#Completely incapable of anything without having their hand held

[rakundas]

I really can't stand stupid web design clients. "I can't see the change you made, should I refresh the page?" yeah dipshit, why don't you try that first before sending me stupid questions?

[literaila]

can we get a fic where gojo and reader are playing some game or something and gojo let's reader win every time because she's having too much fun and he is just a sick loverboy

also hope you're doing well I love your writing 😔

“do you have the three of diamonds?”

satoru smiles, sorting through his nine cards like his alien-like hands are incapable of holding them. “go fish.”

you sigh, pick a card off of the pile, then stare blankly at the boy in front of you.

when he suggested a card game you figured it would have more to do with suits and less to do with… just watching him struggle with his hand?

you figured it would be a break from the silence of the dorm rooms—everyone else gone for the weekend—and not the most infuriating sight you’ve ever seen.

you sigh again.

“have you never held a hand in your life?”

“i could hold yours, if you want me to,” satoru answers, leaning over far enough that you could definitely see everyone one of his cards.

but you avert your eyes because you’re not a cheater, and you don’t even need to be when every one of gojo’s turns take three minutes.

“no, seriously. are you trying to do a magic trick or something?”

“pick a card,” satoru wiggles his eyebrows, far too suggestively.

“it’s your turn.”

“oh, right. hmm… got a black seven?”

“which one?”

“clover.”

it takes a strange amount of effort—and the cost of your pride—to refrain a laugh. and this time when you sigh it’s in relief. at least his hand will get smaller and you can stop feeling so sorry for him.

watching him like this is… strange. you’re usually days ahead of satoru, sure, but he’s so good at everything.

it’s almost difficult to know something that he doesn’t.

“okay,” his eyes meet yours. “go ahead. wouldn’t want to start losing now, would you?”

“is this supposed to be trash talk?”

gojo hums.

“trash talk when you just called your card a clover?” you clarify, blinking at him.

“sounds like someone is worried,” satoru drawls. “don’t worry. we’re not playing for money.”

“you have like twenty cards, satoru.”

“actually i have—“ he looks down for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. “eleven. eleven-ish.”

“ish?” you repeat, laughing.

“you can count yourself.”

you shake your head, about to say something else—maybe make fun of him, maybe propose a bet—but satoru drops two cards.

he pouts and you get to watch while satoru painstakingly arranges his cards in one of his hands, and then tries to pry the other cards up without dropping anything.

another card slips from his palm.

you groan. “have you really never played a card game before?” you wonder aloud, unsure how that could be possible—or why he would suggest this in the first place.

satoru scowls, trying to turn a card over with his nail. “i have.”

you laugh, shaking your head again. you set down your cards, face up—because what the hell?

and then you crawl towards satoru, attempting to catch the three other cards he’s about to drop. “can you—hey, stop.”

satoru doesnt, he shakes your hands away and drops two more cards.

“satoru. just wait a second,” and you’re laughing, looking at him and rolling your eyes at the pitiful look on his face.

he looks like an indignant child. stubborn, and completely unwilling to lose.

which, really, isnt so far off.

“okay,” you sigh, when he finally stops moving. “now, hold your hands out.”

“why?”

“i’m trying to help you.”

satoru leans in, eyes catching yours over his glasses, his face contemplative.

“we can start over after this,” you tell him, pushing his shoulder. “just let me show you.”

satoru still looks skeptical, but he relaxes, reluctantly holding his cards out to you.

“alright, now just watch first, okay?”

and you show him how to arrange the cards, fanning them out in your hands so that each one are at an angle and safely tucked into your palms. “you use your thumb to look through them. and readjust if they slip.”

“your hands are so small,” satoru coos, almost like he’s bragging.

you scoff. “and yet i’m not the one dropping my cards everywhere.”

“yet.”

“whatever, satoru. here.” you bunch the cards up and pass them to him. satoru waits a moment and then attempts to mimic your movements,

but a card at the end tilts too far, and then another follows, and then one hand goes to fix the cards that are slipping, and the other half of his pile is forgotten. or rather, the other half is now on the floor.

you laugh. “no, don’t—“ satoru does not listen, tongue poking out as he tries to fix it. “you need to—“

“i got it—“

“satoru, stop letting go—“

“i’ve got it—“

“okay, look, here—“ you lean over him, stopping his hands with both of his.

and in one second you’re climbing almost on top of him, your arms overlapping, each one of your thumbs resting on his. “relax your hands,” you whisper to him, after a moment.

it takes a moment but satoru does.

“okay,” you smile at him, watching as his eyes flit from yours and then to your hands. “now, fold your thumb here.”

you squeeze his hands together, readjusting his fingers, and satoru allows you.

“keep your hand like this, see?” satoru just barely nods. “and fan the cards out…”

then you both look down, each card visible, and none of them slipping. satoru breathes out and you can feel it.

his hands are very warm, like this, and even though he’s annoying—he was right. your hands are smaller, barely able to cover his own.

you look back to him, suddenly just inches away. you can hear his breathing right in your ear. can see the edges of incandescent blue eyes over the frame of his shades.

this time you watch his eyes fall from yours, flickering over your nose, trailing down…

you wonder what satoru sees when he looks at your lips. you see a toothy smile, the indents of teeth, the darker line of red around pink and—

you pull back, quickly, and satoru blinks—his eyes meet yours again.

you’re still kind of on top of him, still basically holding his hands.

“so,” you let go, watching as satoru’s entire body loses its tension. “i think you got it.”

satoru swallows, looking down.

“finally,” you add, like it’s going to do anything to ease the tension you’ve just unwittingly created.

this is completely stupid. you should’ve just let satoru struggle, and you should never get this close to him, and, in fact, you don’t even like playing games with him because he always—

you look down, eyes scanning his cards suddenly.

you yank his wrist over again, scowling. “i asked if you had this! and the six, and the jack—“

satoru’s grin is sudden and unabashed, his eyes not even a little bit ashamed.

“cheater! i would’ve won like ten minutes ago if—“

“what?” satoru drawls, tilting his head at you. “how was i supposed to know? i’ve never even played this before,” he flutters his eyelashes.

you tackle him right there, cards be damned.

[spiicii]

jimmy uso / brat taming

x fem!reader  word count → 1.2k summary → jimmy promised to let you take control for the night, but you should have known he was full of shit. he won’t be tamed by anyone, not even by you. though he’d love to see you try.  notes → i’ve seen enough of jimmy’s wrestling matches to know that this man doesn’t give in for anything. and yes, i know i’m procrastinating writing my other fics to write this very self-indulgent fic instead.  links → masterlist tags → brat taming, bondage, oral sex, attempts at breath play, some hair-pulling, unprotected piv sex, mentions of choking, mentions of a daddy kink, spoiler alert: failed brat taming

The bastard was all smiles as you tied his wrists to the headboard, his white teeth flashing in the dim light of the bedroom. 

“Sure this’ll hold me, baby? This rope’s pretty thin…” 

“Shut up.” You snapped, tightening the restraints just a smidge more in the hopes it would make him squirm. It didn’t. Instead, he offered you another infuriating smile, his eyes watching your every move. 

Tonight was supposed to be about Jimmy letting go and giving up control for just one night. Just one. He’d promised he would, but you should have known the man was incapable of letting anyone else call the shots. Submission wasn’t in his nature. He was too wild, too strong-willed.

Still, you weren’t one to shy away from a challenge. And if Jimmy was anything, it was a challenge. 

“Whatchu got planned, pretty girl? I’m dyin’ to hear it.” 

You glared at him. “Why don’t I blindfold you and make it a surprise?” 

You’d hoped that the threat would rattle him, but he seemed unbothered, offering you a cheeky wink instead. “Whatever you want, honey. I’m all yours.” 

But he wasn’t. Not the way you wanted. He couldn’t relinquish control, no matter how tightly you tied him or how much punishment you dished out. He talked a good game, would have you convinced that he would be obedient, then pull this shit. You’d hate it if it didn’t turn you on so fucking much. 

And when you held him down and thrust your soaked pussy into his eager mouth, you’d hoped that he would squirm from the lack of oxygen - something, anything, to prove that he wasn’t in total control of the situation - some kind of tangible proof that he was at your mercy, not the other way around.  

Instead, he let out a shameless moan beneath you, not even bothering to tug at his restrained arms as he feasted on your puffy clit. You tried grinding harder against his face, hoping that you could find some crack in his composed facade, but found yourself getting frustrated as the bastard continued his ministrations without missing a beat, completely unbothered by the lack of oxygen. 

You let out a frustrated groan, grabbing him by the hair and pushing his face impossibly deeper into your leaking hole. Goddamn it, you wanted to see him squirm. Wanted to hear him beg, either for more of you or for a chance to breathe, it didn’t matter. You wanted him to finally cave in. Wanted him to finally let go. 

You watched in annoyance as the brat remained calm and collected below you, somehow managing to find oxygen as his face was buried in between your legs. You wanted to scream. Jimmy never made anything easy, did he? 

You finally pulled your hips away from his greedy mouth, looking down at him in the hopes that he would be gasping for air, maybe even begging for more of a taste. You curled your lip in annoyance to see that he was still completely composed beneath you, flashing you a cocky smile. 

“That all you got? I could stay between your legs for hours, baby.” 

Arrogant fucker. He got off on this, you knew. Loved getting you riled up as you tried to break him, knowing full well that he wouldn’t break easily. He never did. 

“Have you considered being good for two fucking seconds?” You growled, grabbing his face between your hands and watching with a sneer as he maintained that antagonistic smirk. 

“I am being good. See how still I’m laying here for you?” 

God, you could strangle him.

You released the grip on his face, watching him carefully as you moved further down the bed, your fingers trailing across his exposed skin. You’d half-hoped to leave goosebumps in your wake, some kind of indicator that you could control something about this man. He chuckled instead, watching with amusement as you placed your hands on his tattooed chest and straddled his hips. 

As you sank onto his cock, you were horrified to see that you were having a bigger reaction to it than him, soft moans spilling from your lips as his massive length filled your cunt so perfectly. 

God, this was a nightmare. Here he was, tied and helpless beneath you, and you were the one who felt weak in the knees, lip quivering from how good his cock felt inside you. This was not how things were supposed to go. 

“Aw, feel good, sweetheart?” The bastard had your number alright, smirking up at you as he practically reclined against the headboard, looking at you like a prince being serviced. “You like riding Daddy’s cock?” 

“This cock is mine.” You hissed through gritted teeth and Jimmy laughed, the sound patronizing. 

“Whatever you say, baby.”

Even though Jimmy was the one tied up, you struggled to maintain control of the situation. It didn’t matter how roughly you bounced on his cock, or pulled on his dark hair, or choked or bit his neck - he simply refused to give in, that self-satisfied smile still on his pretty lips, his dark eyes burning with a fire you couldn’t quench. 

You couldn’t deny how gorgeous he was like this. Even though you had him tied down and helpless, he wouldn’t be broken. Not by you - not by anybody. He was as wild and untamable as a mustang, strong muscles rippling beneath your hands as you played with him. He laughed again and the sound was as infuriating as it was beautiful. 

You didn’t know exactly what you were trying to prove anymore, but you didn’t want to stop, the feeling of Jimmy’s cock inside you sending tendrils of pleasure across your body. You tried to remember that you were here to tame him, to get him to let go, but you could hardly keep your thoughts straight, your brain fizzling out as he filled you so perfectly.  

“What a good girl,” Jimmy cooed, his words dripping with condescension. “Shoulda known how much you’d enjoy this.” 

No. No. No. This wasn’t going the way you wanted at all. You had a plan. He was going to break. He was going to beg. 

Suddenly, Jimmy shifted his hips and his cock was hitting your g-spot, your spine stiffening as if you’d been shot with volts of electricity. Jimmy’s mocking laugh only made things worse, causing your cheeks to burn in embarrassment. He wasn’t even doing anything, the arrogant prick. He was just laying there, his hands still tied to the headboard, leaning leisurely against the pillows as he watched you and your carefully-made plans fall apart on his massive cock. 

He was running his mouth now, the words filthy and patronizing. “Thought I’d let you call the shots, sweetheart? You oughta know by now who runs this shit. Come on, mamas. Untie me so I can fuck you into the mattress. You know you want to.” 

“I should gag you.” You gasped, though the threat was hollow and you both knew it. 

“Maybe you should.” Jimmy’s tone was conversational, completely in control as you writhed on his lap, the pleasure from his cock threatening to overwhelm you. “But we both know you won’t. You’re gonna untie me and beg me to fuck you stupid, ain’t you, baby?” 

Unfortunately, he was right. 

[cheriecoke]

AAAA YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD AAA I LOVE IT!!! Could you write some fluffy soft mushy stuff about cuddling gojo? he deserves to be held and loved and appreciated

alone with the moon

FEATURING. gojo satoru x f!reader — wc: 1.9k

CONTENTS: i accidentally added angst, but it's mostly cute! no spoilers, sfw!!! gojo comes home late from a mission!

You waited, pushing your ear against the phone as the line rang, once, twice, a third time.

When the voice of Satoru Gojo, leading you to his voicemail box, answered again, your confidence waned, concern only growing about his condition.

Your texts remained delivered, and a response bubble never once appeared, even though you willed it to. The last time you’d heard a word from him was this morning, when he was leaving for work, promising he’d be home before dinner. Satoru never went long without answering you, and the food sat cold on the table without a word.  

In a rush of panic, you’d reached out to Shoko, Nanami, anyone you could possibly think of that he might contact in a pinch. Though, none of them had heard from him in days, and you started to doubt that he’d ask for backup, even if he really needed it.

A terrible image rooted inside your chest. Satoru was strong, but he wasn’t immortal, and you knew that he could be lying somewhere, alone, dying. If that was the case, you’d be none the wiser.

You worried your lip, feeling like you were slowly losing a grip on sanity. If he’d just send you a simple heart in return, a space, anything to let you know that he was okay, you could release the tight grip that squeezed every ounce of oxygen from your lungs. Instead, you sat in silence, holding your phone like a lifelong, incapable of thinking of anyone but the man who hadn’t even told you where he was going.

Finally, the door opened. It shut. You held your breath until the sound of heavy, recognizable footsteps padded down the hall, and you were to your feet in a flash, rushing around the corner.

Gojo’s shoulders were slumped as he slowly pulled the blindfold over his head, soft white hair falling onto his forehead. Before he’d had the chance to say a word, you’d thrown yourself into him, your tight embrace crushing his arms to his hips.

He relaxed immediately, holding you just as closely. “I missed you too, honey.”

Although you usually melted at the sound of his voice, the casual tone that he dared to use, to insinuate that nothing was wrong, was enough to irritate you. You shoved him away, lips drawn into a thin line. “Where the hell were you?”

Gojo blinked back, frosty eyelashes falling over wide crystal eyes. Then, he was rummaging through his pocket with a cheeky smile, pulling out the phone that had cracked, splintered, rendered completely unusable. “Sorry. I would’ve called you if I could.”

You inhaled. Released a shaky breath and tried to calm your nerves before you said something you didn’t actually mean.

Gojo’s smile quickly turned into a frown. “I didn’t mean to make you wait. You should’ve gone to bed.”

Though he was trying to comfort you, the comment only served to upset you more. “You think I could have just gone to sleep? You should’ve told me where you were going. No one had any idea where you were and I couldn’t get a hold of you, and—”

You stilled, burying your face in your hands before Gojo had come up around you, his tall frame hovering over you, enveloping you in a cocoon of safety. His fingers ran along your spine, stopping softly at every bone before he continued to the next notch, thinking. “I don’t want you to worry. You don’t need to worry.”

“I always worry.” The words were plain, offered to him without any dressing, no way to cover them up into anything but exactly what they were. “That’s the cruel reality of being a sorcerer.” You swallowed, burying your face into his chest, even though he smelled of dirt and sweat and the sickening smell that lingered from cursed spirits. “You may be Satoru Gojo, but with everything that’s been going on, I can’t help but wonder if each time you leave will be the last time that I see you.”

Satoru was quiet, contemplative. He stopped tracing your skin, instead letting his large palm rest still on your hip. “I’m okay, baby. Really.”

Leaning back in his arms, you scanned him. A gash cut across his cheek and grime had splattered all over his uniform. “Are you?” you asked in a soft voice, wiping your thumb against the wound. “You’re bleeding, Satoru.” The color stained your finger, revealing the outline of your thumbprint that had smeared against his skin.

Gojo pulled your hand away, gently grasping your wrist, as if to redirect your attention, even though you could focus on nothing but the crimson stain. “It wasn’t from the curse. I let my guard down a moment. Some debris hit me in the face, that’s all.” He smiled, though you couldn’t be sure he was telling the truth, his voice hushed. “It’s just a scratch.”

It looked like more than just a scratch, the droplets deep red as they flowed down to his chin. “You’re exhausting yourself,” you said, swallowing the wave of emotion that threated to drag you down. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I have to—”

“Even you have your limits.” With a sigh, you untangled yourself from his embrace, taking his hand to lead him to the bathroom. “This is reckless, Satoru. If they need your help so bad, they should understand you’re no used to them dead.”

His lips curled, but the smile lacked any of the usual charm. “I’ll be okay.”

“You always say that, but lately, I’ve been finding it hard to believe.” There were bandages in the medicine cabinet, ointment, and you rummaged them, thinking. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Satoru was quiet as you pushed him onto the countertop, his legs long enough to reach the floor completely. You stood between them, wiping a warm cloth over his cheekbone, scrubbing harder where the blood had already crusted over.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Satoru apologized again, his eyes soft under long lashes. “You know I would’ve called you if I could.”

“I know.” You swallowed, unable to hold his gaze for long. With shaky hands, you placed a ridiculously shaped bandage over his cheek, grateful that you could something, even something as small as this. “There,” you said in a tender voice, hating the way your lips quivered around the syllable. “All done.”

Satoru smiled and leaned forward, wrapping two strong arms around your shoulders. “Thank you. I didn’t realize I had my own little nurse.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him on the cheek, right over the scratchy little band aid, exhaling a sharp laugh. “You don’t need a nurse. You need some sleep.”

He didn’t answer as you led him to the bedroom, the exhaustion on his face too evident for an objection.

The sheets were already pulled back from your earlier attempts at sleep, when you were too tense and worried to keep your eyes shut. Now, the blankets were too alluring to resist, warm and heavy, and you sunk easily into the mattress, exhaling relief.  

When Satoru laid beside you, you rolled over, forcing him onto his side so that you could wrap your arms securely around him.

For half a moment, he tensed, surprised, but didn’t object to the change in your usual position. Instead, he held your hand tighter against his chest, letting you intertwine your legs with his own.

Satoru was warm, and he needed a shower, but you were too consumed by overwhelming relief that you didn’t care about anything but being near him.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” he said after a moment of unbroken silence, caressing your knuckles with rough fingertips. “Really, you don’t need to—”

Swallowing, you buried your forehead further into his neck, breathing in the cotton and detergent from the fresh shirt he’d changed into. Sweat lingered on his skin, and his hair was tangled, but the faint smell of his cologne remained. “Just let me hold you, Satoru.”

The moment was serene as he contemplated his next words.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, uncertain. The opposite of every adjective that most people would use to describe him.

It was not a question that could be so easily answered with a yes or no, and you wondered what you could say that wouldn’t upset him. Satoru was the sun, but he belonged to more than just you; one singular person couldn’t bottle up that light and threaten to hide it away from the rest of the world, just to keep it safe.

“I don’t want you to think you’re alone in this, because you’re not.” You hummed your words, maintaining every syllable on a single tone, hoping it wasn’t evident that your voice was near collapse. “Let everyone else think Satoru Gojo is invincible, but I know better.” The hum of the fan became your focus, his subtle breaths interrupting the white noise.

He squeezed your hand, silent once. Another minute passed. Sounds from outside cut through it, sharp. “I don’t have another choice.”

He never meant to scare you, but it happened anyway. It would always happen, so long as you harbored a shred of affection for the man who’d never had any other choice but to be a jujutsu sorcerer. You pressed a kiss to his neck, then, the skin warm and soft there.

“I know.” A sigh left your lips. You were grateful that you weren’t facing him. “The world needs you. Am I selfish for thinking I need you more?”

Satoru turned in one fluid movement, crushing you to his chest, burying his nose in your hair. His arms squeezed your stomach, so much tighter than you anticipated, but you were safe, warm, and he was sheltered there with you. “I could never think you’re selfish for that.” You clung to him. “I’m sorry I can’t be here with you more.”

Another wave of stillness hit the two of you, in which neither of you knew what to say next. His breath was cold against your ear. “It’s okay,” you said, even though sometimes it wasn’t, and you missed him every moment that he was away. “I’ll still be here every time you return.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, untangling the soft, white strands.

“I’m proud of you, Satoru. Sometimes, I just wish you’d let me take care of you. I wish I could do more.”

You felt him laugh, though there was little amusement in it, and you wondered if, maybe, he wished that too. But he was Satoru Gojo, and you were just a grade one sorcerer, and when it came to jujutsu, the gap of power is wide between you. There are missions he must take that no one else can, not even you, and you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life.

“You don’t need to do more.” He kissed your temple and relinquished his position once more, flipping to his side. Your stomach was once again pressed to his chest as you hold him.

There were no words left to be said. Instead, you held his wrist loosely in your hand, swirling patterns into it with your thumb. For once, Satoru’s breathing evens out before your own, and you are left alone once more.

[leclerc-hs]

after hours - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader Summary: based upon ‘After Hours’ by the Weeknd….kinda? Warnings: angst? bad writing lmao, some smut Word Count: 1,955 Author's Note: Feel free to send in requests. I know I'm not the best writer but I have fun doing it anyways lmao kk love u all!!!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

IT WASN'T ALWAYS like this. This mess of a situation that had caused utter chaos and pain that now lays awake inside the both of you. You used to be happy.

“Without you I can’t sleep,”

In the midst of a restless night, you couldn’t help but toss and turn. You were thrashing around and the sheets were at complete disarray from your constant kicking and rolling around. The oppressive summer heat was merciless as it couldn’t help but creep in through your windows and into your apartment. You had stripped down into a mere spaghetti strapped tank top with the most diminutive semblance piece of underwear. One would question the classification of such a minuscule garment. Sleep, in these circumstances, appeared to be pointless.

You spent, what felt like hours, relentlessly scrolling on your phone in hopes you would eventually grow tiresome. And it was working at first. That is, until you saw the Instagram story of him. Him at the club with friends. While you lie here completely alone and restless. 

The initial reaction to seeing this story was to roll your eyes. By the time 5 minutes had passed and you were still staring at it, you couldn’t help but feel sick to your stomach. It just doesn’t make sense. How is it that he can be out partying while you’re in bed incapable of sleep. Did he not care? Did he ever even love you?

You began to laugh at yourself. Of course, he didn’t love you. If he loved you, he wouldn’t have kissed another girl. He would’ve fought for you more.

“Girl, I felt so alone inside of this crowded room,”

The swarm of heat surrounded him. But not from the humid summer air like you. No, his form of insufferable heat was from the crowd of drunken bodies that filled the club. His friends had dragged him out. Told him he needed to ‘stop moping around’. Told him that he ‘needs time with his boys’ to cheer up.

The irony of this all weighed heavily upon him. A relentless reminder of the gaping void you have left behind. It was as if you had woven yourself into the very fabric of his consciousness. A presence that refused to be ignored.

It had only been a few weeks since he saw you last. But still, you would never leave his mind.

But who is he to complain? Who is he to even care about how he feels when its him who had destroyed one of the only good things in his life. It was all a mistake. One he would absolutely take back and delete its existence if he had that kind of power. 

“I know I made you fall,”

“I just don’t understand how you could do this to me,” Your voice trembled with each shout of a word that you let out. The very walls that surrounded you felt as if they were caving in. It was unbearable. The act of betrayal was too blatant to ignore.

Your boyfriend in tabloids kissing another woman. Kissing another woman. Kissing another woman. Publicly. 

The words repeated in your head like a broken record.

“Mon amour,” he started. You cut him off almost instantly. You could not be silenced. 

It was too quick. So quick, you couldn’t even process the rage that was igniting within you. One second, you held his phone in your hand. The next second, it was shattered all over the floor beside him. Smashed from impact of hitting the wall. A mirror of what your trust for him looked like.

“Don’t call me that,” you seethed. You ached. “I’m not your anything.” 

His mouth opened ready to fight back. Ready to do anything for your forgiveness. He didn’t want to lose you. He couldn’t handle it. He needed you. 

“Not anymore,” you continued before grabbing your purse. “Don’t contact me. I can’t look at you.” You couldn’t even cry. Your eyes were red, puffy, and completely dry. Your body couldn’t even handle making more tears.

The worst part about this entire fight? Did you really want no contact, or did you just yearn for him to fight for you? The question loomed over you. 

Honestly, it’s a fine line. Deciding if the no contact really is the best option or if all you wanted was for him to show more effort for you. To try harder. Would you forgive him? Would you move on? 

“It was simply a blessing waking beside you,”

He couldn’t help but reminisce on all the mornings you spent together. Even at the club. He was shameless. 

The morning sun slowly began peeking through the cream-colored curtains of your bedroom. It was one of your favorite times. The time where you’re on the cusp of being lucid but not completely there yet. This time full of raw love and passion.

His fingers slowly trailed up your ribcage and to your nipples before giving them a slight pinch. Goosebumps arose wherever his fingers trailed.

“Mon amour,” his hips started rolling slowly into you.  Your nipple still pinched in between the rolling of his two fingers. “Give it to me” he said.

You were a moaning mess. “Please,” you were begging. Begging to reach that peak you oh so needed. 

“Tell me what you need,” The pace of his hips increased. The sound of skin to skin slapping mixed with the sounds of both of your moans filled the room and only pushed you towards the edge more. 

“Is it me, amour?” He started. “You always take me so well. So, fucking tight mon amour,” Charles was relentless now. His hips picked up pace urgently. He was feverishly reaching for that peak as well. He fucked himself into you so hard it was as if he was trying to burn the memory of you here with him for forever. 

“What a fucking salope,” He edged you further. “My fucking salope.”

“Come on, mon amour. Make a fucking mess of me,” It was right then. Your orgasm hit hard and fast. Your own thighs squeezed tighter together as you pulsed around him. His orgasm following soon after.

Charles breathed heavily behind you and placed gentle kisses along the backside of your shoulder blade. 

“You did so well, mon amour,” He pecked more kisses. “I never want to wake up without you.”

“Sorry that I broke your heart,”

It was well late into the night. In the dimly lit room, you found yourself wrapped in an emotional embrace. Hard knocks were heard on the front door of your apartment causing you to jump up in surprise. 

“Mon amour,” you heard him speak first on the other side of the door. You immediately stopped in your tracks. Your throat felt constricted. Those two words burned in your memory. It was as if mon amour had become your name. You couldn’t even remember the last time Charles used your real name. 

The tumultuous mixture of anger, betrayal, and love clawed at you. Making it difficult to discern your true feelings.

You hesitated. Whether you should open the door or not. His knocking became insistent. Loud. Each moment that passed his fist against the door went harder. 

Out of respect for your neighbors, you let him in. At least that’s what you told yourself to feel better. 

Charles was leaned against the door frame for support. He looked tired. A look of anger was in his eyes. He wasn’t in the right state of mind. He knew he had no right to be mad at you. But he was. He was being completely irrational as he marched his way over here.

“You are going to sit. You are going to listen to me,” He demanded as he pushed into your apartment. He gripped your wrist as he pulled you into the apartment and to the couch. You accept it anyways. Not because he deserved it, but because you need closure.

“The picture looks wrong,” he began. “I just need to explain this to you. Even if it doesn’t change anything.” He kneeled before you, in between your legs as he explained himself. His green eyes, a tad darker with a reddish tint lined around them, were staring solely into yours.

With a slight nod of your head, you let him continue.

“It’s all wrong. It’s not an excuse, but I did not kiss her back.” His words were sharp. As if he wanted to burn those words into your brain. 

“Pictures say otherwise, Cha,” you felt like you were going to throw up. This conversation burned tears into your eyes, but you did your best to hold them back. 

“She was a fan. She came up to me and grabbed me,” his hands slipped onto your knees and squeezed them tightly. “She grabbed me and kissed me.” His voice was cracking slightly as he let his head drop and rest on your legs.

You knew this information wouldn’t change much. It was still a kiss. One that shouldn’t have happened. 

“Whether she kissed you or you kissed her. It doesn’t change. Don’t you see?” You moved your knee so he would lift his head up. “It’s not going to change anything.” You said. You weren't even positive if it wouldn't change anything. But it was all that could come to mind. “It shouldn’t have even happened.”

“Mon,” 

You cut him off by standing up. “Would you stop calling me that!” You were shouting now. Walking from the confines of his presence. It was too much. He was too close. You couldn’t think properly. 

“I can’t,” He arose from his knees and stood beside the coffee table. “I will do anything.” It was then. His voice finally cracked, and you could sense that tears have started falling from his eyes. He didn’t even bother to wipe them as he sat down on the couch. Exactly where you were last seated. 

In a moment that could only be described as naïve or perhaps even foolish, the depth of your love for him exceeded all rationality. You couldn’t even stand to see him crying, even if he was the one who ignited these issues into your relationship. You still wanted to comfort him regardless. He didn’t deserve it and you knew that. But in this moment, you couldn’t even care if it made you weak. Because you wanted to feel his embrace too. 

You trailed back across the room to sit beside him to wrap your arms around him. The two of you entangled on the couch seeking some form of comfort. He didn’t deserve it – the comfort. Most importantly, didn’t deserve you. 

“I need you to leave,” you began. His arms wrapped tighter around you. He didn’t want to let go. It was as if his grip onto you as if he was physically holding onto what remained of your tattering connection. “Please.” You were begging as your head rested in the crook of his neck. 

You only felt him shake more. Undoubtedly, crying. But he understood.

“I just need space,” your voice was a fragile whisper. “I still love you. I miss you. I wish this never happened to us.” His lips pressed to any inch of skin that was within proximity. You felt his hot tears slip onto your skin with each kiss he pressed. 

The plea for space, while still expressing love and longing, demonstrates the need for personal boundaries and self-care.

“I will keep fighting for you,” He pulled away before standing up from the couch. “I will do anything. I promise you that. You are the love of my life.”

It wasn’t until then, that you felt your tears spill out of your eyes. With a small nod of your head, he walked out of the apartment with his heart still latched onto you. Yours with his. It was a tapestry of emotions left in wake.

[magics-neptunes-things]

KCC- you are snoring, terribly

TW : None

Well actually I change a little the phrasing here, sorry I guess ^^'

______________________________________________________________

Matildas camps, a few months after the World Cup. Usually, you are more than happy to find your teammates but this morning you have a tight stomach and you have the impression that you will be able to burst into tears at any time. You try hard to look good though, especially in front of your girlfriend. Kyra asked you with concern if you're alright and you used all your capacity of conviction when you lied to her.

But it doesn’t seem to work with Caitlin.

"What's happening to you kiddo?" asks the brunette, frowning while you are in pairs for strengthening exercises.

"Nothing" you mumble without looking at her.

"Not to me, Y/N" sighs Caitlin.

You bite your lip thoughtfully, looking at your interlocutor for a few seconds.

"You know you can trust me, right?"

Of course you know. Since you joined the national team, Caitlin has taken on the role of the big sister with you. You were born the same year as Kyra, a few months younger. So Caitlin is more like your big sister.

"I think Kyra is cheating on me" you finally confess

"What?"

Under the surprise, Caitlin drops the barbell she held in her hand until now. The noise makes a hell of a sound and you cast a look of reproaches on her noting that it attracted the attention of everyone around you. After apologizing with a wave of hand, Caitlin shifts her attention to you to resume your conversation. She takes care of whispering, which you’re grateful for.

"What makes you think that?"

"When I woke up this morning, she was no longer in the room. I went out to look for her and I saw her come out of Courtney’s room" you mumble, trying not to let despair take over you.

"I can’t believe something like this" Caitlin said after a few seconds.

"If you have a better explanation, I’ll listen."

You see all the goodwill she’s putting into finding one. She’s really trying, because she loves you as much as she loves Kyra. She appreciates your relationship and advised you a lot to turn your crush into a real couple between Kyra and you.

"Did you talk to her?"

"No. I can’t. If it’s true I don’t know if I would stand it"

Caitlin’s face fills with empathy and she gently squeezes your hand into hers, your exercises long forgotten.

"And if that’s not true, you torture yourself for nothing"

You don’t answer. She’s right, you know it. What you don’t know is that Kyra, at a distance, didn’t miss anything from your exchange. She takes advantage of the lunch break to intercept you before you take a seat in the refectory.

"Are you all right?"

The worry is visible in her eyes and on her face and your tortured mind imagines that it's probably because she knows that you are aware of her infidelities.

"I'm alright, Kyra. Can we just go eat please?"

Your tone is begging, but it seems to worry your girlfriend even more.

"I saw you talking to Caitlin, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?"

You remain silent for a few seconds, before remembering Caitlin’s main advice: Talking to Kyra. You bite your lip and eventually grab her by the arm to train her to an empty room.

"I know everything" you say straight away once the door is closed behind you.

"You know what?" asks Kyra, who looks completely lost.

"About you and Courtney"

Kyra looks at you for a few moments while blinking her eyes, before releasing a small burst of surprised laughter.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Your patience is melting like ice cream in the sun, not supporting these pretenses. You would rather that she drop the information directly and confess. This annoys you and you decide to be direct since Kyra seems incapable.

"I saw you leaving her room this morning, Ky"

"Oh"

Her amused face changes quickly and you see the realization in her eyes.

"Oh" she repeats

And suddenly a certain form of panic seems to take hold of her when she quickly approaches you before resuming speech.

"I’m not cheating on you, I swear"

You see only sincerity in her eyes and you feel yours fill with tears. You find yourself sniffing before answering her.

"Why are you leaving someone else’s room an hour before we wake up then?" you ask in a low voice.

You see Kyra���s face twitching and a little bit of guilt coming over it. But deciding that it's better to tell you the truth than to let you believe in an infidelity (that you wouldn't forgive her) Kyra takes a big inspiration before answering you.

"You snore. Terribly. Every night, all night and I just can’t sleep. Usually I take earplugs because I love sleeping with you and feeling you all against me but this time I forgot. Courntey was all alone in her room so I asked her if I could come and sleep with her" Kyra pitifully admits.

A few moments pass, then you resume talking.

"What do you mean I snore terribly?"

[xf-cases-solved]

ayyyy, @numinousmysteries, guess who it is! it's me, your secret santa for the @poangpals gift exchange, here to gift you words that are kinda angsty, kinda hurt/comfort-y, and kinda (or more than kinda) horny. i've written a lot of cancer arc lately and was like "hmm, maybe i should branch out..." BUT, when i saw your ideal episode was "memento mori but they bang at the end," i was like, "okay, well, obviously this was meant to be." so that is what i have brought you! a post-memento mori fic where they bang at the end! thank you for everything you bring to this community. you're a baller and i hope you enjoy your gift <3 -diz Title: Memento Vivere Word count: ~6500 (bc i can't shut the fuck up to save my life) Rating: Explicit Here's the link to ao3, or save yourself a click and read below!

***

Memento Vivere

She is in the middle of grimacing at her own reflection in the small compact mirror she found at the bottom of her overnight bag when Mulder shows up at her hospital room, keys jangling in his hand as he hovers in the doorway, neither outside nor inside, like he's uncertain about what kind of proximity he's allowed this morning. Like she's a skittish cat he's trying to win over. And what grates at her isn't his tenuous disposition—it's that it's completely warranted, and it's so jarring to be known so well.

She knows that he knows that she bared her heart to him last night, and is now grappling with mortification. She's never been good with emotions. In college, she could do a walk of shame with her head held high, but when a lover would voice their affection for her she would suddenly become incapable of looking them in the eye. Her heart is in a lockbox and sometimes she goes so long without opening it she almost forgets the combination, and when she does manage to pop it open she gets frantic, wanting to immediately slam it shut.

"You about ready to go?" Mulder asks casually. Too casually. He's assessing her like he would a suspect, adjusting his tone to meet her mood and make himself more approachable, and she wants to snap at him for profiling her, but she won't. She can't. Not without confirming his analysis of her, and she doesn't need to open the spine of her book any wider when he can already read her with such clarity.

In her writings—the filled pages already torn from the notebook and shredded into pieces in the wire trash bin next to her bed—she had thought she was divulging the secrets of her heart to him. It occurs to her only now, as he watches her from across the room with a purposefully mild expression, that while he may not know her every thought, he is the only other person who knows the combination to the lockbox in her chest. He could open it at any time, but he doesn't. He could reach inside her and hold her beating heart in his cupped hands, learning every detail and committing it to memory, but he would never take from her anything that wasn't freely given. His respect is almost more overwhelming than anything, because it's a reminder that if he weren't an honorable man he could ruin her. He has access to her nuke, and she can do nothing but trust that he won't hit the button.

"Yeah, just a second," she replies—casual. 

She slips the compact mirror back inside her bag and gets to her feet. She tries to summon the woman inside her who walks down the hallways of the Hoover Building—confident, assertive, and unaffected by stares or assumptions—but it's difficult without her body armor. Even though she only had one infusion of the chemo, her body still feels frail and hungover, like the day after a bad twenty-four hour flu, and she's wearing flats with her yoga pants and sweater, highlighting the height disparity between the two of them in a way her heels usually help to mitigate. There wasn't a hair dryer to use after her shower, so the natural curls she usually irons out are taking over, absurdly making her feel disorderly and sloppy. And she's not wearing makeup, and it's not the dark circles around her eyes or even the mole above her lip that she's self-conscious about—it's the freckles that spatter across her cheeks and nose. Well put together women don't have freckles, and she's sure he's going to interpret her vulnerabilities on her sun-kissed skin like the soggy tea leaves at the bottom of a china cup. 

The worst part of dying, she's starting to think, is the discovery that her walls that felt sturdy like concrete are actually made of straw, and there's nothing like an illness to come sweeping through to blow your house down.

On the way out of the hospital they pass the room Penny died in. She looks away from the door, and Mulder looks at her. In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment he reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

They don't say anything. 

Scully thinks his choice of silence says more than words ever could.

*

When she wakes up on her couch she isn't sure if it was the nightmare that roused her, or the relentless throbbing in her head.

The ride back home from Allentown had been uncomfortable in every sense of the word. Mulder had rambled theories at her—about Dr. Scanlon and MUFON and government agendas—until her lack of engagement made the conversation eventually dissolve, first into him nervously chattering about the most ridiculous X-Files cases he could think of and, when that didn't work either, into nothing, a pall falling over them as she shifted restlessly in her seat, unable to find a position that didn't feel ill-fitting like a shirt that she couldn't untwist. They didn't once speak the word cancer.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep after he dropped her off, but ten minutes into some daytime talk show and she was suddenly dead to the world, and judging by the low light that surrounds her, she has slept all the way from early afternoon well into dusk. The TV still flickers at her, now playing the evening news, and she's sure that there aren't going to be any headlines about manufactured brain tumors and shady oncologists who betray their Hippocratic oath by purposefully poisoning women who look to them for salvation. The types of horrors she witnesses rarely make the news. Not with all the facts attached, at least.

She pushes herself up with a groan. Her head really hurts, and although her first instinct is to attribute it to the mass in her sinus cavity, when she reaches up to swipe under her nose there are no remnants of dried blood, and the dryness of her tongue and hollowness of her belly makes her think that the rhythmic throbbing in her skull is probably because she can't remember the last time she had a glass of water or a single bite of food. 

She goes about the motions of getting together what she supposes is technically dinner, even though she forgot to proceed it with breakfast or lunch, and when she gets it all together—a hearty meal of half a banana, a slice of buttered toast, three ibuprofen, and a tall glass of ice water—she settles back down on the couch and assesses the other ache she'd awoken with.

The nightmare is formless in her memory, lacking a cohesive plotline now that she's in the waking world, but nevertheless, the emotions it stirred up inside her are visceral. There is a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, bottomless as the abyss. It's a type of fear that grips her from the inside, putting her adrenal gland into a chokehold and activating her fight or flight, except she can't fight her own mind anymore than she can flee it. 

This is how she knows, even without the details, that her dream was about dying.

These types of dreams have been coming to her more frequently nowadays, starting the night Leonard Betts spoke five chilling words to her in the back of an ambulance. She's had friends who have been pregnant, and they would often tell her about the constant dreams they would have on the subject throughout the entire nine months. In a way, she figures, it's a similar concept; she and her friends all have had dreams about what their body is growing inside them—the notable difference of course being that they grew something into life, and she's growing something that takes it away. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to start making phone calls. Make appointments and discuss treatment options and try not to get discouraged when the options are limited. When she first told Mulder about the cancer, he had been so insistent, saying, "There must be some people who receive treatment for this," and at the time she hadn't been able to bring herself to tell him that she wasn't sure she was going to be one of them. The odds were, and are, so heavily stacked against her, and as a medical doctor she is very aware that sometimes quality of life outweighs the quantity of it. Her experience in Allentown hasn't really endeared her toward the idea either, if she's being honest, and not because of Scanlon, or even because of Penny, but because she had not felt sick at all, up until she tried to treat the illness, and then suddenly she'd been in hell. 

But while she may be uncomfortable with how much of herself she bared to him last night, she knows that she made promises that she can't take back. She is loyal to a fault, and she gave both him and herself her word that she would continue to live as long as she could, and so she will. 

She's just not convinced much of her life in the upcoming days and weeks and months and maybe even years will feel much like living. In fact, she's pretty worried—down to the very depths of her subconscious, if her dreams are any indication—that she's going to feel like she's dying.

They say doctors make the worst patients. Sometimes that's because of stubbornness. Sometimes it's because they know exactly what to expect.

She finishes her meager meal and drinks down the last of her water. She slips an ice cube into her mouth and bites down on it, shattering it into pieces. The enamel of her teeth has always been sensitive to temperature, but instead of being off-put by the pain that spikes through to her jawbone when the ice touches her nerves, she revels in it. Her head, while somewhat improved, is still aching, and she finds herself appreciating that as well. She finds she is grateful for the signs her body is giving her to tell her it's still here, and maybe that's the trick. Maybe to get through this she has to go into it with a respect for the pain. This only hurts because I am alive, she'll have to train herself to think. 

She can do that. She's certainly stubborn enough. 

She wishes it didn't all have to be about pain, though. She doesn't want to forget that a body can feel good things too.

Ice crunches between her teeth, shocking her like a root canal, while she thinks about the signs of life that are enjoyable. Warmth. Comfort. Pleasure.

Pleasure.

On the TV, the news anchors are tying up their reports that are lacking things they don't even realize are missing. In her mouth her internal temperature warms the ice water, and the ebbing of the pain is a brief moment of gratification that acts as a sampling of what endorphins can do. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to make plans to put herself in a varying, yet indefinite state of pain, and she will have to learn to appreciate it in order to remember how to be alive. 

Tonight, however, she could remind herself in a different way.

It is a terrible idea.

It's an idea she has had a million times before and has stamped down just as often.

Ten minutes later and she's out her front door and getting into the driver's side of her car. Muscle memory guides her down the streets toward Alexandria, while she spends the whole drive telling herself to turn back.

She doesn't.

*

"Hey," Mulder says in surprise, eye widening slightly at the sight of her standing at his door. He's got on a white tank top and dark grey sweatpants, looking nothing like the federal agent he usually does. Instead of seeing a professional, albeit a tad bit crazy, government official, she sees her friend in the way that is much easier to ignore when he's wearing a suit and an ugly patterned tie. Like this, he exudes masculine energy, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the slopes and curves of his muscular shoulders and biceps. There is hair peeking out on his chest where the neckline of his shirt dips low. He hasn't shaved for at least a day, an even stubble shadowing his cheeks and jaw. She drops her gaze to the floor before he can catch her roaming eyes, and she sees his feet are bare. For some reason that's the most intimate part of it all, and the reality of what she's come here to do hits her like a freight train and she flushes with what must be a particularly spectacular shade of red.

In contrast, she's feeling a lot like she did this morning, like a soldier out of uniform. She's wearing the same pair of yoga pants, and under her coat she has on a faded souvenir t-shirt her parents gave her after an anniversary trip to the Outer Banks well over five years ago. It occurs to her only now that she'd left in such a rush that she hadn't even bothered with a bra, and she becomes instantly aware of the oversized shirt brushing directly against her breasts.

At least she wore boots with a heel this time, but in reality it's not doing much to level the playing field. Mulder's six-foot frame still dwarfs her completely, and while she normally feels like a peer in his presence—like a respected intellectual whose gender is totally irrelevant—tonight she is feeling a lot like she did the first time she entered a university science lecture and found herself surrounded almost entirely by men. The difference is that back then she had felt, ridiculously, embarrassed by her femininity, hyper-aware of every questioning stare, asking the same question: What is she doing here?

But like with most things, Mulder—simply by virtue of being Mulder—challenges her way of thinking. While she has long since stopped viewing her womanhood as a flaw, she is always viscerally aware when the people around her view it as one, and over time that has bred resentment. Standing here before him, though, she holds no animosity toward the difference in their sexes. Like the way her science complements his reckless belief, so too, in this moment, does her feminine ying balance his masculine yang. 

She doesn't even worry about the freckles on her makeupless face. 

"Scully?" He sounds concerned, and she realizes she's been standing here in silence after appearing at his apartment unannounced, and the last time they saw each other it had ended with her muttering a curt goodbye as she all but bolted from his car to escape the suffocation of her own self-imposed belief that emotional vulnerability was akin to disgrace.

But what Mulder isn't privy to yet is that the shame from this morning about being so transparent has been wholly replaced by the need of a dying woman to be reminded of the good parts of being alive. Scully is ready to be bare, by every definition, and she can only hope that he'll let her. 

Refusing to give in to cowardice, she forces herself to look up from the floor to meet his eye. 

"Can I come in?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course." He angles himself to place a hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside, and even through her coat and shirt the contact burns like the ice touching her enamel. She kicks off her boots, sinking back down to her natural five foot two—three, if the height gauge at the doctor's office chooses to be generous—and lets him take her coat and hang it up, before leading them both over to the couch. He plops down, leaving a purposeful vacancy beside him, and looks up at her expectantly, but she doesn't sit. Cocking his head, he asks, "Are you all right? Why are you here? If you needed something you know you could have called me and I would have come to you. I know you only went through one day of treatment, but I'm sure it had to have taken a toll on your—"

"I'm fine," she insists, cutting him off. She doesn't say it harshly, but she doesn't leave room for him to argue against it either, even though she can tell he desperately wants to. Instead, he chooses to heed her command, and presses his lips closed, waiting for her to tell him why she's standing here when earlier today they drove over three hours and she had barely said a word the entire time.

It's possible she didn't think this far ahead. More than that—it's possible she hasn't thought this through at all. 

But she's committed now, and she's starting to feel feral, her needs centered around primitive instincts. It is in every species' nature to fight for survival at any cost, but she is burdened with a human's intellect that can allow her to deny herself continued survival if doing so also means prolonged suffering. If she is to keep her promise—if she is to fight for her life with treatments that make her feel sicker than the disease they're targeting—then she has to go into it with a memory that reminds her why it's worth it to stay alive.

She walks over to his desk and leans against it, mindlessly thumbing through documents strewn carelessly across the top. There are pieces from casefiles, and pages photocopied from obscure books on phenomena she'd never believe. There are scratch pieces of paper with notes scribbled on them, written in a shorthand that she's sure only makes sense to him. There are newspaper clippings and articles torn from tabloid magazines he would call source material, and she would call a scam. She doesn't read any of it, but she keeps her eyes trained on them as she considers her next steps.

Gaze pinned on a faded picture of some kind of creature that has clearly come off a printer that was running low on ink, she finally says, "I want to ask you for a favor, but I should warn you that it's a bit unorthodox."

"Unorthodox, huh? I dunno, Scully, I'm a pretty conventional guy, I'm not sure I can handle anything out of the ordinary."

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. How does he do that? she wonders. How does he know how to calm her when he doesn't even know that she's feeling frantic in the first place? 

That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you. That are you. 

Those were words she had written only days before, placed inside a journal that was meant to be a confessional, but again, she should have known better. What use is there in inviting someone into your heart when they're already there?

She stops fiddling with the contents of his desk and looks over at him. He's regarding her with an expression of concern that on a different day she would construe as pity and detest, but right now she has the capacity to accept that he's looking at her like that, not because she's weak, but because he cares. Because he's worried. Because he wants her to live.

"Last night, when you said you read some of what I wrote... how much did you read exactly?"

Mulder rubs the nape of his neck and shrugs.

"A bit," he says, which she takes to mean "all of it." She can picture him, after confirming she was safe, sneaking into her hospital room and sitting on her bed, skimming each page, and then going back through a second time to take it in more fully. It should feel like an invasion of privacy, but instead her impulse is to huff a small laugh. She tries so hard to hide from him, and yet he finds her every time.

"So you know about the treatment. What it feels like." He nods slowly, like he's trying to piece together what she's getting at and hasn't quite formed a cohesive picture yet. She sighs.

"Tomorrow I'm going to set up a meeting with Skinner and take him up on his offer in getting into contact with an oncologist. We can still pursue the case—that is, if any new evidence presents itself to give us any new leads—but in the meantime, I need to figure out what treatment options are available to me. Time is of the essence in these sorts of situations." 

Mulder nods again, still waiting for the clarifying piece of the puzzle.

"Mulder, without talking it over with a specialist, I can't know for certain what treatment route they're going to have me take, but with my medical background I can make an educated enough guess to safely say that, whatever it is, it's not going to be pleasant."

"Any help you need, Scully, you know I'm just a phone call away. And don't worry about work. If you have to take leave that's fine. What matters most is that you get yourself health—"

"I know. I know that, but that's not what I came here to talk to you about."

"... Okay." He gives a small shake of his head. "What then? What's the favor?"

Scully draws her lower lip between her teeth. 

"I need your help," she says slowly, "in reminding myself that my body can do more than feel pain. That it's more than just a vessel to get me from one place to another... I need you to help me remember why it's worth saving."

"I don't..." he starts, but his sentence trails off as she makes her approach over to him with a purposeful gait. She goes to stand between his legs and he opens them wider to give her space like the action is automatic. He tilts his head back to look dumbly up at her, and the change in dynamic—her above and him below—makes her feel some type of way low in her belly. 

She reaches out and cups his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her thumb, and she sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. She thinks the picture may be becoming clear to him now.

"Scully—"

"You can tell me to leave," she cuts him off. "You can say no and I won't hold it against you. We don't ever have to talk about it again. But if you're willing..."

Mulder gives a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

"Scully, trust me, it's not a matter of whether or not I'm willing, but look at what all you've been through in the past couple days. I don't think you're thinking rationally, and I don't want to take advantage—"

"Not thinking rationally? Me?" She smiles a little as she pulls her hand back, making a point to drag her fingers slowly across his skin on the way, and she doesn't think she imagines him leaning into her touch. "Mulder, I appreciate your concern, but why don't you let me decide what I do and don't want to do."

"Scully..."

"Do you trust me?"

He lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Of course I do."

She takes hold of both of his wrists, and when she tugs his arms out to settle his hands on her hips she's met with slight resistance, but she knows it's just for show. She's not weak, but he's got plenty of strength to get away from her if he really wanted to. Instead, the pads of his fingers press into her pelvic bone, even after she's dropped her hold on his wrists.

"Then trust me when I say this is what I need from you," she says. She smirks and adds, "I told you it was unorthodox." 

"You weren't kidding," he mutters, and fuck, his eyes are boring into hers so intensely she nearly shudders. 

Sweatpants are not exactly ideal when it comes to maintaining modesty in sensitive situations, and Scully's effect on him does not go unnoticed. Her eyes dart down to the significant bulge between his thighs, and then back up to his face where he gives a bashful half-grin accompanied with a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say "can you blame me?"

"I won't hold it against you," she tells him again, "but I do want this."

"Fuck," Mulder breathes. He shuts his eyes for a beat, like he's trying to compose himself, and then blinks them back open, embers of an impending fire starting to glow behind his dilating pupils. "This is a bad idea," he tells her, stating it more like a fact than as a deterrent. 

"Maybe," she agrees.

"We have to work together tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that one, too. You don't think this will... change things?"

"Not if we don't let it." 

"You really think it's that simple?"

She considers the question. Considers whether or not she can learn what it's like to have him explore her body tonight, and then pretend like she didn't come morning.

"We're two consenting adults," she says, evading the question. "Has the thought of doing this really never crossed your mind?"

"That... That feels like a leading question."

"Would it make you feel better if I said that it has definitely crossed mine?"

"Jesus, Scully," he breathes, shifting in his seat and clutching her hips so tight that she won't be surprised if later she finds finger-shaped bruises on her skin, reminiscent of dusted prints at a crime scene.

"It's just sex, Mulder," but even as she says it, she knows it's a lie.

He knows it too, judging by the muscle twitching in his clenched jaw as he holds her eyes with a steady look.

"Is it?" he asks evenly, and they both know the answer is no.

No. Of course not. Sex could never be "just" anything between them, but the reason why is a topic they've come to an unspoken agreement to never acknowledge aloud. But Scully isn't stupid. She knows that the way electricity behaves between them—constantly thrumming and sparking, in tense situations as well as banal—isn't normal. Four years ago she dropped her robe in front of him in a candle lit hotel room, and she hasn't stopped feeling his gaze on her lower back since; the tender way his eyes roved over her delusive mosquito bites is as permanent a tattoo as the blood red ouroboros that has only recently lost its scabs.

The term "something more" is a vague and fanciful concept she would sooner dismiss as nothing but a perpetuation of commercialized romance, if she herself wasn't subjected to it on a near daily basis. Since day number one there has been an elusive "something more" surrounding them, fighting for their attention, even as they so ardently deny its existence.

So no, it isn't just sex, but Scully also didn't come here to give voice to the elephant that follows them from room to room. To put it plainly, she came here so he could fuck the will to live back into her body, and she refuses to lose sight of her mission.

So in lieu of a response—because she can't animate any elephants, but neither can she lie to a man who treats truth like the core tenet to his religion—she instead throws caution to the wind, swoops in, and kisses him. 

Ice touches enamel. She wants it to burn.

Whatever reservations or protests he may have been fighting against must not be too hard to cast aside, because his response to her is instant, tilting his head to slot their lips together and kissing back so forcefully their teeth clack together. But even that doesn't, or maybe can't slow them down.

Mulder's hands move from her hips to her ass, and in a single swift movement he lifts her onto his lap. He swallows her surprised gasp as she straddles his thighs, his hard cock brushing her center, the layers of their clothing teasing her relentlessly when right now she needs skin-on-skin more than she needs air.

Mulder seems to be of the same mind, because one second she's sitting astride him fully clothed, and in the next he has somehow stripped her of her shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Returning the favor, she peels his off too, feeling like a kid at Christmas unwrapping the box she knows contains the best present under the tree.

Scully tries to recapture his lips, but he stills her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He then leans back to get a good, long look at her.

"God, Scully," he whispers reverently, eyes trained on her chest. He reaches out to touch her, and when he does her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. Tentatively, and with such profound focus you'd think he was attempting to split an atom, he pinches her left nipple and rolls it experimentally between his index finger and thumb. It's such a simple touch, but it goes straight to her leaking cunt, and when she moans Mulder's attention darts back up to her face, the embers behind his eyes now a full-fledged forest fire, blazing a warpath through the trees. He makes it a point not to break her gaze when he leans in and takes the same nipple into his mouth.

"Mmm," she hums, letting her head loll back. He sucks the nub of her nipple taut, and involuntarily she bucks her hips in response. 

Mulder mumbles something incoherent against her breast, and when she asks for clarification, he pulls away with an obscene pop and then nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck, saying, "You're everything."

Everything. Like he ran through the full gamut of adjectives and found himself wanting. Like she is so many things at once that there isn't a single word that encompasses the breadth of her worth to him. 

You're everything.

It's the most overwhelming compliment she has ever received, because she wants, more than anything, to live up to it, and yet she's not even sure if she is going to be able to simply live, period. She's not sure when her greatest fear became failing him. It might have been the first time he ever challenged her. When she stood in front of his projector, veiled by the illuminated slides he'd already prepared for her arrival, as he quizzed her on chemistry, and causes of death, and the supposed limits of science in a vast and complex universe. She had wanted to prove herself to him then, and then just never stopped. 

The truth of his influence over her is too much to handle right now, so she decides to kiss him again—an act that is quickly becoming her new favorite strategy for deflection—and then buries her fingers in his hair. She oscillates her hips in slow circles, taunting them both with light but consistent pressure on his cock. She feels him twitch in anticipation for her, and her pulse throbs in her cunt in turn.

"I want you," she whispers against his lips, but he shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs. "No, not yet."

Before she can ask him for clarification, he's lifting her up with a firm grip on the backs of her thighs, and then proceeds to lay her down lengthwise on the couch.

There's a manic energy wafting off of him in waves, and yet, in total contrast, the way he slides her leggings and panties down and off her legs is so purposeful and leisurely that she has the absurd thought that nobody has ever undressed her with such respect before.

When he kisses her soundly on the mouth and then begins making a trek down her body with his lips and tongue and an occasional nip of his teeth, she feels—for the first time since she stepped foot inside his apartment with this ludacris idea—a pang of apprehension.

For the most part, she isn't a self-conscious person. Once she got past the awkwardness of adolescence, she's had a fairly healthy relationship with her self-image. But that said, Mulder's intended destination is obvious, and she's had enough sexual partners turn their nose up at the suggestion that for a moment she worries he's only doing it because he thinks she expects it of him.

But then he settles himself in between her thighs and peers up at her with a hunger better fit for a man so far into starvation he's about to succumb to it, and she realizes then that while he may be able to read all the words on her every page, it is not a one-sided transparency. If ever there were to be a scholar on the topic of Fox William Mulder, she would be the one.

The apprehension, already fleeting in the first place, dissipates entirely, and she lets her legs fall open in invitation.

There is no hesitancy in his acceptance. He uses two fingers to part her labia, and then starts off by dragging the flat of his tongue from her soaking entrance up to her swollen clit in one long stroke, and that alone has her crying out, unconcerned about how she sounds or how thin the walls might be. 

Never a man to miss important details, it's unsurprising the speed at which he masters the intricacies of her body. She knows he's paying attention to every miniscule shift in her body language by the way he adjusts the pressure and speed and direction of his mouth and tongue. When he slips one finger inside her, quickly following it up with a second, and pulses a come hither motion as he sucks on her aching clit she wants to sob. He eats cunt with the devotion of a holy man, and he makes her feel deserving of being worshipped.

This is why it's worth it to live. Because for every twinge and ache and pain her body is capable of, it is equally capable of so much good feeling that it could constitute a religious experience. That while there are always going to be moments of suffering, there are also going to be moments of pleasure, and to truly live you have to accept the full spectrum of what it means to possess a human body.

When the coiling heat in her cunt finally boils over, and she arches her back and cries out Mulder's name while a rapturous climax works through her, suspending time and space, she thinks to herself, over and over like a mantra—like a promise: This is what I'm fighting for. This is what I'm fighting for. This. Is what. I am fighting for.

When she comes back to herself enough to spring into action, she is barely conscious of her own movements, acting more on primal instinct as she yanks Mulder up and kisses him sloppily, licking into his mouth and tasting herself on his tongue as she manages to flip them so that he's lying on his back, panting up at her with blown pupils and parted lips. 

She gets his sweatpants and boxers pulled down past his knees, and he kicks them the rest of the way off. He curses when she takes hold of him and guides him to her entrance, unable to wait to be filled by him any longer. 

He's so big, and even with the slickness from her orgasm she has to take him in slowly, letting her cunt adjust to the stretch of him. 

"There's so much of you," she groans, rocking her hips, slipping him in further inch by inch. He's holding onto her hips again, gripping her like she's a life preserver as he clenches his jaw, clearly trying his utmost not to thrust into her before she's ready for it.

"You feel... Jesus, Scully, there aren't words to describe how you feel," he says, strained between gritted teeth, and she's so thankful for him. For his patience. For his attention. For the "something more" between them that she doesn't dare give a name to, even in the privacy of her own mind.

When she finally takes him to the hilt, it feels like an accomplishment. Skewered between her legs on his massive cock, she has the same sense of satisfaction she gets when she pins him into a corner during a debate. Already he has infiltrated almost every aspect of her life, and now he's inside her body as well, and she understands what he meant before, because it's everything. He's everything.

She tells him so, and that's more than he can handle. After the words spill from her lips, he thrusts up into her, making her shout, but on the next thrust she meets him in a counter-rhythm, driving him impossibly deeper inside her. The apartment is full of the sounds and smells of sex as she begins to ride him in earnest. She plays with her own tits, and he watches her, rapt with attention, and when his breathing starts to hollow, he puts a hand between her legs and lets her rub her clit against him.

"Yes," she moans, riding him harder, shocked that he has her teetering on the edge again so soon. "God, yes. Mulder, I—I'm going to—" 

She completes her sentence nonverbally, falling over the edge once more, and this time Mulder follows her. He's chanting nonsense syllables that are probably supposed to be her name, as she clenches around him and milks his cock dry, letting him fill her fully and completely. She wants to feel his spend leaking out of her later. She wants to feel bruised when she walks. She wants to remember every last second of tonight—even if they never speak of it again—because she is going to need the memories in order to face what's waiting for her come tomorrow.

When they've both returned to Earth, they stay joined together in silence for just a little longer, searching each other's faces, possibly for signs of regret, or maybe just for the sake of looking. He pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear and she lets her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch. Between her legs he's starting to soften. Her unorthodox favor has been fulfilled, and reality is hurtling back to them at speed.

"Thank you," she says, not opening her eyes. 

He doesn't respond for a few beats, and then he says, "It's worth it, Scully. Remember it's worth it." 

She nods. 

It's so easy, she thinks, to be aware of her own mortality. To remember that she will die.

She vows now that, in the face of every upcoming obstacle, she will remind herself, often, that she can also live.

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Fix You Part 4/10

+18

Part 5 and 6 are out on my Patreon!

Summary - Reader is hired as Ruben's assistant nurse after receiving head trauma during a football game. He has fallen into a deep depression on his road to recovery and does not accept much help from Reader as she only reminds him of how incapable he is.

Enjoy!

He should have never given you a day off, Ruben thought. You had been gone for hours, without telling anyone where you went. Ruben woke up that morning to an empty apartment. Okay, Max was there but he was an early riser and always went out for a morning run. You, on the other hand, wasn't an early riser. You'd wake up around the same time Ruben did. He would listen to your footsteps puttering around the kitchen while he lay in bed. By the time you knocked on his door to give him his shot, Ruben had been awake for hours, thinking about you and how he would do anything to feel your hands against his face again.

"Do you think she's gone missing?" Ruben asked Max.

"I thought she said that she had an audition this afternoon?"

"A what?"

"An audition. She's an actress, you know? A really good one too."

"Y/N, an actress?" Ruben found it very laughable. Actors and actresses possessed the skill of lying to the world. That night, looking into your eyes as you held his face, Ruben saw nothing but the truth in them. The truth that you were indeed the most breathtaking woman he had ever seen.

"Yeah, apparently she's studied at one of the best acting schools in London."

"Oh, yeah? Then how come I haven't seen her in any movies?"

It was a slow day in the park. However, Max refused to bring out the tennis balls. Despite the surgery, it was obvious that Ruben's conditions had yet improved. He feared that it was getting worse. And with that thought his creeping depression would return to him with the thoughts of never playing football again. That, and the fact that going blind forever meant never seeing your eyes again.

"I dunno, she said something about the movie industry being misogynistic and unfair to women." Max explained.

Ruben snorted. "Sounds like excuses to me."

He was an asshole at heart. Ruben knew that. But you didn't, or at least pretended not to notice. It's the reason why he hired you. You had an attitude like no other, an attitude that was reflected in your snapping tongue. Whatever Ruben put you through, no matter the insult, you always looked at him the same. Not with pity like his mother. You looked at Ruben as if you could see right through him. See through the pain in his heart and the many many failed attempts to better himself. You gave him the illusion that he might be good enough for you. However, the whole world knew that he wasn't. Not with his broken mind.

The sun had gone down by the time you got back to the apartment. Ruben and Max returned from the park hours ago. You had missed dinner and Ruben didn't like that. Did you have dinner somewhere else? With someone else? If that was the case, the two of you really needed to talk.

"Ruben?"

It was right on cue that you knocked on his door. You had made it a habit to check on him before you retreated to your own room. Ruben would never admit it, but this was the favorite part of his day.

"Come in." He said, sitting up in bed. He perked up even more seeing you appear in the doorway, your face painted with makeup, wearing a tight black dress that hugged your shape in ways that struck his sinful imagination. No bandages covered his eyes during these hours and luckily you wore a coat over your naked shoulders, preventing Ruben from completely losing his mind at the sight of you.

"Hey, I just wanted to check on you." You said.

"Well, like all the other nights you've checked on me, I'm still alive."

His cheesy comment made your smile fade. Good job Ruben, he thought. Even in the dark he could see your distaste for him.

"I mean, do you need anything before I go to bed?" 

"No."

"Oh, okay."

You lingered in the door frame, perhaps feeling forced to make small talk. "Max told me that you guys went to the park today, did you have a nice time?"

"Yes."

"Good."

An awkward silence followed. If you would only step a little closer to the bed so that he could see you clearly. Ruben's vision got a bit blurry where you stood, since his eyes still needed time to adjust, even to the dark.

"Did Max let you exercise again?" You asked.

Ruben snorted. "No." 

"I'm sorry about that."

Perhaps you felt guilty ever since his little fumble in the park, where Ruben's heart topped the average rate. Max refused anymore advanced brain exercises after that. The reason for Ruben's newfound restlessness. Nevertheless, he didn't blame it on you.

"It's not your fault." Ruben said, looking at his hands. "We'll start again in time."

You nodded. "You will get better in time, Ruben, your doctor said so himself."

You had started taking him to his weekly appointments. Although you were much better company than Ruben's mother, he didn't like the look of pity that you gave him as the doctors would pin all those needles in him to run their many many tests. You would never see him for the man he really was, a football player.

"Where were you?" Ruben asked, pleased to change the subject.

"Erm...out." 

"Out with who?"

Your arms folded. "Why do you assume I was out with someone?"

"You were out alone?"

"Yes, yes I was. Believe it or not."

"Why were you dressed like that?"

You looked down on your dress. The light from the hallway reflected off of the little specks of glitter, putting dots on Ruben's walls, making it look like little stars roamed above their heads.

"What's wrong with the way I dress?" You frowned.

"Nothing." He shrugged. "It just looks like you were going on a date or something."

"And if I were?"

"What?"

Ruben's reaction made you smile. "Yeah, if I did in fact go on a date, what's it to?"

"I don't....." 

He choked on his words and you laughed.

"Relax Ruben. I'm only dressed like this because the audition I went to required it."

Of course, he thought. Max told him about your acting pursuit, although he still doubted that you were a good one. However, Ruben was curious. "How did it go?"

"Shit." You sighed and to his surprise stepped into the room. "The directors wanted me to run lines in a scouse accent. Like, who even knows how to do that?"

Ruben laughed. He thought about the many times he had been scolded by the Liverpool fans. He never managed to understand a word of what they were saying to him. He doubted anyone knew what they were saying, not even themselves.

"All I'm saying is thank God for this job, otherwise I'd probably be on the street begging for leftovers."

"I'm sure you'll get your breakthrough." He said and really meant it. If it wasn't in your heart to work for him it could turn ugly very quickly.

"I dunno?" You sighed and to Ruben's surprise, felt comfortable enough to take a seat on his bed.

His legs stirred under the covers to distract him from the blood rushing to parts of his body that he really didn't want to come alive right now. Luckily, the room was dark and you sat on the foot of his bed. Nevertheless, your silhouette was enough to send him off. You were beautiful beyond the light, and if he was ever given the pleasure to touch you one day, he'd forsure make it memorable.

"Ruben?"

Fuck, he thought. You must have caught him staring.

"Yes?" He replied, cupping his groin under the covers.

"I want you to be honest with me."

Fuck.

"Before I go to bed...."

Yeah, he's done.

"Of course." He said, clearing his throat.

"Do you need my help getting to the toilet?"

"Pardon?"

You avoided his eyes out of cheer embarrassment. "You know...." You said. "To help you pee?"

If only God did drive-by's. "No, Y/N." He sighed. "I'm good to go on my own if I have to."

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. It's my body, isn't it?"

"I'm just saying. Last time..."

"Last time was a first."

"Right." There was a hint of a smile on your face. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

Ruben's heart sank, seeing you leave his bedside. "Y/N?" He exclaimed, stopping you at the door. 

You turned around, eyebrows raised. 

"Erm...you look beautiful."

Your face lit up. "Thank you."

"Yeah, um....goodnight, I guess." Ruben was quite desperate for you to leave.

"Goodnight Ruben."

He fell onto his back once the door shut. And an odd surprise awaited him as he slid a hand down his sweatpants. Ruben had been told that parts of his body could remain permanently affected by his injuries. Like the next man he wondered if that meant his abilities to perform in other places than just the football pitch, and unfortunately the answer was, yes. Like the next man Ruben had tried watching porn in all kinds of outrageous themes. However, nothing had done it for him. But now here he lay, with a full fledged erection and one person on his mind. 

As he began stroking himself, Ruben thought of stripping you of that dress of yours, touching you in ways that would pleasure you to a point of rapture. Oh how he would love to rip you apart, to hear you moan his name.

"Fuck."

As much as he wanted to make the moment last, Ruben was too horny to maintain a steady pace. He stroked his dick like his life depended on it. As if his mother could burst into his room at any minute.

"Shit...." 

Ruben ground, succumbing to his own temptations. He felt pathetic afterwards. Like an animal unable to control his urges. Nevertheless, he made a promise that the next time he came, it would be inside of you.

Part 5 and 6 are out on my Patreon!

[crepe-of-wrath]

insane levels of wish fulfillment (soft dom Aizawa x very insecure f reader scenario)

mdni; again this is just absolute wish fulfillment and not a how to/guide for anything; Reader has major esteem issues bc Reader grew up in an environment that heavily stressed conventional feminine beauty and attitudes toward aging and it left a mark; if you personally grew up in an environment that was more open about those things and so this Reader's insecurities don't vibe with you, I'm sorry--most of my other x Readers are not like this but I'm just kind of in a place rn i guess; in case it wasn't already obvious, reader is skirting even closer than usual to "author self insert;" consider this a continuation of THIS

It's your first time together with Aizawa since you and he officially agreed to your dynamic. When you two had been discussing things to see if you would be a good match, you had stressed the need for cuddling after sex, explaining you were scarred by an encounter where your lover had basically pumped and ran, leaving you cold and alone on the mattress.

At first you were elated when Aizawa explained that, for your first time together, all you were going to do was cuddle. Without thinking, you settled into his arms, nuzzling his neck, playing with the tendrils that cascaded down from his ponytail, shivering with delight as his fingers lightly danced over you.

But then doubt set in. "Are--are you sure, Sir?" you had asked, so timidly (one day you hoped to call him Master, but that seemed like such a big and scary and heavy step, so you had both agreed on Sir for now). "I--I don't want to be, you know..selfish, I guess? I mean...shouldn't I have to do something to earn affection like cuddles?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wrapping you up tight. His arms and chest were so muscular; he was so handsome--why had he chosen lowly you when there were so many younger and prettier subs who wanted him too?! You were about to spiral into self-doubt when his baritone voice reached down into the depths, caught you and pulled you back up to the surface, where you could breathe again.

"Angel," he explained, "what we've agreed to is a mutual exchange of service and protection that is supposed to make us feel extra special. Everyone"--here he smiled and stroked your cheek--"even little angels who have been too harshly treated by this world and don't value themselves like they should, fundamentally deserves affection. You never have to earn that--"

Whatever else he had to say was drowned out by your very, very loud sobs. They came out of nowhere--eruption, tsunami, tornado, no destructive metaphor seemed to quite suffice for how they simply overcame you, leaving you completely incapable of stopping them. The tears that flowed out of your eyes carried the sediment of literal decades of pain and loneliness and sorrow caused by your internalized belief that you just weren't pretty enough, weren't worthy of being cared for, were somehow even more wretched than you had been in your supposed bloom of youth now that you had reached your expiration date, and all other sorts of nasty things that part of you had always known weren't true, but that a more insidious part of you could never shake.

Aizawa just held you in those unwavering arms of his, murmuring little hums and nothings in that voice of his for heavens knows how long before you calmed down.

"Good girl," he said. "You're such a good girl. You lie here for just a second and I'm going to go get you some water. I think you'll need it." Exhausted, you let yourself fall into the comfortable mattress and pillow. You heard him pour something from the pitcher, and then you heard the faucet. He walked in with a glass and a towel draped on his shoulder. He handed you the water and began to gently clean up your face.

You felt so warm and fuzzy inside; being cherished, even a little, was more dizzying that even your wildest dreams. Without thinking, you said, "Thank you, Master." Then, you gasped a little, but not in a bad way. It had felt...exciting to call him that.

Aizawa drew you into his lap, and you put your arms around his neck. "Angel," he said, "I would be a liar if I didn't say that hearing you call me 'Master' is"--here he sighed again and you thought you felt something twitch in his lap--"extremely alluring. But, I also know that you had said you weren't 100% comfortable with that title yet. It's been an emotional evening and on nights like this sometimes good girls who just want to make their Sirs happy will push themselves too much and then be scared later because they want to take a step back. I promised to take care of you, sweetheart, so I don't want that to happen. So, you will call me 'Sir' for the next week--that's an order--and at the end of the week we'll have another discussion to see if you're truly comfortable with 'Master.'"

"I understand, Sir. And...thank you for taking care of me."

"I wouldn't be worthy of the honor of hearing 'Master' fall from your sweet lips if I did otherwise, Angel."

All you could do was beam at him and try to hold him as tightly as you could.

"You're so pretty," he said softly. "Why don't you give me a little kiss?"

You felt your face warm up and quietly said, "Yes, Sir," before giving him a peck on the lips.

[thedorkurge]

Your fics and drabbles are incredible!

If you’re still taking prompts- a durgetash love confession???

Thank you! I had to sit with this one for a bit, and then this happened... Forgive me.

You can read it under the cut or on ao3.

Three I love yous (0,8k)

The first time it happened, it had been a mocking declaration. It was meant to belittle, to be so outrageous that one would never assume that there was any truth to it. An obvious taunt, meant to get under the dragonborn’s skin.

Enver hadn’t intended for them to land in the Chionthar, but the hastily scribbled teleportation sigil clearly contained a miscalculation or two. Durge was still ripping off some imps that had followed them through the portal, looking remarkably like a wet cat as he followed Enver onto the river bank. The human practically collapsed into the sand, the remaining adrenaline fading to nothing. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” The dragonborn’s voice was hoarse from coughing up river water, but no less intimidating for it. Unfortunately for him, Enver was not easily intimidated.

“Now’s hardly the time to flirt, my dear. Unless of course you’re finally giving into my irresistible charms?”

If looks could kill, Durge would already have made good on his promise ten times over. Nothing got under his skin quite like Enver’s complete disregard for the danger he posed. 

“Next time I’ll handle the exit strategy, since you seem completely incapable of performing something as simple as a teleportation ritual!”

Enver’s eyes rolled as far back as his anatomy would permit, as he finally got to his feet.

“Yes yes, I love you too dear. Now, are you going to move on? Or do you need a few more minutes to be upset?”

The patronizing tone clearly got on Durge’s nerves more than anything else. Enver should probably count himself lucky his spine was still in his body, as the Bhaalspawn finally stalked off to find someone more expendable to vent his frustrations on.

-

The second time was a correction, a reminder, a lie for the benefit of others. Posing as a couple at a charity ball wasn’t ideal, but it was the best way to access multiple targets in one night. 

The outfit Enver had picked out fit the dragonborn perfectly, and the coordinated colors clearly showed their affiliation to the room full of the wealthy and influential. Their disguise would be flawless, if only Durge didn’t look like he wanted to murder everyone in the room.

If Enver didn’t find a way to get him away from the main party, he might actually start killing people. But that didn’t mean the banite couldn’t have fun with it.

He put on his most charming smile as he greeted the host, engaging her in light conversation until he could finally mention what he actually wanted.

“Aurelia, darling, you simply must show my husband your art collection. Believe me, he makes a far better audience than I do. He’s got an eye for this sort of thing.”

He quickly grabbed the dragonborn’s hand in his own before it could reach for his concealed daggers.

“I’m gonna kill you.” The threat was hissed under his breath, but quite clear nonetheless.

Enver laughed slightly for the benefit of the nobles, as if he had told him a joke. “I love you too, dear.” He held up his drink to flash the wedding ring, a clear reminder of what they were meant to look like. 

The smile Durge plastered on his face was clearly forced, faked for the nobles’ benefit, as he walked off to view a collection he had no interest in. 

Enver continued his conversation, trying not to think about how cold his hand felt without the bhaalspawn’s touch.

-

The third time it happened, Enver was alone. 

Even the living halls of the colony felt cold and empty. They had felt that way for days, the chilly loneliness in the air seeping into his bones.

Sometimes it felt like he could still hear Orin’s gleeful laughter, see the glint of red on her dagger.

He had tried to throw himself into his work, wandering down to Balthazar’s laboratory to consult the trapped minds in the illithid library. 

He soon found his eye drawn to something that felt out of place. A scrolled page, torn and stained. It didn’t belong here. 

Forgive me, Father…

His previous work was abandoned as he cradled the paper in his hands. The carefully constructed dam that kept his emotions at bay finally crumbled under the pressure, as he all but fled to his workspace in the tower above. 

Now, halfway through his third bottle of wine, the lines between thought and speech were blurred. Sentiments that would usually go unacknowledged now floated just beneath the surface. The layer of sarcasm that gave them deniability was permeated by a heartache that was far too real.

It didn’t matter anymore. He was gone. Denial was pointless because there was nothing to protect. Nothing to deny. Nothing.

Just a page that said everything and nothing at all.

I cannot help but admire the chosen of your sworn foe.

It was an admission of guilt.

It was a confession.

It was too late.

For once the words fell from Enver’s lips with no twist of sarcasm or mockery.

“I love you too.”

This time he meant it. 

Maybe he always had.

[calder]

please stop fucking harassing disabled people

so this message left on the talk page of an authority figure is what you are throwing in my face right.

i will simply leave them alone. OK. all anyone had to do was ask.

i am a disabled person who faced severe prolonged harassment from nukapedia, and i am trying to protect the community and get justice for the others they targeted. i tried to reach noncommunicative authority figures while seeking accountability for racism, stalking and child abuse. staff still won't even admit the Hand Banana incident happened at all

intrepid had to be told five times by a minor to stop privately messaging him before terminating the conversation. i asked to be left alone for a day in my time of grief, and he blatantly violated that boundary to continue abusing me. i know you've never accused him of harassment.

NP's inner circle is a crypto-far-right harassment community that demonizes good actors on contrived charges of "harassment," including an editor banned last year for "harassing" intrepid by showing proof he was racially harassing her. and a 17-year-old editor who was bullied off the platform and deemed a "troll" for the same thing.

they always retaliate against good actors. their retaliation is always laundered so blatantly and presented so passive-aggressively as to provoke immediate disagreement, and anyone who does the right thing is marked as next.

the article i linked is relevant to this

i can stop trying to reach nukastaff but i don't see how i can simply allow what happened to us to happen to more innocent newcomers.

i am open to mediation or constructive input. one direct public diplomatic conversation between my camp and nukapedia representatives would resolve this.

look

i'm sorry i said i would stop interfering altogether and did not stop. i thought i would be able to stop and i could not. i fucked up. i didn't consciously realize i was doing it but it was fully shitty. i'm sorry.

the abuse i witnessed and experienced was nightmarish and i am still not okay. and that predatory institution is an ongoing danger to the entire community.

nobody is going to fix anything by mediating on the terms of unrepentant psychological manipulators. the same people have been doing the exact same avoidance-gaslighting-DARVO routine for years. they target anyone who refuses to enable their abuse.

a dominant member of nukastaff said it's not necessary to hold predators accountable unless they declare themselves "a sick individual who preys on children." if that is treated as an acceptable interpretation of policy--and it is--then users favored by staff can never be held accountable for anything of that nature under any circumstances, by design. and history has borne that out. that is not safe.

they always exaggerate straightforward criticisms and concerns to make them sound insane & stigmatize people who ask for evidence of their narrative.

correspondingly, as long as users stay near the overton window, they will not be banned for white supremacist talking points (and bullying) unless they say "i am a white supremacist." "gentle" racism is handled with an extremely forgiving 3-strikes system, which means it is 100% safe for sneaky white supremacists, also by design. it is a place where "reverse racism" is treated with vastly more seriousness than child abuse. or racism. the problem staff never discuss anything serious with anyone who is not completely under their control.

they contrive technicalities to terminate any conversation that threatens their power, and those contrivance are enforced as law. the perpetrators hold absolute power over that tiny SEO-optimized chamber and wield it with zero shame and zero accountability. you know that it is completely impossible to tell the truth in that space without being next.

the cruellest voices are held to be incapable of wrongdoing. emotional blackmail is the air at nukapedia. they create confusion on purpose to control situations and hurt people. it is that fucking bad. it is not normal. it is a cult that hunts its outcasts and their friends. it is fucked up.

[starwarsmum]

Chapter 8 of Introducing: Mousinette ❤️ Jon Finds Out About Marinette

Marinette rushed to her next lecture, head down and wishing she'd had more sleep the night before. It was the first Monday of classes, and she had almost overslept. Her work at Wayne Enterprises was due to take place on Tuesdays and Fridays now, the other weekdays full of lectures and workshops. She liked them well enough so far, but there was so much to do. She slipped into the lecture hall, taking a seat somewhere in the middle, trying not to look completely out of her depth.

She glanced up when a shadow fell across her table and had to work very hard not to let a scowl cross her face. Above her was no other than Damian Wayne, her (possible) nemesis. She swallowed a sharp remark and raised an eyebrow at him, waiting. He shifted his weight between his feet before speaking.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked, and when she shook her head, he waited for a beat. “Would it inconvenience you if I sat here? You have chosen an optimal position to pay attention to the content but not be called upon too regularly.”

“Wow, was that a compliment?” The response left her before she could censor it, and she was frustrated with herself, until his lips twitched into an almost smirk and he shrugged. “Um, I mean no, that's fine. Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night,” she offered, in way of explanation.

“A problem I struggle with most days,” he said sagely, settling into the seat next to her. She let out a snort and her hand clamped to her mouth. It must be the sleep deprivation, she thought, shaking her head. “Besides, you know Drake cannot function without six cups of coffee per hour, I will not be offended by some light sarcasm.”

She bit her tongue so hard, she thought she could taste blood. Had she fallen asleep at her desk? Was this Damian's lesser known good twin? She was saved from saying anything when the lecturer called for their attention, filling the next hour with their Introduction to Budgeting class.

At the end of the hour, Marinette stretched and Damian had to physically stop himself from watching her. He had noticed a growing trend from their evenings chatting when he was behind his mask: he would watch her move, noting a grace to her limbs and strength that belied her slight frame.

He had known she was beautiful, the darkness in which they often met incapable of hiding it, though his memories of the times he had spent with her in daylight were only slightly faded. But in the daylight (or harsh, strobe lighting) she had a clever gleam to her eye, a slight smirk that was so often hidden in shadow. He could see the way she bit her lip when she concentrated, leaving an imprint when she stopped worrying it.

He cleared his throat as she made to leave, likely for lunch given the hour. She stopped and turned back to him, cocking her head and waiting. He swallowed, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

“Do you have time to get lunch?” He blurted out suddenly, and he could see the surprise she quickly attempted to smother. “I know a few decent restaurants around here, and a few cafés. Given you had trouble sleeping, I thought you may appreciate the company.”

He held his breath as he waited for her response. She hadn't said no outright, which encouraged him, but he was also aware that only a few nights ago she had told him what she thought of The Damian Wayne. While it likely helped him for her to see them as completely different people, it irked him to think of her disliking him, so he planned to rectify it.

“Um, sure, I had planned to pick something up and take it back to my apartment but if you know somewhere, I'm fine to eat in,” she said quickly, as though rushing through it before she could second guess her decision. He relaxed and stood, motioning for her to start walking.

He led her to a small, hole-in-the-wall style bistro, one he frequented with Kent. She greeted the staff pleasantly, smiling at their waiter and asking about house specialities. He could hardly take his eyes off of her, giving his usual order without looking at the menu. 

“So, do you come here often?” She asked, and he blanked for a moment, sure she didn't mean it how it sounded. 

“Tt, I have been here with Kent occasionally, they do a few adequate vegetarian dishes,” he admitted, taking a sip from his iced tea. “I enjoy it here because the staff do not bother me whilst I am eating.”

“And Kent is…?”

“An acquaintance from school. He is also to attend this university, although his focus is journalism. His classes will start tomorrow, which is why I am not having lunch with him.”

“Huh, that's cool,” she said, sounding genuinely interested. She leaned towards him, hugging her mug of coffee tightly in two hands. “And you're vegetarian? I'm working on some dishes for a friend of mine, I'd love an opinion on them! I feel like you wouldn't sugarcoat it if they're awful.”

“Tt, you are correct, I would not. What would be the point in telling you falsities, you would only be likely to attempt to feed it to me again.” Just then, their orders arrived and they fell into companionable silence as they ate.

When they finished and paid their bills, Damian felt that he had overcome the first hurdle in becoming friends with Marinette.

After lunch, Marinette found herself running late again and cursed under her breath. She launched herself around people standing on the pavement, dodging nimbly. As she rounded her last corner, however, she crashed into someone very solid and tumbled to the floor.

“Shit, sorry kid!” The person she had crashed into was tall and solid, so he was still standing. She took his offered hand and pulled herself up, apologising as she scrambled for her notebooks. “Hey, don't I know you?”

“Ah, um, yes, I think so, you're Jason, right?” She took in his large stature and the streak of white in his hair. She indicated the latter as she continued. “Difficult to forget such a distinctive hair style.”

“Hah, yeah, you're Babs’ little friend, right? I forgot you were starting here this year, so you need help getting to a class? Here, I'll walk you, people tend to get out of the way for me.”

“I'll bet,” she replied, amused. They walked quickly, chatting amiably. As they approached the halls for her next workshop, he handed her his phone so she could ‘be in touch with the only sane one in the family’. Although she was dubious about it, she put in her number and rushed away promising they could catch up next time.

_ _ _

As the week progressed, Damian found that he ran into Marinette more often than he thought he would. They only shared one class but their days at Wayne Enterprises aligned which meant that he would see her in the cafeteria, or getting a coffee in the morning. She was hesitant to begin, but had begun to offer him a smile each time she saw him, almost reflexively.

He didn't get lunch with her again on campus, given that Kent had begun to hang around him. He was not yet ready to share her with him, especially as she seemed to be a magnet for overly-friendly male admirers. If he was less capable, he would have lost count of the number of men who had come up to her to flirt (eight, he had counted eight individual times that he had seen, heaven knew how many others had approached her when he wasn't around) and it was beginning to irk him.

He had long since resigned himself to the fact that he was developing feelings for her, but seeing other people approach her with the intention of wooing her made him want to hiss at them. He cared for Kent but if he also fell for her charms, it would test their friendship. So it made him bristle to see her talking to Todd of all people, at lunch on Thursday, and there was nothing he could do if he wanted to keep his growing friendship with her to himself.

“You okay, buddy?” Kent asked as Damian scowled. He followed Damian's line of sight and saw the pair laughing together. “Oh, did Jason get a new girlfriend? Wait, does he do the whole dating thing? She's not his usual type, she's kind of cute-”

“Cease your prattling, Kent,” Damian snarled, making the super raise an eyebrow. “Tt, they are not dating, she has no romantic inclinations towards him whatsoever, and if he has them towards her, I shall be divesting him of his lower regions.”

“Whoa, that's aggressive. Your heartbeat's going a little crazy there too,” Kent said, making Damian’s expression darken further. “I take it you know her too? How come I haven't met her?”

“Because she is an employee at Wayne Enterprises, and she is friends with Gordon. She is in my Introduction to Budgeting lecture, but otherwise we have no other shared education, why would you have met her?” He worked to bring his heartbeat under control and made his voice level. “Regardless, they are not our concern and I do not wish to waste my lunch break speaking with Todd. May we proceed?”

“Sure thing, but don't think I forgot that you threatened little Jason in your little speech there. I've known you a long time my friend, and you've never threatened to castrate someone before.”

Marinette spotted Damian leaving with a tall, black haired man and watched them out of sight. She continued to listen and respond to Jason, but he was looking for something on his phone and so didn't notice her distraction. She had to admit, she was curious about Damian’s friend, who she was yet to meet. He had mentioned him again on Tuesday when they'd been getting coffee, and she wanted to pick the mystery man's brain about Damian's prickly nature.

“Anyway, thanks for having lunch with me today, Pixie,” Jason said, grinning down at her. “It's nice to have someone to talk to about Jagged's music. And you have such hilarious stories, you'll have to tell me more about this cat noir next time, he sounds lame.”

“No lamer than a man dressing as a bat and flapping at people,” she retorted. “Or dressing as a traffic light, or wearing an awful helmet that doesn't have eye holes. Honestly, if I could design something for these vigilantes, I would make sure they were dressed fashionably.”

Jason laughed as he waved, jogging lightly to get back to work. Marinette had some free time and the last warm days of summer were giving way to autumn, so she wanted to spend as much time outside as possible. Picking a quiet bench in the corner of the common grounds, she slid a pair of headphones on and played one of her favourite playlists. It was dynamic, inspiring her to design practical fashion for movement.

As she designed, she felt her mind wandering to Damian. He had looked handsome standing next to the other man, wearing a clean cut jacket and jeans. His dark hair was ruffled slightly, not slicked back for a change. She came back to herself to find that she had sketched his outline, the hair standing up fetchingly. 

She paused and cocked her head at the picture. Something was tickling at the back of her mind as she stared at it, but it didn't become any clearer. Sighing, she sketched a new outfit over the top, a dinner jacket and trousers with a smart shirt - if she was going to daydream about the man, she might as well make it work related.

[usagi-chwan]

Oda x Pregnant!Reader - A piece of hapiness

Reader's name is Miyoko in this chapter!

The sound of her footsteps almost imperceptible, Miyoko slipped into the darkened kitchen, finding her way easily thanks to memory and habit. She avoided the table, then the counter, and made her way to the sink, still in complete silence. 

Only when she reached the sink did she look for the light switch, running her fingers along the wall above the faucet; a discreet light appeared, illuminating the counter to help her find what she was looking for. 

She tiptoed to one of the upper cupboards, and rummaged around for a while until she came across what she so desired, well hidden behind a packet of coffee. Her fingers brushed against her objective, but she was still too small to reach it completely. 

This made her gasp with discontent, as a disgruntled pout found its way onto her lips. Determined to see her nocturnal plans being successful, she leaned one hand on the counter, her feet stretched to the extreme, while her second hand touched again and again what she wanted to grab, without succeeding this time either. 

She was going to have to get on a chair, she could not see any other way. She could potentially give up, but the irresistible urge she had been feeling for a good hour at least outweighed everything else, even her sleep. 

Just as she was about to get back on her two feet, and reach for something that might help her grow a little taller, another hand, much larger than hers, came to grab what she had so desperately wanted, taking her by surprise. 

She stepped back a little, unsettled, and was held by another body, whose warmth was oh-so-familiar to her. Lifting her chin, still with her back to the newcomer, she was not surprised to discover her boyfriend's calm, neutral face, his blue eyes shining in the light of the sconce, and his red hair taking on lighter, warmer hues thanks to it. 

"Sakunosuke...! I thought you were still asleep!" 

Now that she had a good look at him, she could see that his eyebrows were more furrowed than usual. Obviously, he was upset.  

"I've already told you to ask me if you want anything, haven't I?" he replied in his characteristically deep voice, whose calmness left no clue as to what he was thinking inside, except for his furrowed brows. 

Miyoko pouted again, crossed her arms in surrender and looked away, gazing at the green plant that lay on the counter right next to the sink, and which could do with a little water now that she could see it. 

"I'm not incapable of doing anything on my own yet, Sakunosuke. I'm pregnant, not convalescent." 

She did not need to see him to know that the redhead was rolling his eyes. It was true. She and Oda had been expecting their little bundle of joy for almost six months, and according to the ultrasound scans, it was a little girl. 

Since then, her already overprotective boyfriend had become even more so, but without verging on the ridiculous. Well, most of the time. Because right now, he was scolding her for wanting to eat some cookies in the middle of the night. 

She knew he was angry at her for being 'careless', in his own words, but hey! She could still get her own food from her own cupboards! 

The annoyance she felt quickly vanished when the much-desired packet was placed in front of her on the counter, onto which she threw herself without a second of hesitation, devouring the chocolate cakes in one go, under the tender gaze of the young man. 

He was currently experiencing one of the most beautiful periods of his entire life, he could say without a hint of hesitation. Becoming a parent. He had never thought it would ever become a reality, but it was about to. 

He had dreaded the idea many times, for his blood-covered hands, however old, were in his opinion not worthy of holding a being as innocent as a baby. And as innocent as a young woman like Miyoko. 

Fortunately, the latter was not a member of the Mafia. And that was something he would never approve of, that was for sure. His companion had accepted him as he was, with his bloody past and his violent work. And it was something, again, he would never have believed possible. 

"The fact that you realized that killing wasn't something normal shows that you're a good person, don't you think? You've stopped taking lives, you're trying your best to get back on the straight and narrow, and you're doing one good deed after another, like with the children you took in... And you're so sweet! How can someone not love you?"  

It was Miyoko, of course, who had said these words, at the very beginning of their relationship, after they met in his favorite curry restaurant. He had not had the courage to hide for long who he really was, and especially what he was doing. She would have guessed soon enough anyway, quick-witted as she was. 

But, although she seemed surprised for a while, she had then said those few words to him, which had been the trigger for his sincere and deep love for this wonderful woman. 

They slowly began dating, and one thing leading to another, they decided to move in together. Then, some time later, a child was on the way. Many times, he had doubted his ability to look after it properly, even though he was always so calm and in control of himself. 

"Sakunosuke," she had told him in all seriousness, more serious than he had ever seen her. "If anyone on this earth deserves to be a father, it's you. You deserve to be happier than anyone, because you're a wonderful person".  

With Miyoko, he had often heard the term 'wonderful person', obviously referring to himself. And it warmed his heart, more than any other compliment. After he had met this writer, whose name he could not remember to this day, he had constantly struggled to become a better person, a better person than he had been in the past. 

So that meant he had succeeded somehow, didn't it? 

Now, his new goal was to save those he loved from the horrors of this world, as much as he could. The owner of the restaurant, the children he had taken in, Dazai, Ango... 

And, of course, Miyoko, and the baby growing inside her. 

"You'll be a wonderful father. The best".  

Seeing the young woman behind these comforting words devouring her cakes in the middle of the night, it was impossible for him not to feel happy. The most fulfilled man on this whole Earth, as the young woman so eloquently put it. 

He could not help turning Miyoko around any longer, so that the young woman could face him, cake still in her hand and a mouthful of crumbs, her cheeks swollen with food. 

"Sakunosuke?" she articulated with difficulty; her mouth full. "Wha-" 

He cut her off mid-sentence by placing his lips on hers, causing her to widen her eyes and nearly drop her piece of cake. Not that Oda was not known for showing her affection only episodically, far from it, but she remained speechless every time, unable to stop herself. 

Knowing that this incredible man really did love her was the best feeling of all, even if she was still struggling to realize it. 

Oda withdrew after just a few seconds, and she instantly missed the feel of his lips. A pout returned to hers, still covered in a few crumbs, which the redhead gently removed with his finger. 

"I still don't know how you manage to eat like that." 

Swallowing what was in her mouth, Miyoko gave him a big smile, closing her eyes in delight. 

"I'm full of surprises!" 

He could not hold back a little laugh as he shook his head slightly. Arms came around his torso, those of Miyoko, who were far too small to fit around his neck. Besides, her increasingly swollen belly prevented her from making any large movements. 

In principle. But that did not discourage her from rummaging in the cupboards at night. 

"Tomorrow I'll put all the cakes at the bottom," he said, slowly stroking the young woman's hair as she curled up against him. "Then you won't be so careless. I should have done it long before now." 

His girlfriend's muffled laughter came with difficulty, as her nose was buried in the T-shirt he was wearing. Nevertheless, he felt the tremors caused by this action against his skin, which only increased the sense of joy he felt at hearing Miyoko's laughter. 

"Let's go back to bed," he said softly, running his hands over her arms. "Your skin is getting cold; you're going to get sick." 

He did not need to look at her to know she had rolled her eyes. With a smile, Oda took Miyoko's hand in his, and headed for their shared room. 

"I haven't put the cakes away yet, wait...!" 

"It can wait until tomorrow. It's already one o'clock in the morning, time to go back to sleep," he replied in his usual calm voice. 

He took care to pull the blanket up to her chin, just after she had laid down in bed. Then, as he walked around it, he came to lie beside her, hugging her as if she were the most precious thing in this world. 

Which was nothing less than the truth, in his eyes. 

It did not take long for Miyoko to close her eyelids, exhausted. 

"You really will be the ideal daddy," she murmured as sleep came over her, bringing a gentle smile to Oda's face. 

His heart was filled with happiness, just contemplating the sleeping face of his beloved girlfriend. 

And soon, it would be another face he would be able to contemplate, that of their beloved little girl. 

The unbearable wait would be worth it, he knew perfectly well. 

[lilyofporcelain]

DWC - 19 Nov - Day 3 - Morose / Strength

“...You awake?”

Wispy blonde and silver hair shifted as she turned onto her side in the relative darkness. Laeynna faced the wall just as she always had. Or at least, for as long as she could remember. Had she done that even in her youngest years? When she was just learning how to run on her own without the assistance of her parents? No. Perhaps not. That felt like a completely different person. Lifting a hand, she slipped it beneath her pillow, cool to the touch, a soft blend of cotton and whatever else had been used in her bedding. With her eyes shut tight, she thought she could, perhaps, ignore the conversation that she suspected was right around the metaphorical corner.

“Zi?”

Huffing out a sigh, the voice addressing her a mirror of her own, Laeynna shifted onto her back, cornflower blue eyes staring up at the ceiling that greeted her. “I would be sleeping, if you would stop speaking.”

She heard the shuffling. It wasn’t exactly nightly. Not the way it had been when they were children. Yet it still happened every so often. The movement of her sister leaving her bed on the opposite side of their shared room, crossing over to hers, lifting the covers and joining her. When they were kids, it was usually nightmares that caused that. One or the other, incapable of sleeping, and the opposing sister serving as a tower of strength and resilience. Old habits died hard and sometimes they still shared a bed. Sometimes there still were nightmares. And sometimes there weren’t.

Laeynna loosed a breath that sounded awfully similar to resignation, wearing an unimpressed expression that her sister could likely only catch a glimpse of. “Do you not think we are getting a little old for this… childish behaviour?”

Met with blue eyes that reflected so much her own, the same silvery-blonde hair that made her think nearly of the moon, and a voice that mirrored hers, Laeynna’s reflection could only smile. “I think you are growing up too quickly.”

“It must be nice to think that way,” Laeynna replied, her tone somewhat hushed to not draw the attention of parentals who would come in haste and scold them for late hour chatter. “Ankalei, you… do not understand. Not that I would expect you to. We are too different.”

Her sister laughed, baring her teeth. “What are you talking about? We’re identical twins.”

Shaking her head, even as Ankalei took her hand and held it gently, Laeynna didn’t know where to begin. It was a conversation with a dead end, honestly. Ankalei was the glistening gem of their house. It certainly seemed like she could do no wrong. Everyone adored her. How could she understand? “Only in appearance,” she finally managed to say. “In the heart, in the mind, we could not be more different. Different friends. Different tastes in food. Different tastes in… partners.”

Still grinning, Ankalei remained on her side, an adoration present in the way she peered at Laeynna. “We don’t have to be so different.” Then after a moment, though her smile lessened, the warmth remained, replaced by something serious. “I understand why you want to be, though. Having the same face. The same voice. We are as looking glass, aren’t we. I know it makes things difficult. People expect us to be the same and… you want to stand apart. You want to be yourself. Not Sister Two of House Luridveil.”

“More that I do not want others looking at me and seeing your face and assuming that I am just the second Ankalei and then being tremendously disappointed when they come to find that I am, in fact, not the second Ankalei,” Laeynna countered. 

Not quite begrudging, but still minutely apprehensive, she turned to face her sister, eyeing the way their hands were so gently clasped together. Even their hands were identical. Looking at Ankalei was like looking at a mirror. Except the person on the other side was so much… more. In every way. More beautiful. More intelligent. More personable. More impressive. Anything Laeynna was, Ankalei was more of. If it was a competition, a race, it was over before it ever began because Laeynna… simply couldn’t compete.

“You aren’t a second Ankalei,” her sister reassured her. “You’re Zi. Lover of flowers and girls with sun-kissed skin and hair of holy light.” Met with the pull of Laeynna’s face, Ankalei couldn’t resist laughing. “I’m teasing you. I’m sorry. Is it too soon? I’m not trying to upset you. You didn’t ask for my opinion, but I thought the two of you were very sweet together. You looked happy when you were with her. Happier than I see you nowadays.”

Laeynna couldn’t claim she was exactly… crestfallen. Ankalei’s observations weren’t entirely off the mark either. Alcilia had been… something. An object of affection? She didn’t even know herself. Someone ‘important’ to her was how she’d often described it. A primary catalyst for her interest in flowers, studying them, and something that just so happened to coincide with her father’s research. An infatuation, perhaps? Gods knew Laeynna had spent plenty of sleepless nights trying to figure it out to no avail. Not that it made a difference. That ship had sailed and those decisions already made.

“Yes, well.” Shaking her head, she lifted a shoulder, dismissive and more nonchalant in appearance than she truly was. “It hardly matters now. I would rather not speak of it.”

Her sister’s expression was sympathetic and she squeezed Laeynna’s hand. “You should smile more often. You know that saying. Bugs and honey, and all of that. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little honey on your side. Could probably have a few more of those family dinners be a little less chaotic.”

With a scowl, the younger twin took a moment to bury her face right against her pillow. It was a rather gentle term for what actually happened. Their parents met with prospective other families and, in Laeynna’s opinion, tried to sell her future and Ankalei’s to whomever was either the most wealthy in influence or whomever was willing to endure the inevitable summer storm that she was quickly becoming on a regular basis. Either way, terrible occasions in dresses that were laced too tightly, uncomfortable heeled shoes, and tight, diplomatic smiles pulled across the face. ‘Social politicking,’ their father had called it with his most charming smile. Laeynna hated it. It didn’t help that it sure seemed like Ankalei was always first pick.

“Perhaps if you actually weighed in sometime instead of saying nothing,” Laeynna finally replied as she frowned heavily, well-used muscles tightening in the features of her face. “It only gets chaotic because I am the only one who thinks it is ridiculous that we get paraded around like pieces of decor. You do realise that we are just… trinkets to bargain with, right? You have all of these great aspirations to be a knight. A beautiful dream, Ankalei, really, but will your future husband even allow that?” Shaking her head, she huffed, the blood in her veins warming with a frustration that never seemed to completely ebb.

“...Plenty of women are knights,” Ankalei replied with the cocking of a thin, well-maintained eyebrow. “You’re being too hard on them. They only want to make sure we’re well-cared for. They want to know that we’ll have someone to provide for us. Annnnd, you never know. You may end up falling madly in love with whoever you get paired up with. If you stop putting frogs in teacups and making people scream.”

“Whomever.”

Ankalei’s pause was heavy with weight and undeniable. “...What?”

Laeynna sighed and she rolled her eyes as she squeezed her sister’s hand. “You said ‘whoever you get paired up with.’ You meant ‘whomever.’”

She was greeted with a sharp laughter that was only shortly after muffled by the hand. “Whatever, Zi. My point remains the same. Just picture it. You meet the guy of your dreams—or girl—and at first, yes, it seems all very formal and official. But then maybe you’re… I don’t know. Reading one of those magistry books you like and drinking rose tea and then you find out they really like the same book. Or maybe they’ll really like music. Or maybe they’ll really like flowers. Or history, or religion, or… or… whatever it is that brings the two of you together. It can happen. Our parents were arranged, remember.”

As if there wasn’t, in Laeynna’s opinion, a worse example to use. “Oh, yes,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from her tone like a quill that had been unceremoniously dipped into an ink pot with no regard. “And look how overjoyed they are to just be in the same room together.” Shaking her head, she felt like every breath was nearly a surrender. “Love like that? Falling ‘madly in love’? That. Does not exist. It is a little story that parents tell their children before they are old enough to know better. Even if it did happen, it will not be to anyone you or I are promised to. For all of the luxuries that we can afford, real love like that? Is not one of them.”

Well. Maybe Ankalei was different. She seemed to get everything else she wanted. Why not the ridiculous notion of falling madly in love? It would just be Laeynna’s luck, that. Watching her twin sister not only receive piles of validation and adoration, but then to also have the very best of fortune on top of it. A storybook romance blossoming from an outdated, archaic tradition that should have been removed in its entirety.

Before either could say anything more, there came the familiar sound of knuckles atop their closed bedroom door. The voice on the other side, a woman’s, thin and strained, betraying her age. A voice that always sounded so… tired. “You two had best quiet down. Your father is working and both of you have an early morning.” As Laeynna and Ankalei exchanged looks, but offered nothing in reply, the voice continued. “Ladies, am I making myself clear?”

“...Yes, Mother,” the twins replied in unison.

It was only as Laeynna sat up, listening for the footsteps on wooden floor that gradually faded that she found her voice again. Looking to her twin, someone who, in many ways, seemed wiser, she freed her hand and lifted it with a shooing gesture. “Get out of my bed,” she finally continued.

Ankalei’s response had been short-lived but dramatic as she removed herself, yet in the breaths that followed, she moved as quietly as she could back across the floor to the other side of the room. Pulling back her bedding, she slid right back in, nestled on her side to watch her twin. “...I was serious, you know,” she said, her voice staining what Laeynna would have preferred to be kept in silence. “I wish you would smile more. I love you, Zi. I want to see you be happy. Not... not whatever this is.”

Laeynna fought the temptation to roll her eyes again. Instead, she turned back towards the wall, despite still feeling her sister’s gaze on her. Cloaked in the darkness of the night, she was left with her thoughts. Stupid unrealistic thoughts of falling in love, croaking frogs on saucers, and how a set of twins could be so significantly different people. The heaviness of sleep rested atop her shoulders, pulling her into a dreamscape as she thought and contemplated, knowing that any dreams she had that night she would not come to remember.

But Ankalei probably would remember hers. Because Ankalei could do anything.

— @daily-writing-challenge

[himawarijjk]

I had so much left to say. . . (OC x Suguru Geto)

"I had so much left to say . . ." Himawari whispered.

In her pale hands, she held a photo. This photo was old. . . 10 years. Still, the memories the photo held felt as though they had just occured yesterday. Suguru Geto, her ex-boyfriend, stood before their old school, Jujutsu High. He was in the process of tying back his hair. He wasn't paying attention in the candid photo, which is what had prompted Himawari to take the picture to begin with. At the side was two fingers making a peace sign. Satoru. She remembered being so cross with him that day, she even yelled. "You ruined the photo!" she remembered saying. Now, it was something she treasured dearly.

She had fallen in love with Suguru so quickly. He just had this amazing aura. He was so kind to her. . . so interested in what she had to say. She returned that feeling. When he spoke, she would sit and listen - careful not to cut across him. His voice, his face, the way his shoulders would shake when he laughed, the creases under his eyes. . . she noticed everything.

Then, everything changed. Suguru turned against Jujutsu society. . . which meant, he was also turning against Himawari. She did not want to betray those she loved. . .so she had to make the ultimate sacrifice. He sought her out. He showed up at her apartment she shared with her brother, Yuuji. He begged her to go with him. "Come with me," he said -- and the offer was initially tempting, until she realised everything in him had changed. He was no longer the man she fell in love with.

"Together, we can destroy those monkeys!" The tired look in his eyes, now emotionless and dead. She was incapable of finding her breath in that moment, realising he was too far gone. The words she was going to say -- they never left her mouth that day. Instead, she cried. Clutching onto him, pulling at his clothing, trying to beat some sense into him by smacking his chest. "Please, wake up, Suguru!" she remembered crying, tears blurring her eyes, "I can't take it! You're breaking my heart!" He stood there, taking her assaults without flinching, when suddenly, he grabbed her wrist.

"If you're not coming with me, Himawari, then you're an enemy."

Those words cut like a knife through her chest, completely slashing her already bleeding heart. She stumbled backwards, falling into the nearby wall. He stepped over her to leave. Her hand found its way to her stomach. . . where what was left of her Suguru was growing inside. She was only seventeen. How was she going to cope?

-- and yet, somehow she did. All thanks to Satoru Gojo. The man who stepped up to be a father to a child he didn't make.

A few droplets of tears fell, landing on the photo. "I wanted to tell you we could be a family," she spoke, her voice trembling, "that I could take all your pain away. That. . .despite our youth, we could make it. Together."

She sighed sadly, "Suguru. . . why did you have to change? Why did you have to leave me? Your actions led to your best friend having to end your life yesterday, and now. . . your son will never know his father."

She concentrated on his face, his features. She hadn't seen him in so long, and now she would never have the chance to. "I would have married you." Her concentration was cut short by a knock on her bedroom door. "Mama!" her now 10-year-old son Kazuki called from beyond the door, "Papa Satoru is here!" "Just a minute!" she replied, placing the photo back in her wardrobe. She could never allow her son to see it. Just before she closed the wardrobe, she wiped her eyes with her jumper sleeve, then took one last look. . . at least for another year.

"I loved you more than anything, Suguru," she said softly, closing her eyes. She could feel his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. His scent, both natural and his aftershave mixed together. His head rested on hers, his eyes closed with a wide smile on his lips. She insticively reached down, as if she were placing her hands over his. She let out a content sigh. "I love you, Suguru." "I love you too, Sunflower," she could almost hear him reply.

One final tear rolled down her left cheek, over her lips, dribbling down her chin. "Oh, Suguru. . . you have no idea how happy I am that. . . he has your eyes."

[clj-art-blog]

Under the water

Nothing special, I just once again greedily and with pleasure “eat” the scene under water. [episode 8]

DFQC and XLH`s figures are intertwined into one silhouette, as if they are one whole right now. They are now in complete seclusion. How is it that he allows her to be so close to him? He never let anyone touch him. Nobody would dare to do it. But only she dares to hug him again, and for the second time he does not push her away from him. He lets XLH hold onto him tightly, while it can be noted that the edge of his lips slightly touches her forehead.

She would feel his breath if they weren't surrounded by water on all sides. What does he feel at this moment? Does he feel her emotions? Of course, he is unhappy with her stupid actions. Because of her, he is now here and wasting his time on her. But as long as she is in his field of vision, then everything is fine. If she wants to hug him, then let her do it as much as she wants, as long as she does not interfere with him, he will not do anything to her. And then she abruptly pushes him away from her. Why did she do it? What a fool! And what is she going to do now? What is she even thinking about?

Well, he doesn't mind watching where it takes her.

She looks at him so boldly and impertinently. How long do she think she'll survive alone?

Oh, and what happened now? Can't she breathe? What did she expect when she pushed him away from her? She prevented him kill CH, with the losers who came with him. She threw herself into the water with him… Without any plan… She is useless as always!

XLH desperately tries to hold his breath as long as possible, and DFQC just watches it indifferently.

Finally. Which is to be expected. XLH suffocates from lack of oxygen.

Does he feel her discomfort, pain, fear, that she is experiencing at this moment? But it seems that now he is not up to her feelings, because something strange is happening to him …It seems that the Xylan curse has no effect on him rigth now, no matter how powerful it is. His attention is completely focused on what will happen next and he just keeps looking at it

Great! The bubble burst. The bubble was what held them together, and now it has nothing in common with XLH. (Perhaps it was he who made the bubble, but when she pushed him away, he decided to destroy it so that nothing would hold them together. Like, let it be as you want. Enjoy! As if he was offended by her for this)

She swallows the water for the last time.

What a pity! And what did she count on? Nothing new. Her weakness and her stupidity are take her life right now.

And now she is slowly moving away from him. Further and further. Deeper and deeper...

DFQC's actions seem to say that this is probably good for him. This Xiaohuayao is so annoying. All the time he must experience her worthless, constantly changing emotions that irritate him so much … How nice it would be if she went to the bottom, and the deeper the better. She would have gone out of his life, out of his mind and out of his feelings. Forever. He so wants to never see or hear her. And so that she would take this damned curse with her down to the bottom, into the abyss. Nothing would bother him anymore, and not irritate.  After then everything would return to normal, and nothing else will stop him.

She moves further and further away from him… The distance between them increases. She sinks into where he would have sent her in parts from the very beginning, if only he could.

XLH holds out a hand to him. DFQC keeps doing nothing. Does he feel compassion for her? Why should he feel compassion for her? And what is “compassion” anyway?

But that's the last thing she does. She doesn't move anymore. She no longer has the energy to fight for her life. Her body is now completely subject to water. She's so incapable. But no matter how much he wants to let her go where it is deep and dark, he still needs her, because she is precious to him. That's what he told her a few minutes ago, and unfortunately for him, this is the truth. To him, she is much more precious ass his life.  After all, his life depends on this, damned, Xiaohuayao, grass.  And she still has to fix the damn destiny book for him.

DFQC takes a breath at the hopelessness of his situation. He has no choice. He needs to save her again… What a pity he can't do the opposite. But she must live. Well, okay. So be it. He will save her again.

Gracefully and charmingly, DFQC swims up to her, closing the distance between them. (Magic show!)

His image at this moment inspires fear and awe, as if he were a predatory killer whale, but he does not intend to cause her even the slightest harm. Gently and carefully, as far as possible, as if trying not to harm her with his careless movement, he cupping the back of XLH ’s head, pulls her to him and touches her lips with his lips.

He kisses her tenderly, and in doing so he breathes life into her, a life that belongs to him alone. XLH opens her eyes.

He feels her lips twitch a little .Her eyes are stunned and indignant look at him.

He does not care. Complete indifference and cold peace still dominate in his eyes. Then, when he breaks the curse and she will fix the destiny book  for him, he will definitely kill her. Perhaps, as he wanted before, he would cut off her arms and legs so that she would be very, very hurt, and then throw her into the river of oblivion to be fed to crocodiles. He will repay her in full. Yes, that is exactly what he will do, isn't he? Would he want to kill her then? Or maybe he'll leave her by his side afterwards? Still, she is different from those hypocrites from Shuiyuntian. He doesn't feel bad with her... And that warmth of her lips on his lips at that moment… Her lips are so tender and soft. Even the cold water that surrounds them is not able to cool this warmth that comes from his touch to her. It's something so sweet. It's something so unusual. He's never experienced anything like this before.

Probably, he will not do anything yet, because everything suits him at the moment. Moreover, he is now so calm and good next to her. It's not something that usually cools the blood. On the contrary, it is what warms. Warms better than hellfire. What is this? Such unknown sensations for him.

He feels a sudden resistance from her. He, too, resists her for a split second, but… But XLH pushes him away again, thus cutting off the connection between them.

How dare she interrupt him like that! This makes him very angry and pissed off. Well, what the hell? What is she doing again? And why does he feel so intolerable about it? And that look of hers…

She looks at him with her innocent and pure eyes. So what is she trying to say when she looks at him like that? What is her plan this time? And what should he do? Should he do what she wants?

But no. This time, he won't let her move even a meter or an inch away from him.

She belongs to him. Whether she lives or dies is up to him to decide. His gaze calms down, and he again draws her lips to his.

She is now his. He possesses her right now like never before. What does he feel? Does he feel her emotions at this time? This Xiaohuayao is in his submission and does not dare to resist him anymore. She is clearly overflowing with various and complex emotions right now. But his own emotions seem to drown out hers. Only he does not understand this emotional tangle. He is difficult for him to distinguish his emotions (that are just awakening) from hers. In any case, he will do as he wants, whatever she feels at that moment. He will breathe life into her as much as he sees fit. And to be warmed by her tender lips and the warmth of her presence, he will be as long as he wishes.

Certainly. He could think of some other way to keep her under water, but apparently this first plan appeals to him more.

Now she doesn't dare to look him in the eye… It throws him off balance again. Why does he feel so uneasy about this?

Is she silent? Why is she silent? Did he do something wrong? He had just saved her life. After all, he… Well, you would think that he got what he liked a little longer… Just a little bit… What's wrong with that? What should he do now so that she doesn't look at him like that? DFQC has never made excuses to anyone. DFQC never explains his actions. However, here for some reason he has to squeeze out such a pitiful thing like: - I was just afraid that you would suffocate to death, so… She runs off without saying anything intelligible.

What did she just say? She says she pushed him away not because she was afraid that… She was afraid of what? Did he do something that she should have been afraid of? He so lacks the dead calm that had him before. These excitements of hers, which he is now experiencing, are not pleasant to him. Of course, it's all because of her. If not for this Xilan Curse, he would now be calm as the surface of the water.

But for some reason, he still feels something warmer on his lips than the golden rays of the warm, outgoing sun, which right now illuminate and hopelessly try to warm him. He still feels the presence of her sweet lips on his lips. He wished he could feel that touch again. It's all so stir his blood so much. He not only does not want to resist this, but is also ready to humbly submit to this growing feeling. What is this feeling that grows in him? Breathing life into her, he, too, seemed to be filled with life.

Sorry if there are mistakes in words (and they are there). English is not my native language. But I'm trying.