thought of Ignacio, this time you did not. This time you thought about your husband who was probably waiting for you to come home, so as soon as you would walk in through the door, he knew it was time to put on some music to cook to but like always he would get lost in the music by dancing to whatever sweet melody he decided to play, his face would be full of joy as he would turn to you and force you to join. You thought about how he would stay up until you’d come back from fucking Ignacio believing your lies, just to make sure you were alright so that you both could fall asleep together as he held you whispering sweet nothings into your ear. 

Your last moments were spent on you worrying about how he will stay up all night waiting for you not knowing you will be dead in a matter of milliseconds, buried in the middle of nowhere depending if they cared enough to dig you a grave, to know he was never going to get closure on why you never came home.  Back to him. It was your husband who you only ever truly loved not Ignacio. Your sweet, joyful, loving husband was not that needy or clingy person you described him as, but in lieu was a person who just wanted to make sure you were not lonely by ensuring you were happy and loved every day 24/7,  only to throw it away for something that meant nothing. Only because you wanted to know what it felt like to have such a dark and dangerous secret that could destroy your life. Only because you wanted to feel the thrill of lying to someone who cared about you and thought you felt the same.

You loudly laughed - like someone just said the funniest joke - at the realisation that;

it was death that brought you such clarity.

The light at the end of the stupid tunnel when you died was not you going to heaven or being reborn, coming out the vaginal canal but instead a one last ‘fuck you, here is all the fucked-up shit you did, now reconcile with your stupidity and be enlightened’.

Dauntingly, this newfound wisdom you had freshly experienced was only just the beginning of the end.

What felt like a hot iron rod going through your head disappeared within the second you felt it, leaving you to crumple into the dirt below you, the earth greedily absorbing you to use you for nutrients.

Everyone and everything must follow their designated life cycle, it is impossible to avoid.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

because there is a lot of talking of addictions i just wanted to link some resources (and if you participate in any recreational drug use pls be safe and remember harm reduction saves lives !!!); Directory of non-governmental organizations working in drug demand reduction, unodc.org, 1999 so it is quite old unfortunately but all continents are covered Drugs contacts, health.gov, 2019 Useful links, health.nsw, 2022 Organisations, drugpolicy.org

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

It's new year and Mundi is back to writing Titans!

I'm kicking off 2023 by going back to work on a big project of the current working title "Acrida" and it's an idea that's been living rent free in my head probably since season 1 but only recently took real shape. We have all my favorite things and tropes in it - there's time travel, Dad Grayson, his BFF Donna, a tiny, fussing baby with as much personally as her teenager self 👀, loads of humor and loads of angst! I've teased it before already, but since it's going to be a while before I actually start posting chapters (I want to have it finished before I post), I decided I'm going to promote it by dropping a fairly spoiler-free sneak peek whenever I write something I'm particularly happy about! And this nugget here is a result of today's writing session. Enjoy!

Donna rolled her eyes with a laugh, "You're silly. You know that?"

He was about to respond, though with what exactly he wasn’t sure, but then he noticed she was fiddling with something in her hands. When Donna saw his curious look, she flipped the item over so he could examine it from a different angle; he soon realized it was a cheap, disposable camera.

"I got this at a gas station,” she told him, spinning the camera in her hands. It was a standard black rectangle with the Kodak logo printed on it; she had one just like this when they were teenagers — their silly photos are still buried somewhere in a box deep in his walk-in closet at The Wayne Manor. 

Donna handed it to him and shrugged. “Not much compared to my stuff, but it will still do the job.”

“What job?”

Her face softened. “I figured you’d love to have some baby pictures of her. So your memories can be more than just, you know, memories."

Dick weighed the camera in his hand. He didn’t think of that at first, but now that Donna has mentioned it, he did want to have something that would keep the memory of baby Rachel alive. Back home, they didn’t have any baby pictures of either her or Gar, and it was never something any of them particularly cared about until Kory got pregnant and they came back home with their first ultrasound pictures of Mar’i. Kory got very upset that there were no pictures of Gar and Rachel when they were babies that she could add this one to. Dick remembered finding her curled up on the couch with them both with tears in her eyes as she asked them question after question about what they knew about themselves at that time, if they remembered any pictures ever existing, or what their parents had told them in the past. 

He blamed her emotional state on hormones then. But the thought of having to return home without tangible proof that he had held his adopted daughter in his arms when she was just a tiny, fussing baby was unimaginable to him. Now he understood Kory’s grief a little more.

He whispered a quiet "thank you" to Donna as his anger and embarrassment faded and turned into warmth. The silence was broken by an eruption of a sweet baby laugh coming from the other room, and Dick felt himself smiling.

If you want to see more, I'll be posting the sneak peeks under the "Acrida Fic" tag. And if you want to be tagged in sneak peeks and chapters when they come out, let me know! In the meantime, I have one more His Dark Materials sweet one-shot I'll be working on and some Dickkory spice coming your way 👀🥵 my besties put out VDay prompts and gears started turning 😏

[seokiloquy]

If Only Then - Takeda Ittetsu

Au: Regular

Tags/Warnings: GN! Reader, Platonic relationship, angst?, freeform and stream of thought writing

Word Count: 1.7k +

Takeda would never forget his first year of teaching. Fresh out of university and into his first position, teaching students about contemporary Japanese literature —a topic he was passionate about— he was bound to meet some backlash from students who wouldn’t take him seriously. It was hard too. He couldn’t blame them; they weren’t much younger than he was, and they didn’t see a teacher when he walked through the door. They saw a friend.

One student, a social deviant who enjoyed bending the rules, would always pop up in his memory whenever a new development occurred, even years later.

Today, a student showed up with a uniform that was three sizes too big (a laundry mishap leading to the use of their older sibling’s clothes). When the teacher roaming the entrance to the school called them out on their improper dress, they responded quickly, “It’s still the uniform. I’m not breaking any rules.”

Takeda could see the scene perfectly in his mind. On the first day of school, a third-year student wearing a mixed-dressed amalgamation of both school uniforms in the back row of his classroom.

“(L/N), is it? Why are you not wearing the school-issued uniform?”

He glanced at the plaid skirt that poked out underneath the military-style jacket, briefly wondering just where your pants had gone.

“I am, technically. I just wanted to have a bit of style, ya know? Nothing in the school rules about mixing uniforms.”

The next day, you appeared in the black pants and beige sweater vest, the tie acting as a belt instead of sitting around your neck. Takeda didn’t say a word.

Sometimes he wondered how you would have acted had he been strict about your clothing, slightly regretting the hold that that 3rd-year glass had over him. Would the class have been quieter? Sullen even? Instead of the daily enthusiastic shouts of answers without raised hands and impassioned readings of plays, would it have been silent and disengaged?

Takeda knew that allowing some freedom, at least within his classroom, made students more comfortable even if they didn’t care for the content.

“Nishinoya, while I appreciate the noise, if you could have your conversation be about class topics and not about girl uniforms, I would appreciate it.”

“Who said they’re not wearing girl’s uniforms in the book?”

“The book said so. If you would actually read, you would know.”

The class laughed, but it didn’t wipe the smile off the boy’s face.

“Why are you just sitting in my classroom instead of participating in a club or studying for entrance exams?”

You kicked your feet up on the desk and lulled your head around. “I don’t know. My club closed last year because I was the last member left. So I can’t do anything about that. And I never really planned on going to university. I don’t have anything that interests me enough to pursue.”

Takeda flipped over the last test and wrote the final grade on the top corner in a red pen. He held the paper in the air. “Your test.”

You jumped off your desk and ran toward him, taking the paper in a casual grip. “93, nice.” You folded it into a small rectangle and tucked it into your pocket.

“Nice? That’s an excellent grade.”

The white fabric of your button-up folded by your neck as you shrugged. “On the higher end, ya, I guess.”

“You guess?” Takeda wanted to laugh in disbelief. “You’re an amazing student.”

“Not really. I just know how to talk to people and think a bit. I don’t study or try very hard or want to.”

“And don’t want to go to university. Even though you’d do amazingly well.”

“Yup.” You had fallen back into your seat at the back of the classroom.

“Why?”

“Why would I?”

Takeda watched students come and go, each with their own attitudes, personalities, and thoughts, yet somehow he could find you in each of them. You were a bit of an enigma. Puzzling in how you contradicted yourself, changed yourself, and became a different person from day to day, yet remained consistent.

He would teach lessons, never seeing your eyes while he stood at the front. But he’d know you were listening, paying attention, and understanding, even if your eyes were downcast.

“Kageyama, can you answer question number five? What evidence supports the claim that Takahashi has changed his views?”

“Uh..”

Takeda glanced at the boy’s desk through the side of his glasses, trying to suppress the smile on his cheeks. “If you can’t memorize game plans, pay attention to the lesson. Might I subject you to focus on the one you’ll be graded on?”

Kageyama tucked the game plan sheet into his bag, desperately trying to remember what his classmates answered for the other four questions.

“You’re good at art then.” He said, glancing over your shoulder.

You jumped, not expecting any comment, before sitting back and allowing him to see more of the ink-covered page. 

“Just some sketches.”

After that, you’d run up to him at the end of class and show him whatever drawing you were working on if you were proud of it.

“What was your club activity anyways?”

“Robotics.”

“Really?

“Ya! It was cool to build and code all the parts to get things working. The last one we made could play tik-tak-toe!”

A student asked him about the unwritten relationship between two of the characters in their most recently read story. It led to a class discussion with the students trying to use the clues in the story to figure out more information. Eventually, they settled on their connection about conflicting views and learning.

In the front row of the class, Sugawara took notes with interest. Though, he had two notebooks instead of one.

“Why don’t you wear the school uniform properly, anyway?”

“Why is there a proper way to wear a school uniform?”

Takeda took in your appearance and demeanour. Non-conforming, casual, uncaring, a bit strange. 

“And what about going to university? For robotic engineering, design.”

“They’re hobbies.”

“Passions,” he tried to correct.

“Not enough.”

Without realizing it, Takeda had grown to enjoy your conversations, your brain, and how you made the room feel full with just your presence and rambling words of little or existential thought.

He learnt far more than he could have expected from just a single person. It wasn’t just facts and information, but abstract learnings that could be used for later reference in different settings.

Takeda was pondering when a large 3rd-year boy ran in, tears hanging off the edges of his eye like a dam waiting to burst. 

“You can cry, you know?”

The boy gave him a weary smile before falling to his knees with a loud thud.

“What’s wrong, Azumane?”

“School stuff.”

You went to university—computer engineering with a minor in digital art. Both were topics you would often give full-hearted speeches in his classroom. However, you came to visit.

“How’s university going?” He asked when you visited at the end of your first year, as any teacher would.

You gave him an expression he had never seen on your face before—a tight and strained smile that was held close to your teeth.

“I wish I had never gone.”

“You’re not failing, are you?” he tried to joke.

You scoffed but let your teeth show in a hidden laugh. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

It looked like you were about to shatter. “I’ve just lost all the love I had for it. The things I enjoyed most in the world, I now hate.”

Takeda slid open a drawer of his desk and pulled out a tissue. You, despite the offer, shook your head and looked out the window.

“Do you not need it?”

“I haven’t cried in years.” You managed to turn your attention back to him, meeting his eyes briefly before turning away.

“You can cry, you know? You’re allowed to.”

Finally, you broke.

He quickly regretted pushing you to go. It was a reminder that not every person finds their passion early and knows what they want to do with life as he did. It hurt worse when a few stray tears turned into an avalanche as you begged the empty classroom to turn back time and allow you to sit in the back row again. Begged to just sit there and talk.

Takeda wished he could have helped more than try to wipe away the tears you wouldn’t let him see.

After that, he took courses on student health and wellbeing, never having thought he would need to before.

He lost track of you, however. After a few more visits with unclear paths, you stopped appearing.

You stared outside the classroom window, watching a crow as it landed on a treetop and opened its beak in a loud caw. 

“I want nothing more than to be happy and at peace. Doing whatever it is that I love doing for whatever reason. I don’t need big achievements, rewards, or endless growth. No need for a big wallet or name recognition. I just want to be happy.”

Takeda heard your response with a curious ear. If only he had done what he taught his students and looked for the clues.

The crowd was deafening, and Takeda wished he could have made a bubble to shield him and the shivering student on the bench. The boy needed a break, somewhere quiet to rest his head, even if Takeda had to fight him to do so. He was just too passionate.

On his knees, Takeda held the boy’s arms, trying to convey all the care and understanding he had while meeting his unfocused eyes. There was loss, and frustration, pouring out of the boy alongside the sweat that would continue until his body temperature was regulated. Soon, Takeda knew that tears would be joining no matter the outcome of the match. Hinata had just taken a hard blow.

“You of all people should be in peak condition. So that you can always be on the frontline when you get the chance.”

He could only hope that he chose the right words to say.

If only he could have said something more back then.

I thought it was angsty, but that might just be me self-projecting, I am mentally ill afterall. As for the MC….. uhh, thats up to you. -Bacon

Posted: 31/07/2022

[yandere-sins]

His Love

Horrortober Day 4: Needle  |  “It’s just a tiny sting. You won’t notice it at all.”

Day 4! Time is passing so fast... but I am glad to do this challenge :3 I think the biggest challenge for me is actually writing for the character’s I predetermined at the beginning. I find myself wanting to switch them around for prompts but no! I will stick to the list and keep challenging myself ^-^

Warnings: Yandere, TW Needle/Syringe, Kidnapping, Gags and being tied up, Sedation Characters: Dazai Osamu x Reader

It was wrong.

With tears streaming down your face, you had to recognize that everything you thought had been right was actually terribly wrong. You only just met him. Perhaps it had been a month now. But really, you only just met this wonderful stranger named Dazai. He didn’t just catch your eye, he also pulled at your heartstrings. It was the kind of love you always had wanted, just… it wasn’t. Not really. 

Not if that love meant being held captive, gagged and tied, staring into the face of a madman.

Something about the way he held the needle in his hand, clear drops of something collecting at its nozzle, seemed utterly wrong. Not just morally. Morally it was very wrong. No one should fear getting injected with something unknown. But the way he held it was strange enough to ring alarm bells. As if he didn’t know how to properly use it.

As if he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Shh,” Dazai shushed you calmly, holding down your right leg as you began to move and struggle again. Panic rose inside of you, festering in every inch of your body. NO! you wanted to scream at him, your bare feet trying to kick Dazai or at least the syringe out of his hand. Whatever his plan was, you didn’t want to have anything to do with it. 

You’ve tried being calm, tried being patient with him. When he invited you over to his apartment, only to spike the tea he served you with drugs, you were scared, yes. But you tried your best to work with him and his crazy wishes. No useless question fell off your lips anymore after Dazai stared at you crazed when you asked him if you could leave. You’ve been so good. So why did you have to go through this?

“It’s just a tiny sting. You won’t notice it at all,” Dazai assured you, or rather, reassured you. But with your mouth gagged, you couldn’t tell him how little you feared the needle and how much you feared what it would transfer in your body. With the last bit of effort you could come up with, you looked at him, fixating his eyes with yours. As miserable as you could, you pleaded with him silently to please not do it.

And for a moment, it seemed to work. Dazai merely stared back. You weren’t sure what he saw, maybe it was his own reflection that made him hesitant, but it caught him, made him lower his arm. “You know,” he mumbled, slowly painting his fingers over your leg. It gave you goosebumps, but at the same time, it helped to lower your anxiety, seeing how he relaxed. “I don’t like doing this to you, either.”

Even you knew those were empty words. Just like all the other words he always told you. Dazai’ loved you’, ‘adored you’ even. What a joke. ‘Couldn’t imagine a life without you’ and ‘wished to always be with you’. And he could have! Some part of you believed that if he hadn’t done these things to you—kidnapping and mistreating you in every way possible—then perhaps, you two could have become the couple he wanted. He could have proved you wrong. Proved that the love you always wanted did exist!

You two could have found a way to live. With each other or apart, but in love. Beautiful, pure love. But not like this. Not with him still gripping the syringe in his hand, eyes lowering to leer at your body presented to him like a gift. A gift he wrapped himself while you were unconscious like so many of your days now. Because you were his present to enjoy, no matter if you liked it or not. 

A sigh of relief left you, despite getting stuck on the gag, and you dared to look away, only to feel his grip tighten around your ankle again. Alarmed, you opened your eyes again, looking at a man full of disappointment and anger. Back was the tension that left you before and gone the feeling of safety you irresponsibly allowed yourself to have after the threat seemed banned. 

“I don’t like doing it, but I hate it even more to see you’ve been hiding this from me.”

From his trouser’s back pocket, Dazai pulled a black, rectangle object, dangling it in front of your face. Shit, you thought, and you were pretty sure the truth was showing in your expression. You knew exactly what it was: your savior. A phone that the man who came to patch you up after a rough fight with your captor two days ago left you. It had been a risk to have, but you hid it in the cover of your pillow. But without the possibility to use it until now, this random act of kindness had been in vain. You’ve been wanting to dial the emergency contacts, but before you could, Dazai had forced you to rest, leaving you restrained until he came back. But you didn’t think he could find it, even if you never used it. 

“Why must there be secrets between us, my love? You know I hate being deceived, but let’s be honest, did you really think I wouldn’t find it?”

Tugging at your ankle, you yelped, losing the strength in your body to keep yourself up and face him. You’ve been good. All this time, you had been understanding and patient. But who could blame you for clinging to a ray of hope? Shaking your head, you tried to plead with him again, but this time, his expression was merely filled with conceited disappointment. As if he was any better than you. That overprotective, obsessed, and mad asshole. 

“So while I go out and find who dared putting these stupid thoughts in your head, I can’t risk you being as awake and clever as you think you are.”

The syringe came back in sight, and you felt almost defeated, knowing there was nothing you could do against a decision he had already made. There was only hoping for the best and trying to prepare for the awakening by his side later, coddled and suffocating in his chest. 

“Dazai,” you said, but what came out was probably nothing more than blabbering against the gag. If he could say empty words, then so could you. If your survival depended on being sweet and kind to the man who was ruining you with his mere presence, then you would be what he wanted from you. 

His eyes opened wide, his name being such a rare word to hear from you, even if you butchered it with your inability to speak properly. Letting go of your ankle, he climbed on top of you, making it easier to look at him again while you laid down and relaxed. “I love you,” you lied, the feelings never reaching your eyes, but they certainly lifted Dazai’s mood. “Me too!” he sighed, smiling softly. “I love you too.”

It really was just a tiny sting, but against his promise, you felt it painfully in the side of your upper body. Letting out a strained groan, you temporarily tensed before you were sedated, eyes slowly closing as you drifted off to another sleepless night for you. In the cold, dark bunker that Dazai called your home, nothing seemed safe, and nothing was right. You could do everything you dared, but you couldn’t do the things you wanted. 

However, something even Dazai had to realize at some point was that you hadn’t given up yet. You’d never. You had a life before this—one you loved. Even if you had to make yourself small and loveable, endure the hardships of a thousand needles and the love of a psycho who you once thought was the man of your dreams, you wouldn’t give up. You wanted to believe that there was more to life than being here, that there was so much more to see and experience than the trauma you were going through. That there still was true love waiting for you. A love that was stronger than all of this. 

But did you really believe you were stronger than that cunning man who calls you the love of his life?

[reidingmelodies]

The Best Pair

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!Reader Category: Fluff Includes: Brief mention of food Word Count: 1k A/N: This was requested by an anon based off the song “Socks” by Out of Luck! ♡

Masterlist | Ash’s 500 Bash

“Great job, Henry!  That looks just like me,” you jumped as the booming voice broke your focus from your book, eyes scanning the park until a head full of curls caught your attention.

He was sitting on the ground a few paces away, surrounded by piles of chalk with a little boy in tow.  You couldn’t help but smile when the boy jumped into his lap and wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, leaving a trail of green and pink chalk dust in his wake.  As your eyes scanned across the ground in front of them, a laugh left your mouth at the adorable stick figure drawing gracing the otherwise plain pavement.

There were brown wavy lines coming out of the head of the figure that seemed to stick up in every direction and one of the stick figure’s hands held a rectangle that vaguely resembled a book.  Without a doubt, his feet were your favorite part of the drawing, a rainbow of circles drawn on the left foot while the right was covered in blue and pink zig-zag lines. 

And taking one look at the man who was frantically wiping chalk from his pants you knew the miniature Picaso had it right on the money.  

“Hey Uncle Spencer, look!  They have the same book as you!” You broke your reverie to find Henry jumping up and down a few feet away from you, finger wildly pointing in your direction.

You smiled, giving a little wave with the tips of your fingers as the mystery man from earlier came to kneel by the boy’s side and lightly grasped his smaller hand within his.  

You watched as he leaned towards him and explained that ‘it’s not nice to point, Henry, but you’re right- it’s really cool that we have the same book!’

He looked up at you and slightly smiled then, and your heart felt like it grew wings and was about to float out of your chest and into the palm of his hand.

Get it together, Y/N.

He stood, keeping his hold on Henry’s hand and coming face to face with you as you moved to meet him halfway.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he started as a blush crept up his cheeks, “I showed him that book in my apartment before we came here and I guess it made an impression”.

You smiled at the pair, shaking your head in protest, “it’s not a problem, really!  I’d love to hear your thoughts about the book actually if you have time” you watched as Spencer’s mouth slightly dropped before he nodded, and you turned your attention to Henry.  “And you!  You may just be the very best artist I’ve ever seen!” Henry’s expressions mirrored his uncle’s as he eagerly let go of Spencer’s hand to retrieve his chalk.

“I’m gonna draw you now!” you and Spencer watched as he organized the chalk based on the colors of your outfit, and you couldn’t help but thank the universe for bringing you to the park today.

“That’s Henry, and I’m Spencer, I um- I figured we should probably properly introduce ourselves” Spencer’s voice broke you out of your trance, and you locked eyes with him as you introduced yourself, immediately launching into a conversation about your mutual favorite novels.

And just like that, a new Saturday tradition was born.

Soon enough your Saturday afternoons were spent walking around the park with Spencer and Henry, most always ending with you and Spencer swinging Henry in between your bodies before ending the day with ice cream.

Park and ice cream afternoons with your boys somehow led to dinner and movie marathons with Spencer after dropping Henry off, and your heart had never felt so full.  

Every minute spent with him was a minute spent wondering how you had ever known a life without him by your side, and one thing was for sure- you never wanted to live like that again.

***

Two months to the day you had met Spencer and Henry in the park, you found yourself face to face with an eager five year old running to sit next to you on the bench while Spencer ran behind him, shouts of “Henry, no!” desperately leaving his lips.

But, it was too late.

Within a second of plopping down next to you Henry’s mouth was running a mile a minute as he caught you up with the latest gossip.  “I was helping Mommy match socks when we did laundry yesterday! She told Daddy that you and Uncle Spencer would make a good pair and guess what!  I told Uncle Spencer when we were walking here and he said he thinks so too!”

Your lips parted and closed repeatedly, words failing you as you looked up at Spencer.  His face was the brightest shade of red you’d ever seen, his hands moving to rub at his neck while he looked everywhere and anywhere to avoid your questioning gaze.

“Hey Henry,” you stage whispered, “wanna know a secret?”  Henry’s eager nod brought a chuckle out of your mouth despite the all consuming feeling of nerves running through your veins.

“I think your uncle and I would make the very best pair”.

And just like that, three things happened at once.

Henry’s little arms rose above his head in triumph at the same time you stood to your feet and Spencer pulled your body into his.  The warmth of his body against yours brought you an infinite amount of comfort, mind spinning as you realized your secret was finally out in the open.

And when his lips gently met yours much to the disgust of the boy next to you?  One thought made its way to the forefront of your mind- thank goodness for meddling five-year-olds.

***

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[valdomarx]

time enough for counting (when the dealing's done)

McShep + Vegas fix-it, requested by @beautifulmonster. 2k, rated M.

Bad beat

John had always known it would end like this. 

Well, the space aliens and the shady government organization had been a surprise. But the bleeding out, alone in the desert - yeah, that was always how he was going to go.

There’s a kind of dark satisfaction in seeing the world turn out exactly as shitty and brutal as you knew it would be. Called it.

His moment of sick vindication is interrupted, though, by a figure standing over him and peering down with cursory interest.

Sharp black suit, spotless even in the heat and the muck. Hands in pockets, head quirked in something that might be amusement. “Should have known you’d pull a stunt like this,” it says, and John would smirk at playing to type but the blood loss pulls him under.

Ante up

He wakes to pain. Vicious, lancing pain and the cloying smell of antiseptic and the beeping of monitors. He tries to sit up and his chest screams until he collapses back onto the bed.

Next to him, a slightly rumpled McKay is tapping furiously at a laptop. “Don’t go dying on me now, Sheppard,” he says without looking up. “I’ve got plans for you.”

Buy-in

The next time he wakes, the light has faded. It must be evening. 

The hospital room - his own private room, he realizes - is nice. Far too nice for the local joint. Must be private. Must have cost someone a pretty penny. He would have told whoever it is to save their cash.

“You’re awake. Good.” McKay strides in, less rumpled now. Neat black suit back in perfect order. “I don’t have much time, so listen up.”

He tells John how they destroyed the Wraith target before he could get a message to his buddies in Pegasus. How this universe is safe, but the spacetime rift has sent that information echoing through other universes. How they’re putting together a team to visit these other universes; warn them, offer to help if they can.

How he’ll be leaving in a few hours to head up the program. How he thinks John might be able to help.

John blinks. His eyelids are sticky and his mouth is full of fluff.

“Why the hell would you bring this to me?”

McKay flashes him an enigmatic smile. “You did save the world. Maybe you’re more of a hero than you realize.”

On the flop

He gets unceremoniously booted out of the hospital a few days later, when it becomes obvious that he’s not going to die and whoever was bankrolling his stay isn’t any more.

His car is totaled. The money inside is gone. He’s got the clothes on his back, a mountain of debt, no job, and -

He sticks a hand into the pocket of his jacket. There’s something in there: a neat rectangle of card which reads, Doctor Rodney McKay, PhD PhD. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. There’s no phone number.

He heads for the nearest motel he can find, picks up two bottles of rotgut whiskey, and drinks until he manages to pass out amid the sounds of yelling and the scuttering of cockroaches. 

Into the muck

Whatever the fuck else might be going on in the world, there is always the constant: 52 cards, 4 suits, the flick of the dealer’s wrist as he lays out your fortunes, the wins and the loses and the ones where you came oh so close.

He’s back at Mikey’s within a week, borrowing more to get out ahead of this debt, even though he knows that’s never going to work.

Maybe it’ll be different this time. Maybe he can win what he needs, pay off the people he has to, and use the rest to make a start somewhere other than here. Anywhere other than this desert full of chips and blood and corpses and filth.

It’s going to be a good night, he tells himself as he settles into a squeaky plastic chair at a low-roller table and looks around at his competition. Tourists and chumps, and he can take these guys no problem.

Pot-committed

He’s woken by a shrill ringing. His head feels like he’s stuck it in a cement mixer and his mouth tastes like cheap whiskey and puke. He rolls over, covers his ears with a ratty pillow, and ignores it.

The ringing continues. What the fuck? It’s a phone. It keeps ringing. He doesn’t own a phone.

Whoever the fuck is calling is still going, so with a groan he sits up and, bleary-eyed, looks for the phone. He finds it in his jacket pocket, and he’s almost certain it wasn’t there last night.

“Yeah?” he says as he answers it. “What do you want?”

“Sheppard,” a crisp, familiar voice says. “I’ve got a job for you.”

Sheppard closes his eyes. The last thing he needs right now is a world-ending crisis. “Can’t,” he says shortly. “I’ve got… business to attend to.”

McKay snorts. “Another fortune to lose at the poker table? I’m sure you do.” John can hear judgement radiating down the phone line. Then McKay sighs and softens. “Tell you what, meet me and hear me out, and I’ll see what I can do about clearing that off-the-books debt for you.”

That pings John’s bullshit meter, for sure, because that much money doesn’t get casually tossed around even in defense circles. But McKay gives him the address of a pancake place to meet for breakfast and what the hell, he does like pancakes.

Check in the dark

“We keep running into you,” McKay says, shoveling maple syrup-covered pancakes into his mouth with great enthusiasm. “Or, well, other versions of you. Practically every universe we’ve visited so far, you’re leading the team.”

John raises an eyebrow. Not much surprises him any more, but parallel realities strain even his credulity.

“It would be easier,” McKay continues, “if you were with us. You could help us explain. People trust you.”

John jerks back like McKay has slipped a knife between his ribs. McKay doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he does notice and is tactful or manipulative enough not to acknowledge it.

“Come work with me. We’d need to get you some -” he gestures with a fork, “- training, obviously. But you could be useful. You could do some good.”

John shifts in his seat. “I can’t just leave.”

McKay scowls at him. “Right, because you’ve got so many compelling reasons to stay.”

Gutshot

He ends up in some anonymous Air Force bunker in Colorado, of all places, and being around so much military life has his hackles rising. He’s deposited in a blank, windowless room with a desk covered in stacks of carefully redacted mission reports from the Stargate program which he reads voraciously because this is wild, this is unbelievable, but it’s also all true.

McKay finds him a few days later, lounging in the doorway as impeccable as ever. John is suddenly very aware of the fact he’s been sleeping in his clothes.

“Keeping busy?” McKay asks, voice dripping with condescension and something else John doesn’t want to put his finger on.

John nibbles the pen he’s holding as he considers how to answer that, and he notices the way McKay’s eyes flick to his mouth. Ahh. Interesting.

“Staying out of trouble, at least,” he drawls, letting his posture slacken so he’s lounging against the back of the chair and his knees are spread wide. It’s been a while but he knows how to play this game. 

McKay walks around to his side of the desk, each step measured and precise. Not too fast, no sudden movements, a predator lining up for the kill. John tilts his head back and bares his neck, because he knows how to play the role of prey. McKay perches on the edge of the desk between his legs, looks down his nose, and says, “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I can behave.” He looks up from under his lashes. It’s not exactly subtle, but fuck it, they’re way past that by now. “When properly motivated.”

McKay leans in, all sharp smiles and gleaming edges, and John shudders. McKay notices and the sharp edges of his smile glistens. 

“I know you can, Sheppard,” McKay says in a low voice that has the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “I told you before. I know everything about you.”

Damn the man, John thinks, and then McKay winds his fingers into John's hair and yanks him in for a hot, messy kiss and John stops thinking altogether. 

Afterwards, as he makes vain attempts to pull up his shirt collar to hide the bite marks and to wipe the come stains off the classified military files, John reflects that he may truly be in over his head this time.

Under the gun

A stack of paperwork drops onto his desk with a dull thud. He looks up to find the scowling face of Major Davis.

“Consultant,” Davis says, chilly as ice. “That’s what the Pentagon is willing to offer. You’ll get a salary and accommodation, and in return you’ll help Doctor McKay with his research while he’s on Earth.”

John opens his mouth, though whether it’s to say thank you, to tell Davis to go fuck himself, or to ask for more money, he isn’t sure. Davis holds up a hand to stop him before he can find out.

“I advised against it, given your record. But McKay is a real pain in the ass when he wants to be. So this is what’s on the table. Take it or leave it.”

Tell

McKay’s brow is furrowed and he’s fiddling with some piece of machinery (probably alien, John thinks, and it seems that sort of thing is part of his life now). It blinks to life for a moment before the lights on the top fade away, and McKay swears and bangs it on the table.

“Hey, easy, Chewie,” John chides.

McKay’s eyes narrow. “I thought you said you didn’t like science fiction.”

“Star Wars isn’t science fiction. It’s science fantasy.”

McKay actually smiles at that, something joyous leaping up in the corners of his mouth.

“Knew you were a nerd,” McKay says under his breath, and John punches him playfully in the shoulder. He’s defending his honor, or something.

McKay ducks his head, and a blush creeps up the back of his neck.

Ace high

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” McKay looks even smugger than usual. 

“Yeah?” John slips a leer into the syllable.

But McKay just rolls his eyes. “Not like that. Come on, there’s something I want you to see.”

He leads him down through the base to a lower level, through endless security checks and into a dark hanger. There’s some technology they’ve acquired from an off-world source, he explains, deliberately vague. He’s trying to make some modifications to it, and he thinks John can help with testing.

John has learned to expect the unexpected in this place, but when the lights of the hanger flicker on his breath still catches. It illuminates a ship unlike anything he’s seen before: slick and cylindrical, rear hatch open to show seats and consoles inside.

“It’s fitted with inertial dampers, weapons, a shield,” McKay says breezily. “Oh, and you’ll like this.” He flicks a button on a control and the ship disappears in a haze like hot air. “It’s got a cloak too.”

It’s like something out of a movie, and John is struck speechless. He follows wide-eyed as McKay decloaks the ship to lead them inside and gestures for him to sit.

And woah, the moment he sits the chair glows and a holographic interface springs up in front of him, and he can feel the ship in his mind. He reaches out with a thought and - ping - the display shows a schematic of the hanger.

“Knew you’d be a natural,” McKay says, managing to sound both condescending and delighted. “Want to take her for a spin?”

Yes, everything in him screams, but he thinks about flames and smoke and the shrill, piercing whine of a tail rotor failing, and he grits his teeth against it and says, “I don’t fly any more,” instead.

McKay gives him a long, cool look. 

“We’ll start small,” McKay says, all business, and it’s so easy to relax and follow his lead. “I need you to activate the inertial dampeners while I adjust the shield field strength.”

Okay. Okay. He can do that.

The ship whirs to life.

Short stack

John stares at the blank white walls of his apartment.

It’s better than most places he’s lived in. No roaches, for a start, and it’s clean and has its own kitchen.

But it’s infuriatingly bland, and Colorado is infuriatingly empty, and there’s not so much as a slot machine within an hour’s drive and he is climbing the walls here.

McKay has disappeared on one of those weeks-long missions he can’t or won’t tell John about, and there’s a restless itching under his skin that’s urging him to drink or gamble or fuck or something, and this whole planet seems too small and too constrictive but he doesn’t want to climb under a blanket of booze and drain it all away.

He wants more.

On the river

“Modifications are done,” McKay announces. “Shall we test her out?”

The we makes something squirm in John’s gut but he dismisses it with a lazy, “It’s your alien spaceship.”

McKay looks for a moment like he’s going to say something, but then he pulls out a radio and talks into that instead. “This is Gate Ship One, ready for initial shield test burst.”

“Gate Ship One?” John scoffs. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

“It’s a ship that goes through the gate,” McKay pouts, and damn, that’s kind of cute. “Why, what would your suggestion be?”

John tilts his head. He’s seen footage of the ship traveling through the stargate, leaping through the event horizon and leaving barely a ripple in its wake. “Seems more like a puddle jumper to me.”

“You have the soul of a poet,” McKay says acerbically. 

And damn if that’s not kind of cute too.

Dealer’s choice

“Come with me,” McKay says, and John is ready to say yes before he’s even finished speaking. “To Pegasus. To Atlantis. I need to get back there, and I’m sure we can find a way to make you useful.” A little smirk at the end there.

“I don’t know how the Pentagon is going to feel about that,” John says, deliberately languid to hide the way his heart is pounding in his chest. Escape, adventure, somewhere new, somewhere he could be a new person, and he wants it so much it aches.

“Eh, fuck them. They can’t say no to me.”

“Okay,” he shrugs. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do here.”

McKay gives him a look that shoots straight through his defenses and down to his sticky innards. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and it’s soft in a way that makes the ache in John’s chest twist into a deep burn.

All in

The jumper hovers in the air in front of the stargate. 

“Nervous?” McKay asks, carefully casual, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

John hums. The inside of the jumper feels as much like home as any place he knows. What’s another galaxy to a man with no ties?

“You’re going to love it there,” McKay says with a smile he can’t hide. He dials up the gate and it engages with a tremendous whoosh and a burst of brilliant blue light.

Here goes nothing, he thinks as McKay deploys the drive pods and fires up the engines. One last new start.