#a decent self stack

[theborzoiarebackintown]

Just a pretty guy out there being pretty!

[alinathinkstoomuch]

COMFORT IN YOU

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (ex!reader, i suppose) summary: even though the two of you are no longer together, hotch can't help the fact that he still has the need to comfort you. warnings | an: lil hurt & comfort, two exes making soup together but they're still blatantly in love with one another, also pretty sure this is not the correct way to make soup i was really just saying shi to make them busy, yearning i suppose?? word count: 2k

✧ masterlist

You were having what you could only describe as a series of bad days. There were no particular causes or events for them, just the uncomfortable feeling of a heaviness in your chest. There wasn’t anything glaringly wrong, but there wasn’t much that felt right, either.

For the past week, you’d been snoozing your alarm until the last possible second. Mornings turned into rushed scrambles - brushing your teeth and hair the only boxes you’d managed to check before bolting out the door. You hadn’t bothered with makeup or a decent outfit in days, simply because nothing seemed worth the effort.

You knew the feeling would pass eventually, it wasn’t a constant thing. Every now and then, you just felt…off. Like you were watching yourself from the outside, going through the motions but not really present.

You were sure there was a word for it. Something detached and clinical - Spencer had once mentioned it on a flight home from a case. The memory hovered at the edges of your mind, but you couldn’t find the energy to chase it down just to label what you already knew.

You just didn’t feel like yourself.

“You’re not seriously staying here past five on a Friday night, are you?” Penelope asked, using your desk as a dumping ground to sort through her large purse.

You glanced up with a tried smile. “No, Pen. Just finishing up. I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Okay, sugar,” she said in what was supposed to be her warning voice – though, like everything Penelope said, it came wrapped in warmth and sweetness. “Promise me you’ll go home, take a nice hot bath, light some candles –” she fluttered her fingers animatedly, “–and show yourself some love.”

You arched a brow. “Is this your subtle way of telling me I look like shit?”

She gasped, swatting you lightly with her pink glasses case. “I would never use such language. But also…yes. A little bit.”

You shook your head and rolled your eyes, giving her a full performance of your pretend annoyance.

Penelope just grinned, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Text me when you get home. And take care of that beautiful face, okay?” She reached out, giving your chin a playful squeeze before blowing you an air-kiss. “Self-care, my love. Don’t make me come over there and enforce it.”

“Yes, boss,” you said, standing from your seat. “Have a good night, Penny.”

Once she was gone, you stacked the last forms for your report into a folder, quietly relieved that Hotch wasn't in his office to hand it in to. It had taken you far longer to complete than usual - in fact, you were pretty sure yours was the only report he was waiting on to close out the case.

He wouldn't have given you a hard time about it – he never had – but still, you didn't want him thinking you couldn't handle your workload. Not when you both agreed the job was too important to let anything, especially your relationship, interfere with it.

You made your way into his office, the lights still on despite the fact that he'd stepped out for a meeting hours ago. It should've felt strange being in his space. Working with him. Seeing him every day, even after the two of you had mutually agreed to call it quits. But it didn't feel strange at all.

If anything, your relationship with him had stayed almost exactly the same. The only real difference was that you couldn't crawl into his arms at the end of a long day - and that was okay, or at least you had spent a lot of time trying to convince yourself that it was. You were both adults. Mature. Maybe a little too career-hungry.

You'd given it your best shot for almost a year, and it just didn't work. That was it. There wasn't anything more either of you could've done – or, if you were honest, wanted to do. Maybe if you'd both been accountants, or if one of you had decided to transfer out of the BAU, it might've worked. But neither of you wanted that.

You both loved the job exactly as it was.

So you let go.

And maybe that was love too, in its own way.

You left the report neatly on his desk, then made your way back to your own. After packing up your things, you headed out, the building quiet behind you.

On the way home, you stopped by the grocery store near your place, telling yourself you'd pick up something for a proper dinner. But somewhere between the fluorescent lights and the half-empty shelves, you settled on a frozen meal instead. Very high-nutrient of you, truly.

By the time you got home, you didn't even bother unpacking your haul. You just dropped the bags on the countertop and left them there, your keys landing beside them with a dull clink. You headed straight for the bathroom, aiming for a quick shower and could practically hear Penelope rolling her eyes at your refusal to take a proper bath.

It couldn’t have been later than eight when a knock echoed through your home. Your slippers dragged softly across the wooden floor as you made your way to the door, unsure of who you were about to find on the other side. Perhaps it was Penelope, coming over to check whether the bath salts she had given you for your birthday had finally been put to use.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t Penelope standing there.

It was Hotch. Still in his work clothes, with a brown bag tucked under his arm.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” you greeted, opening the door wider to let him in.

He stepped inside without a word, moving through the space like he’d never left it. Like it still belonged to him, at least in some small way. And maybe it did. For a while, this had been his second home.

You watched him cross to the kitchen, settling the bag down beside your still-unpacked groceries.

“No Thai?”

“Not tonight,” he replied, slipping off his jacket. “I thought I’d make soup.” His sleeves were rolled up before you could even respond and he was at your sink, using your soap to wash his hands to make you dinner.  

You really couldn’t make this up.

You took a seat on the bench, folding your legs beneath you as you watched him unpack the contents of the bag. “Did you read my report?”

He didn’t look up as he pulled out a bundle of parsley, a container of chicken stock and various vegetables. “I did.”

“Am I going to have to redo it?”

He glanced at you then, the faintest trace of amusement crossing his face. “No,” he said. “It was good. A little rushed, maybe – but not wrong.”

You gave dry laugh. “You can tell me to redo it, I promise I won’t get mad.”

“I know you won’t, but I also know when you’re not at your best. And I’m not going to punish you for having an off week.”

You nodded slowly, watching as he moved to grab a cutting board.

After a moment, you spoke again – softer this time. “You won’t be able to do this forever, you know.”

His eyes met yours again, but he stayed silent.

“I’m serious,” you went on, offering a small smile. “What happens when you start dating again? You’re just going to keep showing up at your ex-girlfriend’s house with soup ingredients?”

“I don’t think dating is in the cards right now.”

You tilted your head, teasing gently. “Why not? Did I leave you that emotionally wrecked?”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. “No, you didn’t. It’s just…not where my focus is.”

You clicked your tongue, reaching for an orange from the fruit bowl. “Well, that’s a shame. Because dating is in my cards,” you revealed, digging your thumb into the skin and starting to peel.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thinking of going for a broker this time,” you mused, not looking at him as you pulled off a strip of peel. “You know, mix it up. Maybe someone who doesn’t alphabetize their spices.”

“And you’d be happy with a broker?”

You shrugged, glancing up at him as you popped a piece of mandarin into your mouth. “Who knows.” You chewed slowly, then added with a smirk, “I can easily picture you with a nurse. Or maybe a doctor. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could do double dates, your nurse-doctor, my broker. Very grown-up of us.”

“I don’t think I’m built for double dating.”

“No,” you agreed. “You’d probably scare my broker away.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You paused, taking the time to eat your second piece of mandarin. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much I like the broker."

He didn’t respond right away, turning back toward the stove. “Where’s your big pot?”

“Exactly where you left it,” you replied, watching as he moved toward the lower cabinet, like he still remembered this kitchen better than his own.

And the truth was, this – whatever this was – probably wasn’t the healthiest of situations, and it wasn’t making moving on any easier for either of you.

But it was what you knew. What you remembered.

And if this was the version of him you were allowed to keep, you’d take it. You weren’t ready to go back to a life without him, not yet. Not when he still offered pieces of himself and not when you still kept saying yes.

“Do you need any help?” you asked, rising to your feet, your knees clicking in protest.  

“Always need your help,” he responded – just a little too casually. You knew he hadn’t meant for it to land as heavily as it did.

You gathered the orange peel and turned to toss it in the bin, just as Hotch stepped back from the stove. And suddenly, he was right there – in front of you. His eyes found yours and held them, like he was reading something you hadn’t yet decided to say. He’d always been good at that, seeing things before you did. Predicting thoughts you hadn’t even fully formed.

“Have you been sleeping?”

You nodded, brushing past him to rinse your hands. “Like a baby.”

He turned just slightly, enough to catch your expression. “That’s a no, then.”

“It’s hard to get comfortable on a bed that’s broken,” you said, equal parts explanation and blame. And while you wished it was a great sex story you were referring to…it wasn’t. You’d asked him to hang a frame above your bed. The next thing you heard from the living room was a loud thud – one of the bed legs snapping clean off.

“Hey, I fixed what I broke,” he offered.

Ha.

“Not very well,” you muttered, drying your hands. “Where do you want me?”

Hotch paused mid-motion as he added vegetables to the pot, eyes flicking up to meet yours.  

“In terms of helping,” you added, arching a brow like it was his mind that had wandered.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Right.” He nodded toward the cutting board. “You can shred the chicken.”

You did as you were told, moving to stand next to him. Your elbow brushed his now and then, neither of you bothering to move away.

“You still do this thing,” you said after a moment, not looking up. “Organising everything before you start. Like you’re in a restaurant kitchen.”

“It saves time,” he reasoned, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s kind of endearing.”

“You used to call it controlling.”

You shrugged again. “I don’t recall.”

“Just like you don’t recall watering the basil?” His eyes moved to a pot on the windowsill, it’s leaves wilted, dropping sadly.

“You’re welcome to take it home with you.”

He raised a brow. “And let it die under my care instead?”

“Seems fair. Full-circle moment.”

Your elbow brushed his again and the two of you fell silent.

“...You okay?”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he pressed, gentler now.  

You nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I mean… not great, but – functioning.”

“Is there anything that I can do?”

You glanced up, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Just make sure the soup’s good.”

“It will be,” he assured you. “I know how you like it.”

And he did – because he still remembered all of it. Everything you liked, everything you didn’t. What you tolerated with a tight-lipped smile and what you outright hated. He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

And as you stood there, watching him move through your kitchen like he still belonged in your home, in your heart, you couldn’t help but wonder how many more times the two of you would let yourselves end up in moments like this.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue

(please lmk if you want to be removed from the general tag list & just be kept on the fake finance tag list)

dividers by cafekitsune

[heich0e]

"what a surprise to see you here!"

you let out a long, weary sigh in the wake of the unduly jubilant exclamation, letting your bag hit the desk in front of you with a thump.

"i work here, gojo. just like you."

the aforementioned man steps into view around your shoulder, craning down into your face with that same easy grin he always wears—the one you find exhausting just to look at on days like today, because you know it means he plans on tormenting you for an extended period of time.

"and aren't we both so lucky to be here?" he hums, still smiling.

lucky?

you stand before him filthy and aching from the mission you'd just returned from, and with a night's worth of your students' assignments in hand you still need to grade by tomorrow morning. you're tired, and sore, and covered in curse guts and god only knows what else—and this smiling, obnoxious man hovering over you is calling you lucky.

you wish his blindfold was elasticated. if it was, you'd take hold of it, pull it back as far as you could, and let it snap it back over his eyes just to spite him.

"what do you want, gojo?" you don't even have the energy to sound annoyed anymore, the question leaving your lips in a lifeless monotone.

he pauses.

"you look terrible."

your head whips over to look at him again, and you immediately wince—a hand flying up to your neck. you think you must have strained it taking care of that last second grade curse. it hasn't been bothering you as much as the pain in your side, so you've mostly been ignoring it until now.

"gojo, if y—"

"gojo, gojo, gojo," he interrupts you before you can even manage to get the insult you'd been trying to say out. his tone is petulant, a little pout on his lips. "i've told you to call me satoru."

he enunciates each syllable of his name pointedly—like a reprimand.

"and why would I call you that?" you huff, tired of dealing with him. you grab your bag off the desktop, shove the stack of papers you'd come to your classroom to retrieve inside, and turn towards the door.

"because it's my name?" his tone lifts at the end like he's asking a question. "besides, you call sukuna by his name."

he's following along behind you. of course he's following behind you—you don't know why you expected to get away so easily.

"i call sukuna by his name because there's two itadoris now," you reply back, not that you owe him any kind of explanation. your steps are quick in spite of the stabbing pain in your side—literal, not figurative—but unfortunately it takes no effort at all for gojo to match your stride.

gojo groans a little. "how'd a guy that awful end up with such a cute little brother?" he whines, tipping his head back like he's lodging the complaint with a higher power. "my sweet yuuji and him have nothing in common beyond their family name."

you don't bother replying, stepping out from the main school building into the courtyard that leads towards the student dorms and teachers' residences. gojo is still close behind.

you find it ironic that gojo takes such issue with sukuna, a fellow sorcerer and jujutsu tech instructor, when there's no offence sukuna could be accused of that gojo himself is not equally guilty of committing. at least sukuna has the decency to not claim to be, well, decent.

there's something to be said for self-awareness.

"are you planning on following me the entire way home?" you ask him, irritation heavy in your voice.

"hey, i live there too, y'know," gojo counters.

barely, you can't help but think. gojo very rarely stays in his residence on campus. you're not sure where he spends all his time, whether it be a place off campus or even the gojo family compound, but you know it isn't here.

not that you particularly care.

"are geto and shoko busy tonight or something?" you ask again.

"suguru's away for a mission," gojo answers, seemingly not put off at all by the hostility in your tone. "shoko should be in her office, though."

you roll your eyes at his obvious evasion of your implication.

you freeze when you feel a hand touch your waist. the hand holding your bag goes limp at your side.

satoru is standing right behind you.

"your rib's broken."

it's quiet for a moment, but when you turn around, he's not smiling anymore and he's got his blindfold tugged down by one crooked finger. his eyes—the ones you so rarely see, the ones that make you feel equal parts awestruck and reviled—are on you.

"since shoko's in her office, you should go see her about it."

in one smooth motion, he covers his eyes again.

your teeth clench, your jaw tensing.

the next words you speak are barely audible through the barrier of your bite.

"what was that?" he asks, leaning forward in your space again.

you consider not repeating yourself, but all at once your resolve abandons you. you sigh, hanging your head and then you purse your lips in defeat.

"i c... i can't walk any further."

gojo laughs.

"i'm surprised you made it this far," he says, that bright smile of his back in place.

and so, a few minutes later, you find yourself with your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs around his waist as gojo carries you towards shoko's office in the infirmary.

"you're lucky i found you when i did, you know."

lucky. there he goes with that again.

you snort mirthlessly.

"and all you have to do to repay me is say 'thank you satoru!'" he exclaims, his voice rising an octave in what you can only assume is an offensive imitation of what you sound like to him.

"i'm not saying that," you mutter dourly, your grip on his neck tightening—though not enough to actually satisfy your desire to wring his neck.

"so stubborn," he tuts, but there's no real admonishment in his tone.

"i wouldn't call sukuna by his name if i didn't have to. but there's two itadoris, it just makes sense." you say after a while, the infirmary nearly in sight. you're grateful you're so close to relief, because the ache in your rib is so acute now that you're starting to feel lightheaded. you lean in closer to gojo's back as he carries you, letting him bear your weight a bit more. "there's only one gojo."

a breathy chuckle slips from his lips—so gentle it sounds almost involuntary. "only one gojo, huh?" he repeats your words, almost like he's mulling them over.

you hum affirmatively, letting your chin hook over his shoulder as he turns the final corner towards shoko's office. your eyes flutter closed. "yeah, lucky for me."

[skeletonh0e]

"You write Sans as too nice!"

"You write Sans as too mean!"

Guys imma remind ya'll of a very important thing when it comes to my husband. Which is,

Sans is an extremely mysterious and furthermore extremely flawed character. Toby Fox literally said he wanted Sans to feel real so like most people there's a lot of layers and complexity to him

Not to mention similar to most people we know, we just don't have the full context behind a lot of what they do. This is especially the case with Sans.

Also should go without saying but this is about Vanilla undertale Sans, not his AU counterparts where their entire gimmick is that they are nicer or more evil than bis default self.

The first one "you write Sans as too nice", Sans is not a character known for cruelty

He's friendly if cheeky toward the player / Frisk, strictly talking within the pacifist route. While we'll talk about that whole promise to protect later but this isn't something exclusive to just the player or player character

Sans is established to be fairly popular and openly friendly within the underground, he has a decent amount of friends and people seem to like him. While I wouldn't call Sans a goodie two shoes that goes out of his way to constantly help others clearly he's established to a friendly and chill dude

Also while clearly he loves to play pranks and goof around, he's also down to go alone with the players antics as well to a certain extent

All this indicates that Sans is a good natured guy for the most part, plus it's worth nothing it's very implied that the reason Sans has so many jobs is to afford the place he and Papyrus live at

Sans sounds pretty nice, there's a lot of basis that allows you to interpet his character in a very positive light

Onto the next one "you write Sans as too mean"

Sans can do some shady shit

Granted he immediately attempts to play it as a joke and it's unclear how serious Sans is actually being here, not to mention his motivation behind saying this. The dramatic timing with the music stopping and everything certainly IMPLIES he wasn't joking but there's some room for interpretation. Besides I wouldn't be surprised if he was serious but wouldn't have followed through when the time came but more on that later

Also a friend pointed out while he jokes with everyone, he only plays pranks on Frisk, while we can assume he does it to other monsters we only witness it done to Frisk

Pranks can be interpreted in a variety of ways depending on your relationship with the person doing them, and whether or not you find the pranks funny. I found Sans to be funny and most did but, not everyone will

Trying to sell snow to a little kid (even if he doesn't follow through on the extremely high price), asking you to foot the extremely pricey bill at Grillby's (though again he doesn't follow through) the telescope prank or volunteering to stack hotdogs on someone's head without asking...all of this could be seen as passive aggressive forms of bullying. Not saying I think it is or at least if it was, that it likely wasn't all intentional on Sans' part.

At the end of the "dead where you stand" speech, this can casts his past actions in a negative light, he tells you he was, "Just kidding." Where is the humor in a "joke" like that? And then for the bonus round, he'll make a smart alecky comment that goes something like, "I've done a good job looking out for you. You haven't died a single time!"

But anyone who isn't a master at undertale gameplay (most players especially first time ones) has died at least once upon leaving the ruins if not SEVERAL times by this point

And Sans knows of resets, so this is him being a bit of a dick here tbh. Unless you go the route of assuming that Sans is truly completely 100% oblivious which the game doesn't support even if it's amusing to think about

Now on the trust pacifist ending at least we get solid confirmation, that Sans likes Frisk and is their friend but there's a lot of ambiguity about where this starts in game. Did he straight up not like Frisk at the start but kept his promise reluctantly? Did he only change his views at the end of true pacifist? Did it change in-between the journey? Or were all these pranks really just good natured and Sans never meant ill will to begin with? Up to you, which brings us to the next point

The genocide route

Though obviously the context for the genocide route vs the pacifist route are entirely different, I do think the information we're given reframes some of his actions in the pacifist route. We all wanna rag on Sans for threatening a literal child but-

We have the ability to reset. Which need I remind you the only other character we know for a fact had this ability was Flowey. Who uh, is not a good dude need I remind you and he did his own genocide routes in the past. The difference between us the player doing a genocide route is that we followed through until the end, Flowey didn't.

It can be a bit harsh but idk about you, if I found out someone, even if that someone WAS a kid had the ability to control time like that....would you trust them? Would you like them right off the bat regardless of how good of a person they seemed?

Of course how much Sans remembers different timelines is unclear and again entirely up to interpretation, for the most part he is aware of resets but doesn't remember them. But I have seen theories arguing he does so again depending on the context here this can reframe Sans' actions.

Also worth noting that he does mention that he did want to befriend the anomaly (the player/frisk), thinking they just needed a good laugh or something akin to that. Which certainly could indicate his pranks were truly good natured and not an attempt at bullying, but also he could just be saying this to throw the player off. Sans is not above using manipulation to get the player to stop, i.e him pretending to spare us for example

You're quickly noticing a trend here.

Sans may be doing something with the best of intentions, Sans may be just being a straight up dick. Sans does not wear his heart let alone his true intentions on his sleeve. Which is why he's such a compelling character to begin with.

That's not to say we know NOTHING about him, he cares about Papyrus clearly, he cares about Toriel (I will come back to this too dw), he's shown to be extremely clever, observant and he definitely does like jokes. The takeaway should not be that Sans is some unknowable character, the takeaway should be a lot of things are simply unclear about him. Much like people we know irl.

Think of Sans like a puzzle, we have some pieces but some are missing and while we can actively do our best to fill in the blanks we'll likely just never know the complete picture

However, a common theme with Undertale is there are no bad people simply people put in difficult situations with no right answer. Which brings me to the neutral routes which given the sheer number of neutral endings there are it'd be impossible to cover them all ESPECIALLY since this post is already super long

But

I will address a few things

The first one being "why doesn't Sans intervene when the human starts killing?" well the reason can vary depending on the extremity of the players actions here, however we have to address the main thing here.

We can debate how much Sans actually remembers about different timelines and previous resets all day, but he is aware of them. To quote the man himself if YOU lived everyday of your life knowing you'll just start over like your previous actions just didn't happen....what would you do?

The man is DEPRESSED as a result, he keeps through the motions but he has given up and doesn't believe his actions matter. Does that justify not doing anything up until the VERY end of the genocide route and straight up not doing anything in more brutal neutral routes?

Hard to say. Would you do though?

Sans knows who he's dealing with. It does not matter what he does he can't stop you. The only reason he trys in the genocide route is BECAUSE YOU'RE ABOUT TO END THE FREAKIN WORLD

Plus someone pointed out in a weird way waiting that long to see if you ever change your ways or show even an ounce of mercy by sparing a single monster is in a way holding true to his brother mentality of even the WORST person can change

Also remember he doesn't just NOT give a fuck if you kill everyone he cares for, Sans doesn't take action against you because he knows there's no point but Sans never goes "okay lol" he is very much upset at you ESPECIALLY if you kill Papyrus or Toriel

I couldn't find the screenshot of it but I believe in one of the neutral endings where you do kill toriel and papyrus he basically goes "you better watch yourself kid," implying he might actually hunt you down. Not 100% clear if the threat is meant to be interpreted that way, it could be more of a "stay away" than a "I'm coming for you" but still

Plus in some neutral endings he shows legit regret over not doing more

Now I've established Sans can be nice, Sans can be cruel or just kinda mean, Sans does a lot of things that pretty ambiguous in terms of intent, but Sans is also extremely flawed. Which brings me to the finale conclusion of this character analysis (?) (whatever you wanna call it?)

His promise to Toriel

Now, this is not a Soriel post even if I do admit I like the ship. However, people who act like he doesn't care about her are legit smoking crack, his promise to her was legit to comfort her, he gets along with her, in one neutral ending becomes her roommate and is actively upset by her death

Regardless of how you wish to interpret that relationship, clearly he cares about her and the two have a strong bond.

But as many people have pointed out....Sans actually does break this promise, he doesn't really do anything to protect Frisk throughout the entire game unless you count not trying to kill them on sight. Now granted with resets being a thing this creates something of a loophole

Cuz yeah Frisk did die but didn't die ya know? They can come back. There's no perma-death

But while we all want to hold Sans up to the standard of being this ultimate protector, here's something to point out that I feel like a lot of people tend to forget

Sans has 1 HP, think about that. What does that mean for him as a monster? One hit and he dies, literally, one hit. I've seen some people make the argument that HP doesn't stand for Hit Points, it's stands for HoPE

What happens to monsters when they lose enough hope? They fall down. They die. So not only is Sans physically weak but honestly I think my human standards he'd be chronically ill as if he has one hope could he literally die at any moment?

Now. Granted there is a theory that the characters choose to display their stats and that they say so this could again be Sans trolling or straight up lying but if we're going to take the "you'd be dead where you stand" line at 100% face value then we take this at 100% face value

Can Sans really be that good of a protector or would doing so actually get himself killed?

Everyone talks about how hard the genocide fight is because THATS him acting as the games last defense to stop you. There is no one else. There will be nothing else if you continue. It's why he try so hard because he has to. There will be no more world. No more him. No more anything. He's pulling out all the brakes because otherwise he's just fuuuuuucked

If Sans followed Frisk around it'd take him getting barely hit for him to die, which while Frisk can reset imagine how tiring that would be. Sans is good at dodging yes, but he gets tired pretty easily. Now you can find workarounds sure but regardless it's a lot of hassle isn't it?

This also brings me to the reason why I don't think Sans would follow through if he did attack us right outside the ruins. How long would this man actually last in a pacifist fight? Especially if the human hasn't done any harm? I feel like he'd tire easily or quickly be talked out of it, Sans isn't a ruthless killer unless he's pushed to be one

How much can Sans actually do? Does he not act in the neutral routes not JUST because of extreme depression and a defeatist attitude but because he knows that he can't do much in a fair fight? Hell, even in genocide Sans has to actively fight dirty to be such a challenge

You can argue him not at least trying anyway is cowardly or bad, but idk man. If you were chronically ill and you knew for a fact this kid can just reset then come back life would you really bother? I don't think it's unreasonable to assume that the kid is fine and it's better to risk it

Frisk can reset sure, Sans can't. And Sans doesn't have any reason to trust Frisk would being him back to life if need be.

There's a lot of difficult questions to be asked here and decisions good or bad have been made, Sans is a good guy sure at least I think so but even good guys don't always know what to do or make the right decisions.

[theegyal]

THIRD WHEEL

Warning ⚠️: Smut ; Teacher-student relationship, older woman/younger man, angst

Chapter 2

As you might have guessed, Janae missed the damn bus.

She reached the stop just in time to lock eyes with the driver, breathless, bag barely clinging to her shoulder. And that bastard still pulled off. Didn't even pretend to hesitate. Just rolled right past her like she was part of the landscape.

"Fuck it," she hissed, watching the back of the bus grow smaller.

She stood there for a second, defeated, the heat of the morning already making her thighs stick under her loose black maxi skirt. Her ash-blonde locs, freshly hydrated and wrapped into a thick, messy bun, felt too heavy on her head.

She wore a long-sleeved slate-gray top that draped over her soft belly and hugged her chubby arms with care.

Hands on her hips, she stared at the spot where the bus used to be like maybe it would reappear if she hated it hard enough.

Today was already a wash. She'd overslept, argued with her reflection, gotten caught half-naked in front of the only man who could crumble her self-worth with a glance, and now the universe had the audacity to snatch the bus too?

Janae sighed, then turned back toward the apartment building, letting her bag slide off her shoulder. Skipping class today wouldn't kill her. Probably.

On her way, as she was about to step out the bus stop area, she heard the low growl of a car.

She didn't even have to lift her gaze to the parking garage. She already knew.

"Shit. Can't you just leave me alone man ?" She cursed under her breath.

"You really thought about skipping class?" Stack's cocky voice joined her height "Oh, little bad girl."

The car eased up close, a black Mercedes, rims still dusty from last week's joyride, its passenger seat wide open like a trap.

Janae rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere...near the damn busty milf you encountered yesterday?" she snapped, adjusting her bag.

Stack was loud as buffalos on plain valleys. The concept of privacy never hold tight long with him. Janae had heard his full phone conversation yesterday after they both gone to bed in their respective room. He was surely talking with his friends about the woman he met at club.

"Damn. What about good morning?"

"Morning, Stack, it's already 11:00 A.M tho'..." she deadpanned, not stopping her walk.

"You skipping for real?"

She didn't answer.

"Hop in," he said, this time less teasing. "I'll drop you. Your school literally on my way"

She stopped walking, giving a thought.

Just imagining, being stuck in that passenger seat, five minutes with him humming to trap beats while she tried not to breathe too loud, was dangerous, humiliating and too easy.

But the bus had left. And Janae was already late. It wouldn't be smart to not even show her face to Mr Smith class. That old man hated her.

She sighed, finally resigned "Only if you don't talk."

Stack smirked. "Baby girl, I barely listen, why would I talk?"

The car smelled like cologne, menthols and cigarettes. Janae folded her arms tight over her bag, eyes pinned to the windshield staring at the neighborhood old buildings.

Beside her, Stack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, following the trap beat rhythm and the bass thumping through the speakers. Then, he glanced over at her.

"Your skirt long as a prayer," he started. "Ain't no breeze hittin' them legs all summer?"

She didn't look at him. "It's called being decent."

"Oh. Excuse me, Sista Janae"

 

His eyes slid quickly from her lips to the curve of her soft breasts under the slate-gray top "Too bad, Miss got big arguments in her favor"

Janae head finally whipped toward him. "Excuse me ?"

"You heard me." He replied nonchalantly.

She scoffed, heat crawling up her neck. "Why are you always talking shit, Stack? You got no manners at all."

He snorted. "Ayo, I'm just being real." Then added, "Just sayin', you guard all that under them librarian layers. For sure, somebody out here missin' out."

Somebody, huh? Too bad they couldn't be you, she thought, biting her tongue as she turned back to the suddenly interesting scenery.

Stack draped one arm over the wheel, watching the road again. Still, she could feel him looking, half-turned in his seat like he wanted a better view. His gaze wasn't insistent, sensual or even filthy. It was worse : casual.

"You keep staring," she said coolly, "I'ma start charging you."

Stack raised his eyebrows. "You takin' EBT?"

Janae kept her face hard, refusing to smile. He didn't need to know how fast her heart had started beating the moment he looked at her like that. Randomly, yes but not brotherly like he always did.

"Park there." She said "thank you for the ride"

"Anytime sista Janae" Stack grinned and received her middle finger as an answer.

He faked a sad expression a moment before firing up the Mercedes, ready to go. He sure love to forget he was also a student. Graphic Design. Not a major he fancied but it was enough to show his mother that he was trying.

Traffic was dense, children loudly shout on the streets, making the job difficult for their mama, some boys hidden between buildings walls exchanged Marie-Jeanne (Marijuana).

Thirty minutes later, he arrived at the prestigious school of architecture, parked outside the building and checked his phone before stepping out...

Mrs Red dress : I owe you a drink. Hit me up when you can. Today 9:00 AM

Stack's eyes widened, surprised. He never expected Mary to text him first.

He quickly typed a reply : 'sure', then shoved the phone in his pocket.

He walked toward the entry, pushed open the heavy glass doors of the architectural department : the conditioned air inside contrasted to the humid streets, the hallways were packed with stressed students, ones drawing, others doing homeworks.

Stack didn't mind the unbearable noise of the machinery workshops, he wasn't exactly passionate about them either.

Even though his old lady stop paying for the school fees, she still stuck on his back nagging about his future.

After wandering in void for fifteen additional minutes, he found his classroom, Graphic Design Fundamentals room 304, and slipped in just as the clock on the wall blinked 11:45 AM.

The room was already half-full, the low murmur of student chatter dying down as he took his usual seat in the back row, near the window. He was pulling out his notebook when he heard a cat-like voice. He lifted up his eyes and saw her. Oh ? Mary ? No— he squinted at her name tag : Mrs Kent

She stood at the front of the room, by the large digital screen, adjusting something on the projector.

Her back was to the class, but he couldn't mistake the curve of her spine, the way her classy brown Bob flew when she moved.

She was wearing a tailored formal skirt that hugged her hips and a crisp white blouse, buttoned just high enough to hint at what lay beneath.

Mary. His professor. Mary. His professor. Stack repeated the equation in his mind, again and again, then froze pleasurably, his pen hovering over the blank page.

He blinked hard, one time, then blinked hard, two-time. Yes, it was her. Same sultry, shining neck, same subtle sway to her hips as she turned to face the class. His jaw tightened, a sly grin spreading across his face. This was... unexpected. And infinitely more interesting than he could have imagined.

She met his gaze across the room, her pale cocoa eyes, intensely catching his. She didn't flinch, not an ounce of surprise, no hint of recognition betrayed her stare.

She just stood there, elegantly, with that demure, assessing look that sent a jolt down his spine, and released butterflies in his stomach.

Mary offered him a hearty smile as if she knew exactly who he was, and perhaps, what he was thinking right now.

"Good morning, class," her voice fell, a little deeper than he remembered from yesterday's night "Today, we're going to dive into the principles of typography."

Stack leaned back in his chair, a familiar heat coiling low in his gut.

He watched her move, her hands gesturing gracefully as she explained kerning and leading. Every movement precised, controlled. The way her fingers tapped the stylus against the screen, the slight shift of her weight from one foot to the other.

His eyes slid from her face, down the line of her throat, to the subtle swell of her busty tits, seductively dressed in a transparent top beneath the white fabric of her blazer. The tight black crayon skirt that embraced her small, delicate curves rode up with her movements, exposing her slim thighs.

He imagined the smoothness of her skin, the way his hand would feel sliding up that bare leg under the fabric.

Shamefully, his pulsed dick hardened, pulling tight against his boxers. This was inappropriate for a class time but he couldn't help it.

Stack was not the first student to fantasize of fucking his teacher and he would certainly not be the last. Especially if it’s Mary Kent

Usually he tried to pay attention in class but today his efforts were useless. Mary's Prada perfume invaded the whole space, tripping him out.

The rich scent reminded him of their closeness at the bar, her urgent touch on his lips, and that fucking red dress he wanted to rip off. He could still see her mouth, wet and inviting, the way she had looked at him, like he was a snack she allowed herself to eat. Again, his cock gave a desperate twitch against the denim of his jeans.

Ultimately, hours blended in one another and it was the end of the class. Students rushed out the room, Stack grabbed his bag and also took the way out until Mary stopped him :

"Mr. Moore, do you have a minute ?"

Stack stopped, one hand on the doorknob. He let the rushing student pass him.

"Of course Mrs Kent" He replied, closing the door gently, as if he didn't want anyone to hear anything.

The room turned suddenly quiet. We could only hear the hum of the projector fan and two flies singing. Mary stood by her desk, back to the whiteboard, hands crossed over her chest, and gleam in her eyes.

"I hope you do find the course engaging." She said, making Stack let out a soft, mocking giggle.

Such a lame pick-up line. So what ? She held him there to chat about typography lesson ?

At last, it was not a big deal. Stack was used to it. Women were so predictable, he knew exactly how this whole situation would go.

"Oh, it's very engaging, Ms. Kent." His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, to the subtle rise and fall of her chest. "Especially today."

A faint flush rose on her neck, just beneath her elegant collarbone. "Is that so?" She quivered.

"Yeah." He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing a few feet from her desk. "I got a lot on my mind, actually." His gaze was bold, tracing over her body, from the exposed thigh where her skirt had ridden up, longing the curve of her waist, to the luscious outline of her bust.

His cock, which he had struggled so hard to calm down, was throbbing again, ready to burst through his zipper.

Mary tilted her head, watching him, her eyes darkened "And what might that be, Mr. Moore? Perhaps a question about typography?" She teased.

"Nah," he growled "More like a question about a drink I'm owed. And whether a certain lady always keep her promises."

Mary smile grew bigger, losing some of its poised control."I always keep my promises, Stack." The sudden switch to his first name turned him on. "Especially when it's something I want."

"And what exactly do you want, Mrs.Kent ?" Stack grunted

She narrowed her eyes, amused, then stepped away from the desk, her fingers gliding over the fine weave of her blazer.

'Oh, I think you already know what I want, Mr. Moore.'

Her voice coiled in Stack's ear: sweet and hypnotic. She circled him "And I believe you're very capable of providing it."

He was mesmerized by her confidence. They were in a fucking classroom : windows open, hallways crowded with noisy students,and she was his goddamn professor.

"Are you always this... eager, Stack?" She said, heading straight in front of him.

That was it. Stack had definitely lost it. His dick,swollen in his jeans, ached, engorged and pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Mary closed the gap between them, pressing her busty chest against his. Her expert fingers slipped down, lower, until they pressed against the thick bulge beneath his zipper.

"Ain't that what you want to see, Mrs. Kent?" he replied, teasing.

"oh sweet boy. Are you done reading my mind ?"

Her brown eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met his, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Tell me, would you let me see ?" She whispered, almost purring. Her thumb stroked the hard ridge of his cock through the fabric, a delicate, possessive touch that made Stack gasp. "Mmh, but I think I'm already sensing it"

He was utterly lost in the intoxicating scent of her perfume.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, his last shred of restraint snapping like a dry twig.

His hands clamped onto her hips, yanking her flush against him. He felt her toned, fit belly, her sculpted abs, the firm press of her pelvis against his aching erection. "Shit, betta take care of it then, Mrs Kent," he rasped.

Stack couldn't wait any longer, he crashed his mouth down on hers. It wasn't a regular kiss, it was a conquest, the chase of a forbidden thrill.

He plundered, his tongue sweeping past her lips, demanding entry. Mary met him in, her own tongue tangling with his, a slick, hot battle for dominance.

Her fingers, no longer teasing, fumbled expertly at his belt buckle. The metallic click was loud in the silence, followed by the jagged, deafening sound of his zipper being pulled down.

His cock sprang free, big and veiny, pulsing with a desperate heat against the thin fabric of her skirt. Mary broke the kiss, her chest tightened, a string of saliva connecting their lips.

Her gaze lowered to the engorged flesh pressed against her.

"Oh, my," she breathed, a sound of pure, feminine yet wicked satisfaction. "So impatient."

She didn't wait for an answer. With a fluid motion, mixing nobless with obscenity, she sank to her knees before him.

Stack couldn't believe it, this sight was surreal: Mrs. Kent, the mature woman he met at club, his professor, in her crisp white blouse and tailored skirt, kneeling on the linoleum floor of room 304, her perfectly styled bob framing her face as she looked up at his cock, predatory.

Her hand wrapped around his base, her thumb stroking the sensitive vein running up the underside. Stack hissed, his fingers tangling in her hair. She took his tip to her lips, painted with a demure shade of red, and took him into her mouth.

He was engulfed in wet, velvety warmth. She was a pro, her tongue swirling, her throat taking him deeper than he thought possible. He threw his head back, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk for support.

The serious, strict woman who taught typography was sucking his cock with a frantic, greedy abandon that shattered his world. The sight of her, so prim and proper, looking up at him with her cheeks hollowed, her eyes glazed with lust, was the filthiest thing he had ever seen.

From this instant, the 23 years old Stack understood that his student life would never be the same.

Few streets away from the architecture school, Janae was struggling to get rid of her girls friends. The duo wanted to drag her at an house party, like she ain't got a pile of documents to fold, essays to write...

"Come on, Janae ! You can't always prevent yourself from living ! You damn 21 ! Come with us tonight !" Pearline said.

Not only these troublemakers were stubborns but noisy too. Indeed, Grace tried earlier to match her with the new student in their finance class : Abraham.

"Abraham would be there too. It's time to let that old damn crush go. You know he ain't the right for you !" Grace added

"I genuinely don't know who you talk about" 

Bullshit. Janae knew it the best. She still resented her childhood friend from spilling the tea to Pearline. Only her, Grace was supposed to know.

Not that she distrusted Pearlie' but that girl's mouth was never closed, she meant well of course, however Janae was afraid of rumors and Stack knowing her secret.

"Listen Jan', you come with us tonight, only one hour. You ain't like the vibe, I drive you home" Pearline insisted.

Resigned, Janae sighed before agreeing. She still had, that flower printed dress in her closet. She was not sure of the effect she wanted to achieve but such attire would certainly fit the party.

"Alright..."

"YASS GO BAD BITCH !!"

She rolled her eyes, kissing her friends then exited the building. This time Janae ain't gonna miss the damn bus, and she dated the driver to play with her again.

"9 PM. Don't be late !" Both girls said, disappearing in the heat of summer.

The sun was coughing too loud that she regretted wearing this long-sleeved shirt, thankfully the breeze lead by the trees traced a way beneath her maxi skirt.

She arrived at home, the oppressive heat of the hallway clinging to her until she slammed the apartment door shut behind her.

The relative cool of the dim space was a relief. Tossing her keys and bag onto the small entryway table, she kicked off her shoes and padded towards the bathroom, the events of the day weighing on her like a second skin.

In the shower, she let the cold water sluice over her, hoping it could wash away the lingering frustration of the morning. But as the waterfall dripped the glass, her thoughts turned inward, as they always did.

Her gaze drifted down her body. She saw the soft swell of her belly, the thick, powerful curve of her thighs, the roundness of her arms. She traced the faint silver lines on her hips, battle scars from a body that had grown and shifted without her permission.

A familiar ache settled in her chest, a quiet, persistent grief for the girl she saw in magazines, the one she would never be.

Stepping out, wrapped in a threadbare towel, she stood before the mirror. She stared at her reflection : "You're beautiful," she whispered, the words feeling foreign and false on her tongue. The woman in the mirror, with her damp locs and tired eyes, didn't seem convinced. Beautiful for who? her mind retorted. Not for him.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. 7:00 P.M. The party was in two hours. She rushed to her room, and as soon as she set foot in her safe place, she heard the distinct click of a key in the front door, followed by the familiar thud of Stack's boots hitting the floor.

Her heart gave a stupid little flutter. A bitter question rose in her throat—where were you? Who were you with?—but she swallowed it down. Tonight was not about him. Tonight, she wouldn't let herself be hurt by wondering.

She turned to her closet and pulled out the dress. A floral print,red and purple with roses. She hadn't worn it in ages. She slipped it on. The fabric was soft, but it clung, embracing every curve. It was short, ending mid-thigh, and it hugged her waist tightly, refusing to skim over the roundness of her stomach. She grimaced at her reflection.

For a frantic moment, she rummaged through her drawers and pulled out a waist trainer, wrestling the stiff, boned contraption around her middle. She managed to clasp it, but the relief was immediately replaced by a suffocating tightness. She couldn't take a full breath. Defeated, she ripped it off, gasping as her lungs filled with air. Fuck it. She would wear the dress as she was.

Pairing it with a set of strappy red heels that made her legs look miles long, she got to work. She twisted her locs into a high, medium bun, letting a few tendrils frame her face. Her makeup was deliberate: a soft contour to define her cheekbones and a swipe of deep, red wine lipstick that made her feel bold.  Jesus she thought, this is too much.

When she was done, the clock read 8:15 P.M.

She took one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger, but a compelling one. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she stepped out of her room, her heels clicking silently on the floor. Her only prayer was that Stack was in his room, that she could slip out unnoticed.

No such luck. He was sprawled on the couch, the blue light of the TV flickering across his face. He looked up as she emerged, and his casual expression froze.

His eyes, surprised at first, suddenly intense, did a slow, thorough sweep. They started at the intricate bun of her locs, slid down the column of her throat, lingered on the swell of her breasts pushed up by the tight dress, traced the curve of her waist and the prominence of her belly, and continued down the length of her exposed thighs.

His gaze finally came to rest on her feet, on the ten white-painted toes resting in her red heels. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Janae's skin prickled under the scrutiny. She felt exposed, every insecurity laid bare under his unwavering stare. Embarrassment warred with a treacherous flicker of heat. She crossed her arms over her belly, hiding it.

"You done?" she snapped, her voice meaner than she intended. "Or you need to take a picture?"

Stack blinked, as if waking from a trance. He sat up a little straighter, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. The usual slick, cocky smirk was gone, replaced by a genuine, almost clumsy surprise. He cleared his throat.

"Nah," he said, his voice a little rough. "I was just... damn, Janae. Your toes pretty as hell."

Of all the things he could have said, that wasn't one she had prepared for, if he couldn't just give a compliment, better shut his mouth. Lord, it was so random, so... awkward. She rolled her eyes, humming something under her breath.

"Whatever, weirdo."

She turned on her heel and walked out the door, pulling her phone from her purse to call an Uber, leaving him sitting in the living room, staring at the empty space where she had been.

Tag List

@lilbitt @-harmonytbh @solarssins @rkiiives @harleycativy @thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @rkiiives @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @chknnwffls @maddyf22

A/N : Mary and Stack would not be the final couple of this story ( I’m sorry I really don’t write Mary and Stack love story) , I just use the character to build my triangle love dynamic. I just say that so that you know and if you don’t want fi read it’s okay. Just don’t want rise hope up.

[reasonsforhope]

Book Publishing Resources

Well, since a few people said they were interested and/or that posting about it on here occasionally was a decent idea, here we go!

I'm MC Calvi, a freelance editor specializing in self-help, psychology, spirituality, paganism, workbooks, and LGBTQ books.

You can find out more about me at my website, where I also offer free twenty-minute book/publishing consultations, in addition to regular editing services.

I am also now offering some pay-what-you-can resources on my website and on Gumroad. I'm committed to offering pay-what-you-can resources because the odds are already so stacked against marginalized authors, and publishing shouldn't be pay to win.

I have two new booklets I'm actually super happy with! They both draw on my eight years of experience in the publishing industry to give authors a leg up.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming as I hit "publish" on another good news post!

[leonalovesalot]

Make me feel

Dealer!Patrick x Reader

18+ Minors DNI

wc: 7.7k

Also, lots of negative self-talk so proceed with caution!!

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Patrick was your town's ne'er-do-well.

He sold drugs to anyone who had the funds and didn't care that every dollar he made was dirty. A man's gotta eat, right?

Molly, grass, poppers, speed, crack, bump.

You name it, he sold it.

He was well-known and those who had interacted with him, always took a liking. He was charismatic and he knew it.

But all that street-smart prowess didn't translate to 'school smart' since Patrick was held back in his senior year. He was pissed because he didn't get to share his graduation with his friends, who all moved away to big, pretentious— sorry, prestigious— universities, while he rotted in this stupid town. There was a silver lining though. He expanded his clientele through people he met while repeating senior year, and made more paper than he ever could've imagined.

The summer after graduation was spent getting high and partying until he felt numb. That was the lowest he had ever been and it got worse when his parents threw him out. Something about how he needed to get his shit together because he couldn’t just live off of them for the rest of his life (he wasn’t really listening).

Patrick was lost. He spent the next few months couch surfing until he got enough money to rent a tiny studio apartment above a corner store. He was still proud that he afforded it all on his own, but it wasn't enough.

Eventually, the dealing became a side hustle when he got a bartending job at a seedy pub down the road from a motel and a gentlemen's club. His coworkers would invite him along, after their shift, to the strip club. He went the first few times but then began declining because of the second-hand embarrassment he'd get when his coworkers shamelessly flirted with the strippers. Though Patrick loved women, and never passed up on an opportunity to flirt with a pretty lady, the strippers were just working and he didn't like to interfere.

That's what his life was like in a nutshell. Most days were identical to the ones that came before them, but he didn't mind. He was making decent money and living independently with no one to answer to.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

You were an empty shell.

Another long day made you plummet further into your numbness. Pleasure, love, laughter were all a distant memory that you’d find yourself holding tightly in your hands to keep yourself from slipping over the edge. The edge of what? You didn’t know yet. But you had a gut feeling that if you kept going on like this, you would meet your undoing.

You weren’t depressed, no, you had no reason to be. You were just an average student with a shit sleep schedule and a stacking debt that you actually began having recurring nightmares about. In those dreams you were always standing next to a pile of money that you needed but could never reach. You’d reach out to grab it and it was always out of your arms-length. You’d run towards it but never get there because you were running in the same spot. Although running and not moving was scary, the main fear you felt from those nightmares was how alone you were. No one else was in those dreams. Just you, struggling, screaming, panting. Then your alarm would pull you out of it and you’d head to the bathroom to put your face on.

A good night’s sleep was beginning to feel like a myth. Something that you heard of, but knew wasn’t real. Not to you anyway.

After cruising through high school without breaking a sweat, you assumed university would be the same. You were cocky, and had every right to be. But the universe likes to prove you wrong, and so you had no idea you were gearing up for the worst years of your life.

For everyone else, it seemed easy. Commuting, living alone, studying, hanging with friends — the ideal student experience. You were nowhere near that crowd. You hadn’t made friends, no connections, you’d even lost passion for your major. You were a bitter and lonely person.

Stupid, idiot.

And it would be fine and you could get over it, if your self worth wasn’t tied into your academic performance. Those letter grades, the GPAs, the feedback, was all a direct reflection of you. On a day you’d get a bad mark on something, you’d come home and look in the mirror only to find that you’d grown uglier. Hands would be all over your face — touching, picking, scratching— anything to vent your frustration whilst punishing yourself. If your grades were ugly, you’d make yourself uglier. You didn’t deserve to feel good on the outside. Not until you got your act together.

“You’re a waste,” you spat, disgusted at your reflection in the mirror. You slammed your fist on the counter and left the bathroom.

Toxicity was your roommate.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

It was almost reading break. A full week without class where you're finally allowed to take a breather. That was its intended use anyway— but you had an exam on the first day back, which completely defeated the whole purpose of taking time to yourself. Whatever, you didn’t have it in you to care.

Your last lab of the week had taken the life out of you. While you waited for the lab facilitator to check your station for cleanliness, you almost fell asleep standing up. A four hour lab was fucking criminal and you wanted to find whoever was responsible for bringing this nightmare into existence, and rip them to shreds.

But leaving late meant your bus was basically empty and that made you feel better. You liked to sit near the middle, right next to the door, so you could be out right away. You had an irrational fear that you wouldn’t make it to the door on time and the bus driver would laugh and just drive on anyway. Irrational.

Usually after such a long lab you’d rest your eyes for the duration of your journey home, but today you just stared out the window as your headphones softly played Chopin. It was cold out, despite it being spring. But spring in your city didn’t mean flowers and dresses. It meant rain. A whole lot of it. But tonight, it was just breezy, the rain stopped around the evening time and left behind numerous puddles.

Your eyes watched the scenery pass you by. The bus was going through a particularly sketchy area that you’d never want to step out in at this time of night. Not for any real reason other than, well, the vibes were off. It was that kind of area where you’d see mostly men, which was enough for you to avoid it. You could make out a bar and a motel a little further down. You wondered what would happen if you just got off the bus right now. It was going to stop anyway.

One small decision and maybe something would change.

It was an intriguing thought.

Mostly because it would make your numbness go away, even just momentarily. That was enough to convince you. Look at you, a thrill seeker.

Your body was getting up, before your mind could overthink and shit on your spontaneous plan. You walk to the door and hang on to the thin yellow pole as the bus comes to a halt. The doors slide open and you take a deep breath before calling out a “thank you” and stepping off.

The doors shut tight and the loud whir of the bus began fading into the background.

Now what?

It was chilly, probably around 9°, and you cursed under your breath for not wearing a warmer jacket. You turned your head to look around but didn’t see anyone outside.

Well, this was pointless.

But you wanted to feel something. Even if that feeling was fear or anxiety. It was stupid, but it would be worth it. This was like a test for you. An experiment.

You finally pick up your feet and begin walking towards the bar before you. A bright neon open sign was on display with the “E” flickering. You took your earbuds out, shoved them in your pocket, and pulled the door open.

It was exactly as you’d imagined; a little more barren though. Only a small group of older men huddled around the pool table to the left of the entrance. They all paused their game to size you up and you could tell they shared the same thought: you didn’t belong here.

But when you turn away to walk in further, they go back to focusing on the game. You hesitantly walk to the bar as all the tables had the chairs stacked on them.

You prop yourself up on the stool and look around. There was no bartender in sight, maybe they were busy with something else.

You sat there staring at the counter and drumming your fingers to the rhythm of some song you couldn’t remember the name of.

Your little recital stops when you hear a door swing open and eyes dart to the side at the sound, immediately widening.

Patrick Zweig?

Shit.

You hated seeing people from high school.

You were panicking which wasn’t numbness, but surprisingly worse.

Seeing old classmates made you regress to your teenager- self, whom you despised. She was puny and antisocial and all the things you wanted to convince yourself you weren’t anymore.

Usually in these situations, you’d either suck it up and shoot a tight lipped smile then go about your business, or you’d quickly run away before any interaction took place.

Seeing as this was Patrick Zweig, you settled for the latter.

But just as you were about to slip off the barstool, a voice called out and stopped you.

“Sorry, for the wait what can I get you?”

Shit. I should’ve just stayed on the bus.

You slowly look up and force a small smile, “no worries.” You paused to see any sign that maybe he’d cut you off and call you your name. But he didn’t.

Oh, he didn’t recognize you.

So you continue, “could I get the menu?”

He nods, “of course. But just so you know we already cleaned up the kitchen for the night, so a few of the items may not be available.”

He walks to the end of the counter and grabs a small lamented booklet off the top of a pile and places it in front of you.

You nod, mumble a thank you, and get to reading. It was awkward. You knew you hadn’t stood out much in high school, but you didn’t know it was to this extent. Were you that easy to forget? Was your presence really so insignificant?

Your eyes skimmed the page and you got hungrier as you read the options.

Should I get a grilled cheese with fries? Or a chicken sandwich?

“Quick question,” Patrick’s voice makes you snap your head up to meet his lively gaze. “Did you go to Gray Coast Secondary?”

He asked with a half- smile. It hadn’t changed at all, even after almost four years.

Your eyes widen slightly at the question.

So you weren’t a total nobody after all.

You nod almost like you wish it wasn’t so.

His eyes light up, “I knew it! I knew you looked familiar, it’s- I’m Patrick,” he points to himself and grins at you like he was genuinely happy to see you.

It made you feel… warm.

“I know,” you try to mirror his smile but your face wasn’t used to it.

He stared at you clearly waiting for you to introduce yourself because although he recognized your face, he had no idea what your name was.

“I’m Y/N,” you say after a beat of silence.

He repeats your name a few times and you laugh softly, liking the way it sounded coming from him. He said it so… relaxed. Casual. Like you were old pals.

“It’s been a while,” he walks over to the shelf grabbing you a glass and pours you some water. He puts it next to your arms on the counter and you smile at him.

“It has, yeah.” You weren’t sure what you else you could say. The antisocial trait made itself right at home inside you again.

He notices your lack of response but doesn’t mind. He just chuckles and asks if you know what you want to order.

“Oh, I think I’ll just get the grilled cheese.”

He nods, “Got it. Instead of the fries, do you think you could do wedges?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“And what can I get you to drink?”

You think for a moment and look at the menu again. You weren’t that experienced when it came to drinking, only ever trying wine, and one time a mimosa.

“I think I’m good for now.”

"Okay, I'll be right back."

Patrick disappears out the back and you assume there's a kitchen behind the doors. You stared down at your palms and noticed they were sweaty. Unsure why you were so nervous, you wipe them on your jeans and gulp down the water he brought earlier.

It was actually nice seeing a familiar face. You felt like you understood him because the two of you were a part of the very few kids from your graduating class who didn't move onto bigger things. You wondered if that disappointed him like it did you. Did he feel like a failure the way you often did? Sure, you were doing fine in university, but you just didn't feel anything about it. Your degree threw million hurdles your way, and although you got through them, you didn't come out stronger. You considered giving up at times, but what good would that do? There was no plan B.

You stare into the glass of water that you were chugging. It was almost empty. You swallow the rest and feel the cool liquid all throughout your neck and chest.

Patrick returns with a plate of your order in one hand, and two cold beers in the other.

Your stomach growled at the sight of the food and you felt your cheeks get hot from embarrassment. But, Patrick didn't draw attention to it and just set the plate down, along with the beer you didn't order.

"Bon appétit," he takes a bottle opener out of his pocket and pops the lid off of the two drinks.

"Thank you." You reach down and take a bite of a potato wedge.

Another silence came between you two. All you heard was the conversation of the men who were by the pool table. You could make out that they were bidding each other farewell.

You really hoped that wasn't the case because you didn't want to be left alone with Patrick.

"See you later, Patrick."

"Bye, kid."

Deep voices call out and you hear the creaky door open and close.

Great. Now you two really were alone.

You just keep your head down and take a bite of your sandwich. Oh, this is good. It had been a while since you'd eaten a hot meal. You were always in a rush and had to pack food everywhere you went, only to eat it cold when you got the chance.

"How's the sandwich?" Patrick asks you softly. He was clearly an extrovert, you thought.

You nod and swallow your current bite, "really good, thanks."

Met with more silence, you clear your throat and try to make conversation.

“So, how are you? I mean how’ve you been since uhm high school?” You avoided eye contact with him, not really understanding why.

He was happy to answer your question, and grabbed a small rag to wipe down the countertop.

“I’ve been great, actually. Yeah. I have my own place,” he says with a small smile on his face feeling a sense of pride. “I like working here too. The regulars are pretty nice.”

You listen attentively to his every word and were quite surprised at his answer. You thought that the both of you could bond over how shitty your lives are. ‘Misery loves company’ and all. A little pang of guilt struck you because you assumed that just because he was a little rough around the edges, he lived an unfulfilling dead-end life. No, that was just you.

“That’s— wow— that’s impressive. Good for you.” You take another, larger bite, of the sandwich.

Patrick snorts and you look up at him a little confused.

“That didn’t sound very genuine. You okay?”

You blinked, slightly worried, that maybe you’d somehow come across as bitter. That was the last thing you wanted. You truly were happy for him as it seemed that he’d turned his life around. But, it just made you think of your own situation.

The two of you were on opposite ends of the high-school-student spectrum. He was type B, never doing his homework, no extracurriculars, and honestly he was a dick to his teachers. He sold drugs for God’s sake, and everyone knew! You, on the other hand, were as goody two shoes as they come. Spending weekends buried in textbooks and assignments, working towards a bright future. The hours you put in got you into a good university, but now you were just so… unhappy.

That’s not what was supposed to happen. He was careless and irresponsible and was still doing way better than you. No! No! Your hard work was supposed to pay off! When would it pay off?

“Earth to Y/N?” Patrick stood on the other side of the bar counter waving his hand in front of you.

You snap out of your badgering thoughts.

“Sorry,” you take a sip of water, “I’m just tired.”

He didn’t buy it. And he was always shamelessly nosy, which was something his friends found annoying but forgave when he’d apologize with his charming half-smile.

“Oh that’s bullshit. Come on, you can tell me.” Patrick puts the rag in a little basket below the counter and walks around the bar. Your eyes follow him as he pulls up a stool next to you. Not too close, but a very comfortable distance. You liked it. From an outsider, you would’ve looked like friends.

You take in a deep breath and decide to tell him anyway. There was nothing to lose. After tonight, you’d go back to your life and he’d go back to his. You’d never get off at this bus stop again.

“I guess I’m just a little surprised. Uhm- you were- in high school you were kind of…” you couldn’t string together a coherent sentence that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. You clear your throat, “just didn’t seem like you were going anywhere.”

Oh God, had you forgotten manners?

Patrick’s brows shoot up and his smile fades a little but not fully. He wasn’t offended, he knew you didn’t mean to hurt him. You were genuinely curious. But he couldn’t resist the urge to tease you about it.

“Shit, Y/N— you sound like my Dad." He reaches out and grabs one of two bottles on the counter. He pops the lid off of it and takes a swig.

You stayed quiet.

You saw his parents once in the hallway during parent teacher conferences. They were quite the opposite of him. Walking from classroom to classroom with a sense of purpose. The type of people you'd see and immediately step to the side to not get in the way. They were intimidating and you could picture Patrick sitting next to them, while his math teacher was red in the face complaining about how disruptive he was. His parents would sit there and politely listen to Mr. Murphy, and would shoot glares at Patrick every other minute.

His Father had a permanent scowl settled on his face. Is that who he was comparing you to? Shit.

You force an apologetic smile, trying to show him that you weren't all bad. You look down at your plate and finish the sandwich.

"I think I'm just kind of angry these days," you said each word super spaced out, like it was a sinful confession.

"At who? Me?" He tilts his head. Eyes twinkling under the dim lights.

You shake your head, "At the world... at myself."

The beer bottle he brought you earlier was having a staring contest with you. You weren't much of a drinker and didn't want to indulge since you had no idea how you'd get home tonight. But, after deciding that tomorrow you wouldn't go to class, you grabbed the bottle and brought it to your lips.

Patrick nods, thoughtfully.

"I don't know. It's just that everyone seems to be moving onto bigger, better things— you know? Like," you take a gulp feeling it move down your throat. You didn't care for the taste. You scrunch your nose at the strong taste. Patrick chuckles.

"Like there's this ladder, and everyone is climbing it. Step-by-step, they all accomplish small things and get closer to- to becoming well rounded individuals."

Patrick leans in and rests his chin on his palm. He was listening to your every word and soaking in the sound of your voice. So gentle and soft, with a little rasp on the edges— you sounded exhausted.

"And I was on that ladder," you pause and eat one of the salty wedges. "until, I got to this one rung, and it was like faulty." You take a shaky breath in, feeling your eyes beginning to water. But you didn't feel the need to freak out and change the subject. You were comfortable around him. It really was easier to confide in strangers. "It broke off the second my foot landed on it. And, right away, I fell off."

You stare off into a space, "And at first, I tried to grab onto something—anything— to catch myself. But it was all air. And I feel like I've just been falling since."

You let out a heavy sigh and quickly rub your eyes, glad that there wasn't too much moisture.

"You think too much." Patrick says after a while.

Your face fell further at that comment, so Patrick quickly chimed in, "That's just what everyone experiences in their 20s. We're all lost, Y/N. People are just really fucking good hiding it."

He was right, but you were so deep into your self-loathing that his words went in one ear and out the other.

You finish the wedges and wash them down with the cold beer.

"So, is this it?" You cough, awkwardly, wanting to shift the subject from you to him.

"Elaborate." He tilts his head leaning further on his palm.

"This. Like is this your plan?" You sniffle and gesture to the whole bar. "Bartending forever… mixing drinks… forcing conversations with your coworkers until, well, the inevitable happens."

He snickers, "hm, well I’m only 24. So, I’m sure I’ll figure something else out. I don’t plan on settling down just yet anyway."

"Gotcha." You take another sip of your drink. It was starting to go down easier, and you didn't mind the taste all that much anymore. Or maybe you were too distracted by the fuzzy feeling Patrick had stirring inside you. It was truly something: how being seen could make you want to live.

"And you?" He grabs your empty plate and walks around the counter to rinse it in the sink. He leaves it there, reminding himself to wash it first thing tomorrow morning. He turns back to you and wipes his hands on his jeans. "Do you plan on just being a tortured academic… days and nights wearing a snow-white lab coat… until you spill—what?— like hydrochloric acid on yourself, and the inevitable happens."

That pulls a genuine laugh out of you, "Yeah, cause of death: hydrochloric acid. You're funny." You shake your head. "I mean who knows though, right? Anything is possible."

"Yeah," Patrick walks back to you, pulls the barstool closer, and sits on it with his knees touching yours. "But then you can join me— down there."

Your smile widens and you scoff, "I am not going to hell, Patrick." You reach over and jokingly push his shoulder causing him to giggle. "Not that I believe in heaven or hell but if they exist— I’m going to Heaven." You shrug cockily and he quirks an eyebrow, entertained by your sudden playfulness.

You continue, "I mean, just yesterday, I gave this kid— he lost some money his mom gave him for ice cream and he was crying with like snot everywhere— I gave him money. Bought him a nice, cold rocket pop. So if anyone up there was watching, I’m pretty sure I secured my seat."

Patrick was finding you infatuating now. He plays along and nods. "Yeah I’m sure that’s all it takes for a nice warm welcome at the pearly gates."

"It is," you exclaim, almost jumping out of your seat. Almost. You didn't want to move because you'd miss the feeling of his knees bumping against yours. "But in your case I mean… selling drugs? Yeah, you should pack for a hot climate."

You instantly regret mentioning it when his nose twitches at your words, like he wasn't glad to be reminded of his side-business. He shrugs, "I don’t know. I feel like no matter what you do to make money... it'll always be somewhat unethical— whether it’s directly or indirectly." He takes a big gulp of the beer, tilting his head back. He had a nice neck.

"Yeah, that’s true." you reply softly.

A silence fills the bar. Not an uncomfortable one because you found yourself at ease around Patrick. You never thought this is where your night would take you. Drinking beers with an old classmate. One whom you never got close to. One whom you just observed from the sidelines, worrying he was too cool for you. This moment felt like a movie— picturesque.

Before you knew it, you were speaking up again.

"Why didn’t you ever talk to me in high school?"

His eyebrows knit together like he had no idea what you were talking about. "What? That’s not true."

"It is." You chug down the rest of the beer, placing the empty bottle next to you. "I mean, even today, you didn’t remember my name."

"I’m not good with names."

You narrow your eyes, not believing him. "Fine, but answer my question."

Patrick finishes his beer too. He shrugs, "Why didn’t you ever talk to me?"

You scoff at his avoidance of the question. "I would've. You know I was assigned to be your tutor right? For calculus?

To your surprise, he nods.

"I waited everyday, dude. Well— every week. Mondays and Wednesdays. I was in the library for an hour." You emphasize, "And not once did you show up. I even fell asleep and the librarian was like shaking me awake." You bring your hand to Patrick's thigh and shake it, making him laugh. "She was livid. Lectured me about how the library is for learning and that I insulted her and all the books in there. It was horrible!"

He snorts and places his hand on top of yours before you could pull it back. It was warmer than yours. It felt natural, and you didn't feel all that panicky about literally resting your hand on his thigh. Maybe it was the liquor.

"I know. She always had a chip on her shoulder." He stares down at his hand on yours and rubs slow circles with his index finger.

"So? Why didn’t you come?" You press him for an answer you'd wondered for an embarrassingly long time.

"I did. But I never had the- the guts to walk in."

Your eyes widen and your hands reflexively tighten on his thigh. "Really? Why?"

"I don’t know." Patrick smiles softly at your shocked expression. "I've always hated asking for help. And I was ashamed. Or, embarrassed. I mean you— a girl who's a younger than me— would be teaching me about the absolute value of whatever the fuck. It was just embarrassing. So, instead, I just switched out of that math. Did an easier one. Passed it— but barely."

Another moment of silence envelopes you two. Feeling ashamed and dumb were all too familiar to you. You understood exactly where he was coming from.

"It’s all in the past now but … if it’s any consolation, I don’t think it’s embarrassing at all. I mean no one’s good at everything. We all have to get help from others where we can. It’s just— I don’t know. It’s human."

He nods.

You nod.

And then you're both leaning in.

You weren't thinking about anything. It was the first time in years where your mind was vacant. All you wanted was to feel his rosy lips on yours— the rest didn't matter.

Patrick, on the other hand, was intrigued the second he laid his eyes on you. When you weren't looking, he was using the opportunity to check you out. Respectfully, of course. He had been hoping that something would transpire between you two. Something that would make him feel like a carefree teenager again.

Your lips met and you melted into him. You hand moved up his thigh while his came up to cup your cheek. It was so sweet. You felt your eyes moisten underneath your lids. He tilted his head to get a better angle and kissed you deeper. You parted your lips and his tongue came out to find yours.

You wanted him closer and you kept trying to bring yourself forward until your shaky stool tipped forward causing you to stumble onto him.

You gasp, scared that you were going to fall but Patrick's quick movements had his hands wrapped around you, holding you still. You were disappointed that your kiss was interrupted but Patrick's breathy laugh washed that away.

"You okay?" He unwraps his arms and brings his fingers to your chin to tilt it up. Your glossy eyes meet his.

"Yeah," you whisper.

"You wanna get out of here?" Patrick leans down and softly pecks your cheek.

You were nodding before he finished asking and he chuckled at your eagerness.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._..

Patrick locked the bar up and the two of you staggered your way down the road to the motel. The vacancy sign was lit bright with big red neon letters but that didn't make the place seem inviting. However, in that moment, you didn't want to be anywhere else. In that moment, you realized you'd go to the ends of the Earth with Patrick.

He holds the door open for you and you both walk right up to the tired looking concierge. An older women with short hair who was engrossed with her computer— probably playing solitaire.

She was cold, not bothering to acknowledge the two of you even when you were clearly waiting for her attention.

Patrick clears his throat, and the lady lets out a sigh finally turning to face you both.

“Yeah?” She brings her cigarette to her lips.

“Could we get a single room, please?” Patrick reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet.

The concierge’s skeptical eyes look you up and down and then Patrick.

“We don’t charge by the hour,” she blows out a puff of smoke.

Your face heats up and your jaw drops at her gratuitous remark.

“Excuse me? Do I look like a—”

Patrick wrap his arm around your waist in a comforting manner and forces a laugh to cut you off. He wanted to kiss you more tonight (and maybe do some other things) and he knew that bitching at the concierge would only hurt his chances.

“Single room. Please.”

She scoffs and types something into the computer while you clenched your jaw out of anger, still not over her comment.

Reaching over the counter, she hands Patrick a key with a worn out key chain. He mutters a ‘thanks’ and hands her his card.

After the transaction is over, he pulls you along to the room and you two whisper about the displeasing interaction.

“I’m literally carrying my backpack- like I couldn’t look more innocent.” You laugh.

“She just wanted to fuck with us,” Patrick unlocks the door and ushers you into the room.

The room was a little smaller than you expected. Fit for two people and no more than that. The curtains draping the windows had a few cigarette burns along with a mysterious yellow-ish stain. And the bed? The bed didn’t look comfortable at all. Just a mattress with a thin cover and a blanket folded in half, at the foot of it. Your head snaps to the wall across from the door when you hear the plumbing creak when someone flushed next door. You weren’t expecting the Ritz or anything but come on!

“Home sweet home,” Patrick drops his bag and walks over to the bathroom, opening the door.

You grin and go to sit on the edge of the bed. Hands clasped in your lap, like you were getting ready to pray.

Your eyes wander to Patrick’s bag on the floor and a question crosses your mind.

Just then, Patrick opens the door and begins washing his hands.

“Patrick?” You call out as you stared at the bag.

“Mhm?” He turns off the tap and dries his hand on the beige hand towels.

“You still deal, right?”

He walks back into the room and finds you staring at his bag.

“I do. But it’s mostly a side thing now. Just until I start saving enough from bartending.”

You turn your head slowly to face him, “what do you have on you right now?”

He freezes not expecting you to bring any of this up. Were you asking just out of curiosity? Or because you wanted to get high? He really hoped the latter wasn’t true. He wanted you. He wanted you to be fully there and to remember tonight. Patrick had slept with many people under the influence, and as fun as it was then, he didn’t want that anymore. He wanted real connection— real emotion.

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant, “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

"I was thinking," you turn to look at him, "maybe you could give me something. I'll pay, of course."

Patrick resists the urge to roll his eyes. Is that really all you saw him as? Even after the conversation back at the bar?

"I uh... I don't know, Y/N." He chokes out a chuckle, feeling a little nervous.

You furrow your eyebrows and stand up, "what? Why? I told you I'd pay."

"I heard you," He snaps.

Taking matters into your own hands, you stride over to his bag and pick it up. You didn't understand why you were being so stubborn. But the tipsy effect of the beer was wearing off and you could feel yourself reverting back to your miserable self.

You'd never tried anything before— besides an edible once, but it just made you anxious because, well, of course it did. You wanted something stronger, but didn't know where to find it. Now that Patrick was in front of you, you knew you should at least try.

His eyes widen as you pick up his bag so he crosses the room and yanks it out of your grip.

"What the fuck, Y/N?" His knuckles turned white as his tightened his grasp on the bag.

You scoff, "what? What’s the big deal?"

Patrick doesn't respond right away and just stares at you in disapproval. As if you weren't aware of how pathetic you were being.

You really didn't have anything to lose though. So you reached out for his bag again and wrapped your hand around of the of the straps. Frustration clouds his mind and, without thinking, he shoves you away. It catches you off guard and you trip over your foot and your rear lands on floor with a thud.

You were shocked and stared at the floor as tears brimmed your eyes. Humiliation creeps under every inch of your skin. You wished you'd never gotten off the bus.

Patrick gasps and drops the bag, quickly making his way over to you. He squats next to you.

"Fuck, are you okay? I didn't mean to do that— I'm so sorry." He brings his hand up to your cheek to brush the hair out of your eyes, but you swat it away.

He backs off for now. But when he notices the drops of tears streaming down your face, he reaches out and wipes them with his thumb without hesitation. You let him.

A few seconds passed and you only cried harder. Your body trembled and Patrick wrapped both his arms around you, rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head.

Your hand claps around his forearm and he can feel your fingers digging into his flesh. He didn't mind.

After a few moments, you felt that your sorrow was enough. You pull away from him and wipe your face on your sleeve. You take deep breaths trying to calm your racing heart and Patrick continues rubbing your back.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know?" You choke out. Your voice was hoarse and your throat stung as you spoke, "I used to be a whole- a whole person. I was so full. My mom told me the other day, that I was a very happy kid,” Your hands were shaking and Patrick brings them hands into his. He leans down and places soft kisses on your knuckles. “I don't know what happened. I mean, I can’t remember the last time I felt even like a sliver— a fucking lick of satisfaction.”

His heart was breaking at the sight. He wanted to make you laugh again, like he did before. He wanted to make you feel better. Maybe, give you a taste of that satisfaction you craved.

"This is just a rough patch, Y/N. Soon, it'll be a blurry memory." Patrick's words did a good job soothing you.

You nod and slowly pick yourself up off the floor. Patrick's hands instantly fly up to your hips to help you.

"I should- I think I should go."

Patrick quickly stands up and shakes his head, "no- no. Stay, come on." He places his hands on your waist, gently. He'd do anything to make you stay.

You blow out a huff of air, “I just- I made things so fucking weird.”

“No, no you didn’t.” He pulls you closer until both of you were against each other. You had to tilt your head quite far back to see him. He brings one of his hands up to caress your cheek.

After a moment of thinking he gathers the courage to say, “I want to help you. But— not by giving you something— I… I want to make you feel good.” You could feel his breath on the tip of your nose.

Your eyes were filled with tears and desperation. Patrick notices your bottom lip quiver and brings his thumb to brush it.

You gulp and nod slowly, "make me feel like I'm human."

That's all he needed to hear. Patrick's hands drop to your face and grasp your wrists, pulling you towards the bed. Your feet drag on the floor and your eyes stayed lost in his. You were entranced. The vulnerability you showed him didn't scare him away. If anything, it only made him want you more. He could handle you.

"Lay down for me." He says lowly.

The motel room didn't seem all that dingy anymore. It felt comfortable, and you didn't want to be anywhere else. You don't know how you'd return to your dull life after tonight.

You did as you were told. No thoughts in your mind because this was something you were sure you wanted. There was no doubt in your mind, for the first time... ever. You crawl onto the bed and lay down with your head on the pillow, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

Patrick walks to the foot of the bed and reaches forward to take your shoes off. You look down, surprised at his action. It felt too domestic, like you guys had been together for years and he'd done it many times before. When he finishes untying your sneakers, he pulls them off your feet and tosses them onto the floor.

Patrick, then, kicks off his own shoes and finally climbs onto the bed. He crawls on to and hovers over you, staring at your lips. This time, you took the lead and pulled him down by his collar into a kiss. He immediately kisses back and you both fall back into the rhythm that you had perfected earlier. Your back was beginning to arch and your pelvis rubbed against his growing erection. Patrick pulled away to exhale shakily into your neck. He needed to calm down because tonight was about you. Not him.

He backs off and you try to pull him back against you. But he was stronger and moves down until he comes face to face with the hem of your jeans. Without wasting time, he unbuttons them and impatiently pulls them off. You lift your hips to assist him for which he shoots you a small smile. You blush and let your head fall back on the pillow.

Patrick tosses the jeans onto the floor too and licks his lips at the sight of your panties. They were simple, dark blue. No bows, no lace, just plain cotton. But right now, he couldn't imagine anything hotter.

He tests the waters and brings his thumb up to rub you through the thin fabric. You instantly gasp and push yourself against him, chasing the friction. Patrick loved how reactive you were.

He didn't want to tease you; he was here to give you exactly what you wanted. He hooks his fingers on the hem of your panties and tugs them off too.

You inhaled deeply, a little embarrassed for when he sees how wet you are. You could even feel a drop of your arousal dribble down your pussy.

Without hesitation, Patrick dives in and buries his face in you. He wanted to be covered in your wetness. You gasp and almost clamp your legs shut but he stops you by gripping your thighs to keep them apart. He was freakishly strong, and you had to stop struggling.

He lapped up all your juices and his nose brushed against your clit as he did. You had your eyes shut tight and your back arched as you moaned a string of curses that you would never say out loud. Your hands busied themselves by clutching the bedsheets so tightly, the wrinkles would never come out. Patrick let go of your thighs and reached up to your sides to interlock his fingers with yours. It was so intimate you realized you'd never felt this close with anyone before.

"Oh my God, Patrick- fuck!" your fingernails dug into the back of his hands and he hoped there would be crescent shaped marks left behind. Proof that tonight wasn't a dream.

His tongue worked skillfully as he fucked your core. Patrick was confident. He'd made plenty of girls cum by just his mouth or fingers.

He pulls back and you let out a cry missing the stimulation.

"Look at me, Y/N."

Your eyes were half closed and your body was exhausted. You try to raise your head to look at him. Patrick's hands let go of yours and places them under your thighs. He, then, lifts them up so they rest on his shoulders. You gasp and prop yourself up on your elbows to stare down at him.

"Please," you say, breathlessly.

He obeys and, this time, goes after your clit. Licking and biting like a starved man. Your response was a lot more intense this time. Your head falls back with a whimper from the built up pleasure. Patrick looks up through his eyebrows and slaps your thigh, leaving a red mark. Your eyes shoot open and you face him with shock etched on your face.

"I told you to look at me. I wanna see your face when I make you cum."

You nod quickly like you were apologizing and assuring him you'd never make the mistake again. He returns his attention back to your pussy and spits on it. His tongue was back and swirling around your clit like he was memorizing your taste. Your legs twitched.

The small room was filled with sounds of your mewls and the squelching of your pussy against Patrick's tongue. You worried that maybe you were being too loud but Patrick didn't seem to mind. You didn't notice your noises alone had given him a hard-on. He wanted to ignore it but then his hips started rubbing against the mattress.

Patrick's tongue moves quicker, flicking your clit and making your legs twitch out of control.

"I'm gonna- Patrick, I'm gonna cum," you could barely finish your sentence before the knot in your stomach bursts and you feel yourself release on his lips. You cry and your elbows give out. Your heads hits the pillow and you close your eyes because the room was spinning.

Patrick groans when he reaches his finish too. He pushes himself against the mattress one last time and then licks your pussy clean.

You both pant after the euphoric orgasms you shared. A few seconds pass, and Patrick climbs onto the bed and drops down next to you.

Neither of you say anything. But you knew he didn't regret it because you didn't either. If you went back in time and told your high-school self that you'd one day hook up with Patrick Zweig, would she believe you?

Something told you that this wasn't just a hook up, though. You saw Patrick for who he was now, and you liked it. He was a good person and he made you feel alive.

You were so glad you got off the bus.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Thank you for being patient with me!

This is now the longest fic I’ve written so far!!

Thank you for reading, as always <33

[osamucide]

crush

good men die too, so i’d rather be with you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

wc: 3.5k

cw: gn!afab!reader, bathing/washing, alcohol, mild hurt/comfort, fluff, implied/referenced self harm, implied/referenced substance abuse, post-dark era, intimacy, explicit sexual content, spitting, soft (ooc?) dazai

reid: this has been sitting a bit and i finally got around to fixing it up :,) sorry again for my absence i am unwell but surviving and i hope to keep sharing with you guys what i can. thank you for all your patience

. . .

He’s never admitted how much he delights in crawling back to your apartment after he’s been gone for too long — long enough to make you worry a little. It’s cruel of him, really, to keep you waiting around so much. But you’re going to be here waiting anyway! So, he figures, why not? It’s a few miles off Port Mafia turf, and you always have hot food and plenty of sake. Not to mention that your hands were the first to ever hold him so gently — to hold him like a lover — and that’s plenty to keep him coming, even if he sometimes takes weeks at a time to find his way back.

It’s always worth it to have Osamu half undressed in your bathroom. A decent meal and the humidity fogging up the tile walls usually melts his resolve just enough so you can work his crumpled white tee off without him sending you any sort of eyes; tonight though, the human spirit is unbreakable. You brush the small of his back as you lift his shirt and it has him hitching his hips toward yours.

He’s truly a sight.

His brown mop is greasy. Accumulated sweat is beginning to force the dramatic lengths of bandages to curl away from his skin. He looks little more than empty and tired, but there’s a shadow of contentedness in his sharp features — you’ve just fed him seafood boil and a couple of Tokyo Mules (heavy on the American vodka), after all.

You reach down and dip your fingers in the filling basin; scalding, how he likes it.

“Drawers off, please.” You poke his chest with a damp finger pad and disappear into the hallway in pursuit of linens.

Dazai sits naked (save for bandages) and curled in on himself on the edge of the bathtub when you return. You stack a change of clean clothes on the sink, and his ankles knock together as he waits for your attention to fall back on him. Your towels sling over the door before you turn to him with your hands tucked together. He looks uncharacteristically meek, not unlike a fawn before it first walks -– the way he only ever does before what happens next.

He holds his arms out, wrists up, and smiles like the sunshine.

You smile back uneasily, appearing much less enthused than he; you know that sunshine smile well enough to know it only ever comes out as a shield. You know no matter how many times you unwrap his dressings, he's always going to hate it.

So, you start with the butterfly clip secured at the crook of his elbow, and you talk.

"I have a slice of tiramisu in the fridge for after."

"From that place I like?" His eyes get wide.

"From that place you like," you sigh, grinning.

"You must've had a feeling I was dropping by."

You usually encourage him to reuse the strips of fabric when possible, sometimes going so far as to let him hide from the city while you take them to the laundromat with your own clothes, but these ones are far past help —barely white, significantly bloody in spots and dirtied in others, so you just ball them up and toss them in the trash. You're stocked anyway, and you reassure him of this by retrieving a few fresh rolls from under the sink.

"Maybe I did."

You finish one arm and move to the other. Osamu lets his marred, bare skin dangle in the air. The sunshine is gone. He’s zoned out. You know he’s protecting himself.

You push his hand down to rest in his lap and your mind selfishly drifts to later, where you hope he'll sleep without his bandages, too — he had traipsed into your apartment lined up to his fingers, and all you had wished for was that you could’ve felt his palms, his knuckles, his nails when he hugged you back. You take as much of him in as you can in these kinds of moments; it’s just the kind of person you are. Damaged or not, his skin is your favorite place to be. You’ve told him this, but it seems to come across much clearer when you look into his sad brown eyes like they’re the only ones in the world while your fingers trace the tracks across his thighs like they’re no one’s in particular.

“So pretty,” you mumble.

It’s so well received this time around that Osamu sinks into the water with barely a shred of apprehension. Granted, he’s still a bit glazed over.

He really snaps to once his shoulders are beneath the water and you’re lathering shampoo — the coconutty one — between your hands.

He speaks your name with an earnest that’s almost mocking. “What are you doing?” But he knows what you’re doing, or what you’re not doing, rather, and he’s not going to let you get away with it.

“What?” Your hands are sudsy and he has the audacity to be yanking at your shirt now. You bat him away as well as you can, flinging some bubbles at him in the process. “What?”

His bottom lip pokes out as his wet hands find purchase around your wrists. Dazai has manipulated a lot of people with nothing but the look in his eye, but it’s never this one; this specific look is reserved for you, and he figures it’s hardly manipulation if he knows you’d enjoy it too. “Get in with me,” he whines, drawing out his ‘e.’

You grumble something about your soapy hands, something about not wasting a perfectly fine handful of your good shampoo, but it just allows him to insist even more on helping you out of your clothes. You sigh, but really, it’s these silly idiosyncrasies about him that make you cry when he’s gone. So, you indulge him. You commence an awkward and wiggly dance in which his fingers stretch your sleeves over your hands with care. You kick your pants off and shimmy out of your undergarments, feigning annoyance as you give into his whims so easily.

The bath is still nearly boiling. You make peace with it by hissing hot, hot, hot, hot, hot (he chuckles at you) until either of your knees are nestled underwater on either side of him. You rub your shampoo hands together and — now that Osamu’s gotten his way for one of many times tonight, for the millionth time ever, never for the last time — he graciously lets you wash his hair.

You inhale all the little hums and sighs he gives you. He tastes like every emotion you’ve ever felt. Heaven is a bathtub in a crummy apartment.

“You smell much better. Let’s rinse.” You go to push yourself up after you’re finished with him, but Osamu grips you unceremoniously and by both of your ass cheeks, so you look sternly into his face.

“Wait, wait, wait, just—” he pleads.

You flick water at his eyes. “We’re wading in your filth, thank you. Get up.”

“Just a second, damn it.” He clutches you closer, hands clasped behind your back, and you settle with shattered resistance against his chest. He mumbles something about who you think you are, telling me what to do.

Not that you try all that hard with him anymore; you both know well he’ll get what he wants, and right now he’s intent on holding you in the cooling water, so you loop your arms around his neck, unable to help the kiss you press to the side of his jaw or the stifled roll of your hips against his.

He’s silent for a moment as he traces the expanse of your back. You hope his eyes are closed. You know they’re probably not.

“Thank you.”

It’s something Osamu says quite a bit. He doesn’t get terribly sentimental often, but it’s usually after you’ve rid him of those wrappings that he comes close. Although, he never says exactly what for. For bathing him. For feeding him. For loving him. You understand well enough.

He’s still a little shit. He squeezes your ass and bites the shell of your ear.

“That’s it,” you yelp. “We’re rinsing.”

His laugh is whole as you pull the drain and start the shower, dodging your (mostly) dry hair.

The promise of dessert lets you get him into a pair of shorts at the very least. Once again you return to him — you wait on him like he’s a prince, and he looks like one on your bed with the blankets pooled around him as he towel dries his hair.

It’s so unfair, you think, how angelic he gets to be no matter what he’s doing. It’s something so mundane; his scars are on display, he’s tipsy and damp and has your plush cat-printed blanket acting somewhat like a cape, yet he steals your breath as you enter your bedroom. To top it all off, he pretends not to notice your presence right away.

You fold your legs beneath yourself, unfinished bottle of sake in one hand, delicate plate of tiramisu in the other, and Osamu finally acknowledges you with owlish eyes, raised brows, and a grin that reprograms the pattern of your heartbeat. He tosses the towel aside, eager, and reaches out.

“This—” his mouth is full, “this shit is…God. Heavenly.”

“Share.”

“Should’ve brought two forks.” He makes a show of lifting the plate out of your reach. You grasp at it lazily, uselessly, and he laughs, taunting you. You’re tired so you hoard the sake in response, which he’s fine with only until the tiramisu is gone — you only got two bites in — and he goes for that as well.

“Greedy!” you accuse, but you can’t help your laugh. You’re warm — the few swigs from the bottle are doing their job, and you let Osamu know this by giving in; you steady his head with one hand, and with your other you press the bottle to his lips and tilt it up. He drinks like it’s cider, and comes up for air with a soft curse.

The way he licks it off his lips wants to draw a gasp out of you, but you’re trained like a skilled gunman when he gives you targets like these — you’ve built up trigger discipline, and there are some things, you suppose, that you don’t let him have so easily after all.

Nonetheless, it’s like Osamu reads this mechanism working in your mind and takes it as a challenge. The bottle is transferred from your hands to his somewhere in the searing kiss he gives you; you fully register a hunger buzzing between you both that has nothing to do with tiramisu as you reach out for him, fumble toward him until you’re in his lap — you almost overwhelm his lithe frame with your tenacity, but he catches you, bottle tapping your back as you engulf each other.

Osamu is sneaky, he is; he never executes even the smallest action without meticulous thought. The way you end up under him might’ve been planned out from the bath, or maybe even before he was on your doorstep — either way, you give way to his weight; the bottle’s in one hand, somehow your wrists are in the other, and his waist connects with yours.

If nothing else predicts what you say next, it’s his restless hand clutching your hip, pulling at your shirt, clawing up your side.

“Missed you,” you slip into his mouth. You’ve already said this over dinner, but it’s different, heavier, when you’re breathing him in. Osamu lifts away from you for a kiss from the bottle. In brief control again, you wring your hands.

He’s statuesque above you. You wish you could snapshot the seconds in which he tilts the bottle back, where his drying hair falls in those loose waves around his angled jaw and his eyelids flicker. You reach out to trace him. His severe collarbone to his lean shoulder, down the thin valley between his bicep and tricep. You ghost around the fingers suspended in midair and bridge the gap to end on his pretty waist.

The bottle disappears onto your nightstand. Your eyes are wide as he grips your chin. He holds his breath, plants an elbow by your head, thumbs your bottom lip — all a means to waterfall the sake into your open, waiting mouth.

Liquor drips off him, into you; how are you supposed to keep from the way your legs demand his hips toward yours? The way you grind into him from below? You’re a live wire and he’s fraying the hell out of everywhere you end and begin.

You swallow what he gives you before he pulls back. You’re breathless, and he’s laughing. He’s laughing. This is what he does — he gets you under him and he laughs, so beautifully that you can hardly be mad, and sultrily enough that you flush pink.

“You should see your face!” he exclaims. Osamu is truthfully at his most joyous when he’s catching you off guard. “Little too filthy for ‘ya?”

“Please,” you scoff, willing him toward you again as you recover, more from the sting in the back of your throat than anything, pressing all your love into each of his mangled wrists with your palms and fingers. “As if that’s the filthiest thing we’ve done.”

“Jog my memory,” he suggests as he puts his smile back to yours, and so you work him out of the shorts you just got him in less than ten minutes ago.

As for yourself, well — you’re only naked from the waist down before you’re working your own slick up and down on him, biting your lip with anticipation, all but pulling him into you. You don’t even care if it hurts, and you almost say it, but you don’t — everything you’re doing is saying it for you — you just want him in you right now, right now, and he touches you between the gasps you draw from him; he watches the way he slides into you like you’re meant for him, like he’s meant for you, and you dig your heels into him as you whisper his name.

“Baby,” he whispers back. Those sad brown eyes flicker, shut, open, find you. “Oh.”

He rocks into you softly, such a contrast from the urgency with which he was kissing you mere moments before. Osamu’s a natural at giving you whiplash, sometimes in ways you didn’t know him to be capable of. He’s concentrated; you watch him, the slightest bit confused as his lips purse shut. You want to hear him, he knows, but it’s all welling up within him, he can feel it on his lash line, so he tucks his face into your neck and hopes you won’t say anything. You don’t, not for bit. You just circle your arms around his neck and groan at the way he grips you, feels you all over; you clench around him and pretend you don’t feel the tears beading along your shoulder.

“Too filthy for you?” you finally tease, but gently; you cup his face in your hands, push his hair from his forehead, and kiss the wetness away. He half-laughs, half-sobs. He obviously wasn’t expecting this. “Oh, ‘samu. Honey.”

“Don’t know what the fuck’s going on.” It’s his way of apologizing. He sniffles and follows it with an explanation. “You feel so good.”

You know they’re not tears of pleasure, but you let him write it off as he fucks into you. “You- uhn- you feel so good,” you echo.

It’s not unusual for him to be vocal — he moans, he gasps, he gives you delicious noises to make up for the words he can’t ever find, but tonight is so different; you don’t know what it is, but he talks. He’s talking, and it’s not the lewd musings you expect from Osamu Dazai, much less while he curls his hands into your hair and begins to pound into you. Yes, it’s much different tonight.

“Missed you too,” he finally gives you. “Missed you. So fucking much- fuck- I’m- oh, fuck…”

“Stop leaving,” you say breathlessly. “Stop leaving me. Just move in.”

“Shit, I might.” His hair is your lifeline. You knot your fingers in it like you hope you become part of it. “Might just have to come home to this every day. Y’take such good care of me. Don’t know wh- hah- what I did to deserve this pussy.”

“Please, please, Osamu.” You’re begging for more than one thing. “Fucking stay.”

So he keeps his pace, staying in one way or another — at least he can say he’s done that much. Whether or not you’ll wake up next to him tomorrow morning doesn’t matter right now; right now he’s fucking you, right now he’s yours, right now he’s ripping himself open a little further to let you see his rotten soul and you’re giving him everything he could never ask for, everything he doesn’t think he deserves — it’ll be enough, you’re sure, even though it’ll hurt when he disappears again; at least you’ll know you opened up in return, reflected his rottenness in the way that you know how. You’ve made a place for him in your home. You’ve made a place for him in your heart. He knows you want him to take it. Take it.

“So pretty, my baby, takin’ it so good.” He looks at you with those wet eyes between pressing bruising kisses to your lips, chin, neck. “Y’feel like fucking heaven. God, fuck. Don’t know if I- don’t know if I deserve it. So fucking good. So good. So good.”

“You d- you don’t have to do anything to deserve it- just fucking stay, please,” you plead with him. You’ll plead with him until he understands. “Oh- Osamu- ah!”

Your hands flail for a resting place — his head is restless with his kisses, his calloused hands and ridged arms are moving too fast for you to keep up with, the expanse of his back isn’t nearly close enough amid his wild pace, so you claw into the peaks of his shoulders and give all your sound and breath back to him while he rains praise upon you. He’s almost frantic in his task, like he needs you to know.

“Need you to know how much I love comin’ back here.” Osamu grabs one of your hands and guides you to your clit. “Touch yourself, please- please- want you cummin’ on me, baby, give it to me. Please.”

He pleads with you until you do.

You’re well aware that everything you can give him might not be enough to convince him. Convince him he’s not rotten. Convince him he does deserve it. Convince him he’s worthy of love. You know the best thing you can do for him right now is rub yourself quick and hard in time with his heavy thrusts. You keep giving him what he needs — you give him all your moans, grunts, curses, and he reflects them right back — you match each other, sobbing, twitching, biting, heaving until the wave rolls over you and you’re collecting him, throbbing around him and telling him it’s all for him, he’s so perfect, don’t stop, it feels so good while he spills into you, fills you up in that familiar way you don’t think you want to live without for weeks at a time anymore. Osamu’s tense as he drags both of your climaxes out for as long as he can; you’re crooning out his name and Osamu’s panting out yours and he’s so beautiful as he cums, he’s so beautiful while he cries, he’s so beautiful when he’s raw and selfish and fucked out of his brain, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful, he’s so beautiful.

“So afraid to hurt you, baby,” he mumbles into your cheek minutes later, half-asleep and tipsy and still pulsing inside you. “You don’t deserve my shit. Get caught up in my shit.”

You don’t care about his shit, is what you tell him in return. You want him. You want to show him all the wonderful things he does in fact deserve.

Like the picturesque breakfast you cook him after you do wake up next to him in the morning. Like the tender way you rewrap his dressings as the afternoon sun gleams in white columns through your window. Like the first day he spends completely sober and well-fed in a long time.

“I don’t know if I deserve it.” All this, he means. You, and how wonderful you are. He says it again and again.

“I don’t care if you don’t deserve it.” You secure the butterfly clip in the crook of his elbow and meet his eyes. Far off. Waning sunshine. “Wanna give it to you anyway.”

For a moment the sunshine returns, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, you see it reach his eyes. They don’t look so sad. Big, brown, maybe hopeful. Maybe sweet with preemptive regret. You hug Osamu in the still air of your apartment.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He hugs you back, limply, like he’s scared to break you. He trembles out, “I will.”

[gallusgremlin]

i need to know, how do you approach drawing noise? i yearn for how you draw him because you make him work SO well in a 3d space

Whaaa awgg... i'm flattered... 🥹

But that’s sort’ve a tricky question… I'm not really great at giving art tips considering I'm all self-taught, but I can do the best I can to explain how I draw the Noise

I usually think of him as just a bunch of shapes stacked on top of each other. Like his eyes are circles (duh lol), his limbs are pool noodles, his torso is sort of an egg shape, the base of his mask is like an uneven cylinder, ect. I can picture what these shapes may look like in different angles decently in my head, but what usually helps me the most is starting with his eyes

The pic provided is which part I draw in what order with color coordination. It may depend 'cause sometimes I draw the knot under his chin before I start with the body, or if he's drawn from a different angle.

Tbh I don't even know how I do it entirely, my brain is like a confusing murky swamp when it comes to my own art lol

But if you want me to elaborate on anything more I'd be more than happy to explain (or at least try my best to)

[leonawriter]

Okay so I keep loving the "unused" official Ruina arts, and I feel like they're a decent litmus for character relationships post-game.

This one's a favourite for the pure reason that everyone is here! And also, they are not in Floor Order. Sometimes it's close, but... they aren't.

There's also a few patterns that are going to show up in other arts.

For one thing, Gebura and Chesed are on totally opposite sides of the screen! This reflects how Disciplinary and Welfare are on either side of the Facility, how Gebura and Chesed don't always get along, and how they require Tiphereth to balance them (quite literally, in a Kabbalah context, too).

Netzach and Yesod are next to each other, which fits with how they're often near each or in the same area other in... most other arts/scenes they're in.

A few other interesting points, however-

Hod and Chesed are seen together in another art, talking together over coffee.

Yesod is also seen with Binah in two other arts, both having tea with her and also just co-existing.

There's Hod and Chesed, on Social Sciences, along with Angela - and with Hokma and Tiphereth on the couch.

I love this one. It's my desktop wallpaper right now.

What I read into this is that Chesed is easy for Hod to talk to and hang out with. He's a quiet and easygoing person who isn't too loud or high-energy for her. They probably like talking about things together.

Tiphereth was the one in the shared scene with Gebura who was more open to trying Chesed's coffee, and who called him out on not needing to use "come here and try my coffee" as an excuse to just hang out with people. (Every time I see people go "he's reduced to being the coffee guy!" I'm reminded of this. He makes himself into the coffee guy, because he's still suffering from poor self-image after what he went through in Lobotomy.) And... Hokma is there. For one thing, it looks like he's being a dad and pointing something out in one of the books to Tiphereth, but also? I like that he's clearly comfortable on Social Sciences.

This one's always been fun, and it's one of the reasons I feel safe in saying that sure, Netzach's still a drunk, but he's a fun and social drunk now! Look at him with Roland, the way they're both smiling and having fun! The others, laughing at some joke!

We've got Gebura and Roland on Arts, here, which isn't a big deal because they're known to show up where Netzach is for the alcohol in the game.

But we also have Malkuth and Chesed. Chesed is laughing and sure he's got his coffee cup on him but I love that he's clearly so relaxed and letting himself just... have fun, too.

Malkuth makes me want to poke her. She's always been the kind of person who's focused on making sure things are going according to plan, or taken note of, and... here it's just her clapping along to whatever the hell's going on. Just going along with the flow.

Floor of History here, and Malkuth's got a stack of books, and so does Chesed.

I find it... interesting that those four are put together. Specifically Binah, Chesed, and Netzach. And especially when you look at what's going on.

Malkuth may have bitten off more than she can chew with how many books she's carrying, but Chesed seems to have balanced his out enough... and from what I can tell, Binah's just tossed one up onto his pile, and he isn't happy about it.

(Close-up, because it's hard to see his expression clearly otherwise.)

Reason I find this interesting to poke at? Chesed, for all we know, may still have difficulty relating to Binah due to their pasts as Daniel and Garion. They hardly interacted in the Facility, but as we see with Hokma and Netzach's interlude, those things can still affect relationships as they are now. They're still moving on.

Netzach's also just kinda complaining, though I can't tell whether that's because Malkuth is asking him to do work, or because of what's going on behind him.

Funnily enough, the most interesting part of this one isn't the fact that Roland and Gebura are roughhousing (and Roland is having regrets). I do find Malkuth making notes cute. Yesod seems to be... not exactly annoyed by the shenanigans, but he doesn't seem impressed, either.

No, what I love here is Hokma. Who is closest to the "camera" and smiling. He's clearly amused by all of this and enjoying just being there. And when you consider Hokma's life... that's good, honestly.

I did say that Yesod's seen with Binah again, and here they are.

It's interesting how not only is this a quiet moment, but the only people visibly hanging out of their own accord on Binah's floor are people who either weren't present for the raid on the lab, and/or who only met her after she became a Sephirah/Librarian.

Roland is seeming to be not so at ease here; he's watching either his cup, or what the others are doing. I'd say Yesod looks more comfortable, which makes sense. Tea preparation is something that requires finesse.

Angela, notably, isn't just at ease but is actively smiling while making conversation. Binah, after all, must be someone she saw as having supported her the entire way through, enabling them to get to this point at all. First, taking her side during the White Nights and Dark Days, and then later on, not that long ago, coming fully into her own to protect the Library from the Head (and her former coworkers). And as one of only Sephirah to not forget on the restarting of loops and also to not have had her harass them... there's no hard feelings or bad memories between them, either.

This is one that I only saw when looking on the non-fandom wiki!

Here we have quite the group on the Floor of Literature. Hod herself is in the background, and everyone's either studying or shelving. Angela and Binah are here again, and this time it looks like Tiphereth is smiling in response to something Binah's said.

Yesod is taking notes on something in the foreground, and Netzach is... idly flipping through a book, not seeming to pay much attention to what's in there, maybe. He seems sort of bored and listless, but not necessarily unhappy to be there.

...I think that's it?

So! On to the statistics.

That's seven pictures all told, unless anyone knows of others.

Not counting the first one (what I lovingly call the group photo), Chesed, Netzach, Malkuth, Binah and Yesod are all in three. Tiphereth, Gebura, Hod, and Hokma are all only in two.

Notably, there are several Librarians who have no arts (events) happening on their own floors: History, Literature, Social Sciences, Language, and Philosophy are all accounted for, but Natural Sciences, Technology, and Religion aren't.

While we're shown several of the Librarians showing up to help Tiphereth shelve books during the game, and Yesod is actively social, Hokma is only really shown within his own story cutscenes or showing up to talk on others' Floors.

So, I'd say that the most social are Chesed (actively trying to get people to talk to him), Malkuth (putting herself into situations), and Netzach (the fun party guy).

I'm hesitating to include Binah and Yesod, because one of the situations they're in, is rather private and small.

I'd say the least social would seem to be Hokma. Who has no event on his own floor, only appears twice outside of the group photo, does interact with others, but can have a habit of watching from a small distance away. And, to be honest... seeing him smiling in any of these at all is heartwarming to me because of how much grief he's carrying for Ayin's absence. (Which, talking of - the art where he's with Tiphereth is notable because Lisa was someone Ayin looked after in the lab.)

[hazeystar]

love (you), actually

Evan was standing in front of his door with a stack of white poster board in his hands, the first one saying 'Tell them it's carol singers.'

It's two months after the breakup, and Tommy opens the door to the romantic experience he's been waiting for his whole life

because tommy is our resident romcom lover and he deserves his moment! also s/o @bibibievansbuckley because this was born from one of our very late night ramblings because all we know at this point is tevan

wc: 2187, below the break and also on ao3

The knock at the door draws Tommy out of his thoughts. 

He was sitting in his living room, doing the only thing he really felt like doing these days: watching romcoms. Today’s pick was Notting Hill and he didn’t even have enough energy to stop himself from putting himself as Hugh Grant and Evan Buck as Julia Roberts. 

It was weeks since he walked out of that loft for the first time and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He knew it was stupid, in hindsight, the entire night almost reads like a fever dream. They were supposed to be going on a date and Tommy left heartbroken and empty.  

Really, he should have reached out by day two, maybe ask Buck to coffee like he did all those months ago but he couldn’t do it. He asked him to move in and Tommy basically took a sledgehammer to the idea and nuked his own heart in the process.  

Day ten was when he dragged himself back to therapy. At the time, he didn’t know why his gut reaction was to tell Buck no, but now, he realised it was self-preservation. Years of pent-up trauma were cause to this, especially from hearing that ‘my first isn’t going to be my last’ from not one, but two of the boyfriends he had in the years since he’d moved to Harbour. 

And then he threw those words right back into Buck’s face. Evan, the human embodiment of sunshine and a golden retriever, who stumbled over his words but managed to ask him to move into the loft (the fucking loft, which ends up being a 10 minute rant with his therapist because why in the hell would tommy move into a loft when he owns a house, what would they do with the cars, his Muay Thai set up, the garden that’s finally starting to look decent in his backyard-, he found some more underlying issues there as well, but also was told that particular thread was not his fault) and Tommy felt like someone had poured ice water on him. 

He’d seen this path before, only twice but two times is enough to leave a mark. The first time was probably enough as well, but the second time just dug a knife again into a wound that had just barely healed. So he did what he thought was best: act proactively. If he got ahead of the problem, if he got away from Evan before he could fall in love, then maybe it wouldn’t be as disastrous.  

How absolutely wrong he was. 

It felt so bad when he was walking away that he genuinely considered the possibility that it would have hurt less if he and Evan were living together for months and then they broke up. 

He wanted to go back, apologise, tell him he didn’t mean it but- Buck said he admired him. And it was those words that were on replay as he drove himself home. 

He admired him. Tommy, the guy who was so scared about being gay that at age 30, he was engaged to a woman. Tommy, who gave his heart out to the world because he wanted to feel like he was in Love, Actually, that he had someone who wanted him back just as fiercely and was sorely let down every time.  

So he let himself down this time. Better that than be hurt by Evan. Of course, by doing it this way, he hurt himself and Evan, but he could bounce back. He was young, and your first isn’t your last. 

It took two different sessions to beat that idea out of him.  

Sometimes, your first isn’t your last. But sometimes it also is. It just depends on when you find your person. 

Tommy found his person. He just didn’t realise it until he nuked the entire relationship. 

Two months later, he still didn’t reach out, not really sure where to even start. Evan didn’t reach out either, so maybe it was just a case of right person, wrong time. 

That was fine, Tommy could just imagine him in every romcom he watched. 

There was another knock at the door, this one a little more insistent. 

Right, the door. Tommy stood up, running a hand through the mess of curls on his head. Evan had liked them, was always sad when he cut his hair or weighed it down with gel. In the initial weeks of the breakup, he couldn’t find it in himself to get it cut, and then eventually he started to like the curls. Now they were here to stay. 

He opened the door and was not at all ready to see Evan Buckley on the other side. 

Two months had passed, and he still looked gorgeous. He looked tired; there was stubble along his jaw, bags under his eyes that were more prominent than he’d ever seen, even after a rough round of 48s for a week. His hair was curly, like he had the same idea Tommy did about letting it grow out. His eyes were still their clear blue, albeit a little sad but dancing with something else- hope maybe? He was wearing the hoodie he recognised from that first coffee date (so that’s where it went) and was holding poster board- 

What? 

Evan was standing in front of his door with a stack of white poster board in his hands, the first one saying, ‘Tell them it’s carol singers.’ 

Tommy blinked. “Ev- Buck, there’s no one el-” 

He shook the stack hard, giving a pointed look down at the cards before back up at him. There was a speaker set down next to him and the boards in hand... The entire scene felt familiar. 

There was no way- 

Evan wanted him to play along, he’d play along. He looked back over his shoulder, to the TV that still had Julia Roberts on screen. “It’s carol singers.” 

He turned back to Evan, who has fiddling with his phone until music began pouring out of the speaker. Silent Night started playing and Tommy felt tears prick the corner of his eyes. 

He knew this scene by heart. 

Evan dropped the first card, the second one reading ‘I’m sorry.’ 

He opened his mouth to speak, Evan didn’t need to be sorry, Tommy was sorry, but another look from him promptly shut him up. He nodded, Evan smiling back. 

The card dropped. ‘It’s been over 2 months since you walked out of my loft.’ 

‘So I’m saying sorry and I’ll say it again.’ 

‘Sorry for jumping right to moving in without properly talking.’ 

‘And saying to move into the loft (that was stupid, you have a house, we’re at your house).’ He let out a laugh at that, and got another smile out of Evan. 

This was really happening. Holy shit, Evan was standing in front of his house in the middle of August, blaring Silent Night from his speaker and holding up cards to give a whole silent speech. 

It was Love, Actually in real life. For him. Evan was doing this for Tommy.  

Tears were rolling down his face now, and he hastily wiped them away to read the next one. 

‘I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner.’ 

‘Or talk things out better.’ 

‘And I know you’re thinking that I’m saying sorry too much, and that you’re also sorry.’ 

He was, he so very was. And the look in Evan’s eyes told him he knew, he saw it. 

‘I know you are, and I forgive you.’ He met his eyes again, mouthing a very watery ‘I forgive you, too.’ 

Evan had tears in his eyes as well, as he smiled back and mouthed ‘I know.’ 

He itched to move closer, to pull him back into his arms, to hold him. But Evan still had a stack in his hands, and Tommy was touched and curious and seen. 

‘I know ‘admire’ wasn’t the right word to say back then.’ He sucked in a breath, remembering the whole speech vividly. 

‘Even though I do admire how you got to where you are now.’ 

‘I don’t admire you, Tommy Kinard.’ 

‘I love you.’ 

Tommy let out a sob then, knees almost buckling as he clutched the doorframe with one hand to stay upright. Evan loves him. 

He moved to take a step forward, but Evan took one back, shaking his head even though he looked like he wanted nothing more than to be closer to Tommy as well. He still had more to say. 

Tommy nodded, letting the tears run freely down his face. Evan loves him. 

The next card was full of writing and Tommy could barely read all of it. It was numbered though, and when Tommy dragged his eyes across it (cleft, Muay Thai, hands, beer knowledge...) the last number went to 50. 

50 things Evan loved about him. 

The card dropped and Tommy almost thought it was a repeat until he saw the last number. 

100. 

His jaw dropped, a broken sob leaving him. 

Evan wrote out a list of 100 things he loves about him. About Tommy.  

He ran because he was scared, that Evan was jumping the gun by asking him to move into the loft, that he didn’t actually love him, that he was just a place holder until he went and found something better. 

But here was Evan, standing here in the middle of August with cards that listed out 100 things he loved about him, reenacting his favourite movie of all time. For him.  

‘I love you, Tommy Kinard.’ A fresh wave of tears flowing from both of them. 

‘And for the love of God, please call me Evan.’ 

“Evan, please can I move now?” He whispered, watching as he dropped the last board and stood there, almost sheepishly. 

Silent Night was still playing on loop, and Evan was standing there in his hoodie, and he’d never looked more perfect in his life. 

He nodded, and that was all Tommy needed before he went rushing forward, wrapping his arms around him tight. 

To his credit, Evan only stumbled back a step, his own arms immediately circling around Tommy’s waist. 

It’d been two months too long. He wanted this every day. He wants this for the rest of his life. 

Tommy didn’t believe in soulmates, not really. He didn’t believe that there was someone out there with the other half of his soul. But then Evan showed up in life on a hurricane and everything afterwards just felt so right, like he was missing something before Evan came in. 

Evan was his person, through and through. He didn’t just love Tommy, he knew him. He knew that he was a romantic at heart, the soft soul he kept hidden away, and came out with the biggest romantic gesture anyone had ever done for him. 

“Thank you,” he whispered into Evan’s curls, feeling his arms tighten to pull him impossibly closer.  

“I love you.” He said it like a promise, a prayer, and Tommy melted. He pulled away just enough to look Evan in the eye. His face was splotchy and red with tears and Tommy had no doubt that he looked the same, if not worse. 

Evan Buckley loved him. 

He pressed their lips together, hard and desperate and passionate. Evan kissed him back like a man starved, and if he had any doubts about how he felt even after the board display, he didn’t have any now. 

They pulled apart to take a breath, and Tommy stared at his face. The one he knew by heart, the one he knew no amount of time would ever make him forget.  

“I love you.” The smile he received was blinding.  

Once it’s out in the open, it’s all he can say. It’s all he wants to say.  

He pulled Evan into the house, casting a look back at the speaker and the large pile of cards still sitting on the walkway up to the door.  

Evan brought him back into a kiss the second the door closed. His hands tangled in his curls, pulling Tommy down just a hair. This one was less desperate, and Evan was guiding him over to the couch.  

He fell back first, Evan settling on top of him. He broke away for only a moment, whispered “I love you” against his lips before diving back in again. 

This is the conversation they should have had two months ago. Tommy’s felt this way since the hospital wedding, hell, maybe even before then.  

And if the way Evan kissed him said anything, then he wasn’t alone in that feeling either.  

He pulled away this time, staring into Evan’s blue eyes as his thumb ghosted over his birthmark. There wasn’t a need for anymore conversation right now, Tommy will make sure to give his own apology later. 

But right now, with Evan as a comforting weight on top of him, a smile on his face as he moved impossibly closer into his touch, there was only one thing that needed to be said. 

“I love you.” 

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Chapter 18

Story Masterlist

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with THIS LINKED POST to be added to the tag list. 

NOTE: Only reason Reader is torn about her current thoughts is because she’s scared to mess up the story more. Also doesn’t want Dion to become more clingy lol. Also a bit confused on how to properly write Grizelda. Hopefully she’s not too out of character.

Warnings: HEAVY themes of non-consensual sexual interactions, self-blaming, victim blaming once or twice by Fontaine, implied past attempted sexual assault, implied hypertheoretical physical abuse, self-harm (biting thumb), accidental self-harm (biting lip hard enough to draw blood), slight blood, thoughts of murder, thoughts of having Fontaine killed, near panic attack(s), Lant brings up the birthcontrol, a very awkward conversation about the Reader’s parents, implied toxic familial relationships, toxic relationship/marriage, obsessive and possessive themes, general yandere themes, mention of considered kidnapping, themes/mentions of imprisonment, mention of considered drugging, abuse of power (Dion towards certain employees. Personally, I do think he would do this), mention of physical abuse, mention of injuries (broken bones), mention of starvation, certain employees being put in danger, threats of violence (Fontaine to the Reader), slight themes of infidelity (no one cheats, just a quick thought that quickly goes by). Please tell me if I missed any.

Please tell me if I missed any.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANTICIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND TOXIC.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS (BLOGS THAT DO NOT HAVE ANY CONTENT)/BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR REBLOG ANYTHING FANDOM RELATED (FICS, ART, ETC.) DNI.

= = =

Grizelda Agriche. 

A sorceress who played a major role in the coup to overthrow Lant and destroy the Agriche family. The young girl had drawn a magic circle for her younger sister, hidden by Roxana’s poison butterflies before the trap went off.

A memory of someone being killed in front of her was shown along with her reminiscing about what she had to do to survive. Clear delight was shown in her smile at the commotion, clearly ecstatic about the outcome - about Lant’s downfall.

But that was in the manhwa, the story overall - how will everything unfold now? Or will nothing happen?

Your appearance was an anomaly in itself. You already changed the story against your will.

… did I… fuck up everything?

Your thoughts are interrupted by her calm voice.

“You look like a mess.” Her voice isn’t as soft as Roxana’s. It suits her. “Did Dion do this?”

Her accusation has you shaking your head ‘no.��� For as much as you detest and fear that heathen, aside from fleeting touches that scream touch starved and has you reeling back in disgust or unbridled fear, he never raised a hand against you. 

Some might tell you that it should comfort you, that your oh so lovely husband doesn’t raise a hand against you. But really, that was the bare minimum of being a decent person. You’re not about to praise him for the bare minimum. 

It was already hard enough to function around him, nevermind seeing the ‘good’ in him. Just thinking about him has freezing needles piercing your flesh, already feeling the cuffs on your hands and ankles. You shiver, gulping. 

Your throat is tight and dry. 

“I see. Well, that’s good. I doubt you would survive long with him had he done so.” Curiosity filled eyes rake over your entire form - you feel naked and vulnerable.

Instead of asking if you’re okay, she stands and goes back to her desk. Distracted by her unexpected appearance, you look around the room, momentarily forgetting Fontaine. 

Papers on the walls with magic circles and scribbled data, stacked books around the room, a window that shows the swaying trees and blue sky, a desk covered in magical items. Glass test tubes filled with mysterious liquids, but no bed in sight. This must be her study.

Great, you think. You interrupted her work - she’ll surely find you a nuance. There’s a sharp sting on your tongue as your teeth dig into something mushy.

Were you really at fault for this? You didn’t choose to run into the eldest Agriche child. You didn’t give him the wrong idea, you didn’t ask for anything, and yet his disgusting hands touched you, his brother’s wife, an unwilling woman -

…no. If you hadn’t left the bedroom and just tolerated Dion, you wouldn’t be here. Your chest feels heavy with self-disappointment, kicking yourself for leaving Dion’s room. However, your sullen figure jitters to life once panic starts to kick in, remembering why you barged into the room.  

He’ll be here soon. She’ll kick me out. Your thoughts run about as you lick your dry lips. 

You try to stand.

You wrestle with yourself to not scream when you move your left foot to get up, completely forgetting the blasted thing was sprained. It burns, it feels like a molten knife is twisting in it.

You. You did this to yourself. Had you just tolerated Dion, endured those ghastly touches that are softer than what they should be but still as repulsive. Endured the unwanted attention, his detestable affection, let his cold and calloused fingers link with yours just for a moment -  

Your ears perk at the sound of drawers opening and closing, your sister-in-law rummaging through them. While wondering what she’s looking for, you inspect the injured and swelling body part. Biting your lip to muffle any sounds, wincing as you carefully slide your heel off, unable to hold back a sigh of relief once it’s off.

You freeze as the sound of heavy footsteps stop outside the door. 

RATTLE, RATTLE 

Someone tries to open the door across the hallway. It’s extremely loud that just by hearing it vibrations are sent throughout your body. There’s a muffled curse and you stop breathing when you recognize it - recognize him.

Fontaine. 

More footsteps but this time they stop directly in front of Grizelda’s door. Holding your breath as he tries the knob, you pray to a God that has clearly abandoned you. 

RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE

It’s more violent, the knob threatening to break and fall off. You hold back a whimper, shaking pathetically. You should have stayed in Dion’s room. Should have tolerated the man, go out to the terrace and lock it so he couldn’t go near you once you let him have his fun.

You could have avoided this. Avoided the ugly and more perverted brother. A potential rapist, a bigger threat to your safety and sanity if he were to ever get his hands on you. You start to lightly pant, clenching at your chest, vivid images of a fate worse than death flashing in your head. 

The taste of iron. The smell of blood. It’s vivid, you can already feel his hands on your neck before they travel lower and lower, rougher than your husband, consent forgotten, thrown away. Dion - he wouldn’t do this, would he?

He… wouldn’t… right?

When Fontaine speaks through the door, something cold rushes in strings through your body. It’s painful, everything is. 

“Fucking hell - which room are you in, you bitch!? I know you didn’t make any turns - a door wouldn’t have slammed shut otherwise. If you come on out right now, maybe I’ll be -”

An arm grabs yours, pulling you up harshly. Your bottom lip starts to bleed as skin is broken, your teeth digging into it as you hold back a scream. Quietly, Grizelda opens the closet you managed to miss, and closes the doors without a sound. You stand there, jolting when she comes back, handing your disregarded heel over to you.

Her actions confuse you but you don’t have time to mull over it as she shushes you with a finger held against her lips. You can’t stop shaking.

She closes the doors again once you nod your head. It’s completely empty save for a cloak or two, and you hold your breath as the brunette fakes a realistic and convincing groggy voice.

“...Huh? Who the hell? I can’t even take a nap in peace.” Footsteps echo in the room followed by the door opening. “Hm? Fontaine?” No fear is laced in her faked discombobulated tone. 

It sounds perfect. Which leads to the question - how often has she done this?

Why would she do this?

There’s a pause before her older brother replies, “Grizelda. What are you doing here?” You imagine him trying to peek his head in to catch a glimpse of you. A strong sense of dread and terror crawls down your spine at it.

It feels like insects are crawling all over your body, their stick-like legs digging into the flesh. Your nails dig into the heel in your hands.

“It’s my study,” she answers like it’s obvious. Your heartbeat almost drowns out their conversation. What are they doing? What if she’s secretly leading him into the room, pointing at your hiding place?

“Your study? Ah, right. Never mind that - have you seen a certain rabbit hop by? She decided to repay my generosity with violence like the whore she is.” His voice drips with heavy resentment and venom, filling your head with images of what he could and would do once he gets his hands on you.

She answers immediately. “A rabbit? I haven't seen one lately. Wait, who are you referring to?”

He pauses before giving a vague answer. “A girl around your age. Out of breath and crying like a baby.”

Fontaine sounds like a school boy trying to sound cool or to avoid punishment. If you weren’t on the verge of collapsing, you would have laughed at the absurdity. The audacity this mistake has after he tried to force himself on you. 

But fear overtakes any anger you might have felt. You’re barely able to breathe in this closed off space. It’s about to become your coffin.

“Around my age? It’s not one of our siblings… is it a maid?”

“She’s a recent addition.”

Could he be any more obvious?

Your inner dialogue does little to distract you from the scorching pain, almost crying out and bumping your head against the wood, accidentally putting too much pressure on your left foot. As gently and quietly as you can, you lean on your right side, praying that no noise is made. It hurts.

You quietly chuckle to and at yourself, the sound of a whisper.

You’re nothing more than a pathetic dog.

“Wait, surely you’re not talking about our new in-law, Dion’s wife. Do you know what harsh punishments father has instored for anyone who lays a hand on her that isn’t himself or Dion?”

“It’s not like I’m going to kill her. I just want to teach that wrench a lesson in manners.” Fontaine growls out like a dog. But the leash his father placed on him is tight as she continues to question him, frustration clear but held, an obvious need and want to avoid punishment. 

It seems that your brother-in-law does have some survival instincts, despite how big his head is.

“No-one, aside from Dion, has permission to give her any ‘lessons.’ I’m not sure what happened, but if she really did wrong you, then you should report it to Dion personally.” 

Both you and Fontaine pause, halting your breathing as the suggestion soaks into both of your brains.

Dion… what would he do?

 A droplet of sweat rolls down your temple as you give it more thought. In the Manhwa, after Fontaine was beaten and chained in the dungeon, the former favorite son was going to pluck out his brother’s eyes before killing him. Even though it was only a beautiful digital drawn panel, the image of Dion bending iron bars and a shadow over his glowing crimson eyes, pure hatred in them was enough to almost make you pity Fontaine.

Would… would he react that way if you told him…? No, rather, do you want him to? 

You must be going mad, for a small part of you is planning on it. No - you’re looking forward to it.

Your head feels weird at the thought. But your heart beats erratically at it. It’s… tempting. For once, you feel yourself wanting to seek your husband out. 

However, one thing stops you.

Your teeth dig into your thumb. You are by no means a saint, nor do you want to be one. But… What if he asks more of you? What if by just telling him, you end up giving the impression you want him? 

No. Yes. You should, you shouldn’t. He’s your husband, it’s his obligation, but it’s Dion -

“Do you honestly think Dion cares enough to listen? He only married her under father’s orders. Besides, he didn’t even look at her during the wedding and he left right after the consummation.” Arrogantly pointing those things out, you can only imagine the annoyed expression he’s certainly making. 

The closet is starting to feel stuffy the longer they talk. Your ankle brings a different type of pain when you accidently curl your toes, hissing through your teeth as you almost bite through the bone of your thumb. Shaky and heavy breaths that you attempt to steady, staying quiet, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. 

Your nerves are on fire. It feels like sharp needles are digging in and stabbing at your ankle, your thumb bleeding as the taste of iron imprints itself in your mouth. Snot clogs your nose and you hold back a sob.

Why are you so weak?

Their muffled voices make your ears perk.  

“Then tell father, if you’re so sure of that. Either or.” Your sister-in-law tells her older brother  like it’s law. Ah, how silly of you. Of course it was.

“Father… I don’t want to bother him with such trivial things.” There’s a nervous tilt at the end of his sentence. “He has better things to do than punish that bitch.”

“‘Bitch’? I see that you’re rather daring today. Regardless, laying your hands on her would only get you punished once father finds out.”

“If he finds out.”

“No. He will. He always does.” She tells him so factually that it’s funny. You know that it’s not completely true - after all, the coup happened and was successful. 

But that was only in the story… 

Your skin feels damp, goosebumps forming on every exposed part. Saliva soothes the indents on your thumb - you’ll need to treat this later. Your tongue swirls around the digit, uncaring if any blood drips on and stains your dress.

It doesn’t cross your mind that once Dion sees you, he’ll demand an explanation. 

“Right. When you do see that rabbit, tell me.” She doesn’t respond and you hear the door close not too soon afterwards. Then, you hear a ‘click.’

You wait with baited breath as footsteps make their way towards your hiding stop. The thudding of your heart overrides everything else. The footsteps sounded like heels and were light. But you’re still paranoid that it’s Fontaine and-

Creeaakk

Your body jolts and eyes squint as the closet doors open, light invading the darkness that once eloped you. Blinking rapidly, you watch as Grizelda eyes you, her gaze landing on your poor, abused thumb. Her expression is blank - no mockery nor sympathy is evident on her face.

In a way, it’s almost comforting.

“You’re a mess,” she says as she takes it upon herself to help you out. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up…” little do you know that an image of a pissed Dion flashes in her head, suppressing the violent shudder. Despite not seeing the married couple interact, her gut screams that maybe, just maybe you’re someone who shouldn’t be touched.

Like a docile lamb, you do as she says, sitting in the chair as she searches through the drawers for first aid she usually kept. Only to find none.

Great, she thinks, just great.

Of course she wouldn’t have any on the day she needs them. She takes a quick glance at you - she wouldn’t be in this predicament if you didn’t stumble across her study -

Wait. Her eyes widened before returning to normal at the realization. 

She never got a sample of your blood… no wonder why it didn’t work. She considers taking one from your wound. But then she takes another look at you - red and puffy eyes, a bleeding lip, your right thumb bitten into like a piece of meat. Your clothes are all wrinkled and hair out of place.

You look so tired, so terrified.

Like a captured rabbit.

Something stirs inside her. How odd, how concerning.

With a sigh, she decides against it, standing to full height and goes to the closet, standing in front of it.

You don’t mean anything to her and she doubts she has a place in your heart. She doesn’t have to be nice to you. She didn’t have to help you. 

Nimble fingers takes one of the cloaks out, and she heads back to her desk. She places it on the sturdy surface, and takes some scissors out from a drawer. Her actions halt the more she thinks about it. Hadn’t she done enough by hiding you?

Your maid could treat your injuries. 

But, to fight back against an Agriche despite the risks…

You’re a fool for that. And yet -

The scissors glide through the fabric, ignoring the cautious looks you throw her way. Regardless, her body feels hotter the longer you stare. Once she’s done, she tries her best not to sigh - you’re nothing but an injured and terrified rabbit. She closes her eyes.

She’s only doing this because you’re new and she’s curious. She’s only doing this to hear stories of how things are beyond the walls of Agriche.

She’s only doing this because you sparked a speck of interest in her.

When her eyes open, she turns to face you. 

“Unfortunately, I currently don’t have any first aid on me.” The only reason you give her your thumb is due to the determination in her eyes - stubbornness vs weakness. When she sighs you do your best to not react, well aware you were walking on thin ice. Probably.

Well, considering you kind of… broke into her study, you probably are.

Then, you realize it - you were able to open the door and not Fontaine. But how? Why?

Regardless, that fact only adds to your apprehension. Especially when she deeply inspects your dumb, head tilting to the side as she considers something. You become a statue, watching her every moment, from the way she eyes your injury to how her fingers play with the fabric in her free hand. Her eyes flicker to yours. 

“You bite on it often, don’t you? There’s still fresh-ish bite marks on it. You should stop that before it becomes infected - unless, of course, you want to lose it.” You can’t tell if she’s scolding you or not, a tiny amount of amusement in her eyes while there’s also a firmness in both the soft red hues and her lips. 

She continues before you can even think of answering.

“Aside from that, I’ll do you another favor - I’ll use my magic to heal your ankle.” She says, so matter of fact, that you’re left dumbfounded as she starts to clean your thumb to the best of her abilities before wrapping it up. Your hand jerks and it takes effort to not pull away.

Her touch is gentle, but you regain your mind as she kneels, seemingly forgetting that she is not a servant but a noble. 

You regain your voice. 

“U-um, thank you for the o-offer, but I just need some ice-”

“Do you want Dion to find out?”

That shuts you up. Your eyes cloud over with something she can’t decipher. Your mind is tearing itself apart as you consider it. It’s hard not to.

… It’s not like Fontaine would be an innocent victim. Plus, if he’s killed right now… wait, but that nightmare might actually lock me up if he finds out I was injured and targeted. To ‘protect’ me if he does want to keep me ‘safe.’

Not to mention… the story… that stupid story!

Your head falls into your hands. The dull ache in your chest overrides the physical pain.

“I… I don’t know.” Indecisive, you take a breath, forcing out any self-pity for the moment. Just focus on your sister-in-law. You can think about everything later. For now, you suppose, you should take her offer. Walking on it would be hell otherwise. 

Grizelda doesn’t say anything. Lifting your foot up makes you hiss through your teeth. Your face stays buried in your hands, hatred for yourself deepening. You want to rely on a man who’ll happily keep you prisoner if it means you won’t run. 

While also considering keeping a man who would rape you alive. You shouldn’t. Maybe you should tell Dion - Fontaine deserves it. But what his death would ruin your faith entirely?

Your lungs beg to scream.   

- - -

She drew a magic circle on your foot. It took several minutes, covering your mouth with your palms to muffle the cries of pain with each touch. The brunette was patient aside from the huffs of annoyance here and there. Regardless, she did pause and give you a few moments to recover.

Even so, you endured it, if only to hurry the process. 

“Ugh…” tears form in your eyes as hot pain shoots from your foot to up your leg. It feels like hot, melting needles are being stabbed into every nerve, every tendon. Your fingers dig into the edge of the seat as your head rolls back, thumping against the headrest. 

Deep and shallow breaths as you calm your nerves, teeth nearly tearing your bottom lip apart.

 It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS, IT HURTS, 

IT HURTS -

“Endure for a bit longer.” Something warm and string-like flows from her fingertips and into your bloodstream. Jolting at the new sensation, you lie to yourself and say it’s soothing and not uncomfortable. That it doesn’t feel like something is being tied and untied within you.

“Haah… p-please don’t - guh!” A painful groan cuts you off. You feel both cold and hot, skin drenched in cold sweat as your clothes make you feel stuffy. Hot.

“Hm? Don’t what?” Your sister-in-law halfheartedly asks, barely listening. 

“D-don’t… tell him. Please .”

He might go off the rails if anyone else tells him… no, it’ll be worse than that. 

Grizelda glances at you before returning her attention to her work, promising she’ll stay quiet. After all, it’s not her problem. Besides, bloodshed between kin is forbidden unless ordered. While her father would punish his eldest son, he wouldn’t order his death.

In his eyes, he is still useful. 

Getting rid of him now would only hinder everything.

She looks at you again. 

A scared little rabbit, an unwilling bride, a captive, a victim, a play thing - every word that describes you flashes in her head. In everyone’s eyes, that’s all you are, really - prey. Of course, most will stay far away from you, not willing to take the chance to anger the favorite son. 

Not willing to take the chance to anger Lant.

But there are fools who want to take a bite. 

And fools who pity you.

The more she looks at you, the more she realizes that you are not a person in Black Agriche. You’re a chest piece in Lant’s game. She doesn’t know what the prize is.

Her eyes return to your injury. With every second, the more she questions your purpose. You have nothing to offer. Your family, while a noble one, doesn’t have a high reputation like others. No hidden skills, no illegal activities that could have caught his eye. 

But, then she questions if this was orchestrated by Dion. She shakes her head. You didn’t even know each other prior to the engagement. Unless…

She shudders. She should stop thinking about it. 

“I pity you. You lost your individuality the moment you kissed him.” For whatever reason, she decided to voice her thoughts. It wasn’t to torment you. 

She waits for your reaction.

You don’t say anything, at first. Like you were trying to find the right words to say. She sees the way your lips are pursed, fingers digging deeper into the chair. With an exhale, you finally reply.

“I… I know.”

By the time you responded, she was done, slipping your heel back on.

- - -

The trip back to Dion’s room was painfully slow for the sorceress. While she understood you were paranoid to return by yourself, it was also interfering with her work. She should have called a maid. 

However, she decided to take this opportunity to ask how the outside world was - first, about your family where you gave extremely vague answers. And then, some things you would do outside of your family’s estate. Had she had more experience with the outside world she would have found your mundane answers boring, but it was interesting to see what a ‘normal’ person was like.

She should learn before you go mad. 

“I see. So your parent’s marriage was also arranged.” Your fingers slightly dig into your palms as you nod your head. “Did they ever fall in love?” Curiosity mixed with something else, she wonders if you will with Dion - not that she expects it, but it’s not completely impossible. 

Probably. 

“I’m…,” you blink as you try to answer only to reply, “I’m not sure. They’re not very affectionate with each other, but they are loyal and respectful towards each other. I guess there was an obligation to produce an heir…” you awkwardly finish off.

Grizelda questions what you meant by that, finding your troubled and embarrassed expression kind of cute. It’s refreshing.

“Um… they didn’t… stop until my brother was born. As you know, I have an older sister, then there’s me, and finally, the only boy who is the youngest. Considering there hasn’t been a third nor any talk of one, I’m guessing they’re… d-done.”

The brunette has a hard time keeping her laugh at bay. Obviously your reaction towards it is different from her own. Two different environments and ‘morals.’ 

“I see. If you don’t mind me asking, how are your siblings? As you probably know, my own and I aren’t…” 

Unfortunately the barrage of questions is interrupted once she catches sight of slicked back black hair. Blood colored eyes land on your figures as the older man walks across from you, and he stops to ‘greet you.’

You both bow as a sign of ‘respect.’

“Oh? Now there’s an unexpected sight - Grizelda and the daughter-in-law taking a walk.” Lant comments as you raise your heads. There’s no smirk but the hint of sinister curiosity puts you on edge.

Yeah. you shouldn’t have left the bedroom after all.

For if you didn’t, images of your death wouldn’t be drowning you until you could barely breathe. Your lungs squeeze painfully as his eyes look past you, gauging if he should use you today.

A gross sensation travels from your toes to your head, fearful that he might -

“I take it that Dion told you about the contraceptives?” He looks serious, no hint of sinister playfulness on his face. From the corner of your eye you see your sister-in-law giving you a puzzled look until ‘realization’ hits her, making her give you a ‘knowing’ one.

… she has the wrong idea…

You’re not sure if you should correct her once Lant leaves.

“O-oh, yes, of course, father-in-law.”

He nods his head in approval. “Good. It might be for a good while.” And just like that, he leaves, not sparing you nor his daughter another glance. Weight is lifted off your shoulders once he’s out of sight.

If only he would stay out of mind. 

“Hm. Leave it to father to plan out his son’s future,” she almost snickers. You swear that hidden resentment is laced in it, but push it out of mind.

“... yes.” 

Still, you’re shaken by the unexpected encounter, suppressing a tremble, left hand grabbing your right arm to ground yourself. You swallow to moisten your mouth. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t.

“W-well, going back to our con-conversation,” changing the subject for your own mental well-being, you decide to humor her some more. “We’re close. Or, were, at least.” 

“‘Were’?”

“There were some complications during the engagement… but that’s to be expected. Probably. But I plan on writing to my brother later today - oh!” 

You have an epiphany, clapping your hands together once. While it’s true, or at least you assume so, that Grizelda isn’t close with Jeremy, it might be better than nothing. After all, it’s an excuse to not go back to Dion -

Ah, but wait. Didn’t you want to go back to his room so you wouldn’t run into Fontaine again? Indecisive, you stop walking, thinking about your next move.

You should pick out a thank you gift for the boy… but Fontaine… not to mention you had also asked Hana… what to do, what to do…

While you’re stuck in your head, the brunette blinks, wondering what’s with the sudden change in behavior. 

- - -

He was too intense. Too forward. 

He should reel it back. Dion knows that he frightens you so easily. Like the fool he is, he thought that becoming and calling himself your dog would help take the edge off. Well, he was wrong, extremely so.

So wrong that he drove you away further, making the cracks of your marriage bigger, deeper. At this rate he may invertedly drive you away into the arms of another.

His eyes narrow at the thought. 

No. He’d kill the bastard before that could happen, and despite his fondness for you, he wouldn’t let you get off easy either. If you want to be with someone else so badly… he could give you their head. Or, depending on his mood, the intensity of your feelings for the second party, he could even kill them in front of you…

If you try to run he’ll just chain you up. He would never hurt you, no, but if the ring isn’t enough to tie you down, then he’ll do it quite literally. The rational part of him knows that you wouldn’t even dream of it. Be it out of fear or obligation as his wife, you wouldn’t.

But… What if you find a way to escape? Find someone else, someone better - 

No. 

His crimson eyes look out into the terrace as he sits in the chair, elbow propped onto the armrest, head supported by his hand, knuckles pressed against his cheek as his fingers curl. One leg is crossed over the other, his other arm resting on the opposite armrest, leaning back a bit. 

His finger taps against the plush material. 

It’s been half an hour since you left - half an hour too long. Did you go outside and take a walk? The sun is out, the weather is fine. Fresh air would probably help your nerves.

Unfortunately, he knows they’ll freeze over the moment you see him. 

It’s a silly dream he has, but it’s the only thing he truly looks forward to. Even if you fake it, he’ll be happy with any crumbs you’ll throw his way. However, he knows that he doesn’t deserve it, and a long time ago he would have seen no use in anything sweet and gentle. 

But then you came along. You with your soft touch, your pretty smile, eyes that reflected a rather sullen figure, sweetly asking for a favor that’s been forgotten. 

Your mistake was giving him a taste.

As the saying goes - give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.

He’s always been selfish and greedy. More so ever since you entered the picture. 

Hah. Just thinking about you brings forth warmth that was once nonexistent. It ignites the temptation to put you under lock and key. He’ll never tell you, but he did consider kidnapping you. It would have been so easy, a hand over your mouth, or a drug in your system.

He closes his eyes as he wills the thoughts away. Sure, had he done that, you wouldn’t be able to look at another, locked in his room with only him as company. You would have to either talk to him or play the quiet game, but really, how long would you last?

Humans were social creatures. They need company, bonds, no matter how shallow. 

You were no exception, talking to friends at balls and banquets. Laughing with them, accepting dances here and there, not minding the fact that a hand was on your waist. If anything, sometimes you would let the pests get too close, only shooing them off once you realize that their dirty paws were traveling lower and lower. 

He sighs through his nose softly. Thinking about such things won’t help in the long run. In spite of the way he wants to pluck out the eyes of anyone who looks at you, who you smile at, your husband tries to take a… ‘softer’ approach.

Throwing them in the dungeon for a week or two without food. Putting them in the least aggressive monster hutch, but the beasts are still hungry, so it was still dangerous. A broken bone or two during practice. 

Maybe ten.

A ‘small’ cut to their pay. A singular verbal threat before they turn physical. Humiliation. Ruin their reputation.

That was soft enough, wasn’t it?

“...” you really have been gone for longer than wanted - needed. 

Isn’t this what ‘love’ is; a man barking like a dog for his wife? Rolling over and showing their belly, toning down their antics the slightest bit. Listen to them, handing their spouse their leash, willing to do anything?

Bite those who come too close.

Dion’s scarlet hues open, looking at nothing in particular. His black hair shines in the light, pale skin crawling at the thought of someone happening to come across you. Shared laughter, a smile, sweet gestures, all things that he craves from you and you alone. 

Everything you refuse to give him.

You drive each other mad.

A foolish daydream that starts to dive into something darker. It’s here when Dion starts to remember just where the two of you live. Your in-laws, his family. The food chain that you’re almost at the bottom in, your status as his wife saving you from most. 

Most of his half-siblings and all of his stepmothers will avoid you just because of that, or they’ll sneer at you from a distance. 

However, there are some who won’t stay behind the line. Jeremy is an example - however, his intentions were never sinister towards you. Roxana was edging around the line, and he already knows she’s gauging on how close she should get to you, but she wouldn’t let harm come to you.

But then, there’s Fontaine.   

He’s out the door before he even knows what he’s doing.

- - -

“...Hey, Xana?”

“Hm?”

“Do you feel like something bad will happen today?”

“What do you mean?”

Jeremy shivers again, rubbing his arms. This chill just won’t go away. It’s annoying, he’s been unable to shake off this paranoia. It revolved around you, at first. So, the boy had decided to pay you a visit once he heard you returned to your room. 

You were fine, tired, but fine. Unfortunately, Dion decided to show up like the pest he is - sticking around. It’s as annoying as when he would bother Roxana in the past. Or just appear in front of her. 

However, he didn’t sense anything wrong. Discomfort, sure, but nothing dangerous. He left in the end, getting in one last glare at his older brother. The feeling went away, for a bit. 

But it spiked right back up not too long after. Stronger. And now, Dion and Fontaine keep popping up in his head, their ugly mugs haunting him. Jeremy looks at Roxana, her gaze glued to his figure. He smiles, shaking everything off.

Maybe he’s tired. 

“Oh well. It’s probably nothing, sis.”

= = =

Something big might happen.

This took way longer than I originally thought.

Tag list: @tiny-mimi @umi-adxhira @queenofspades403 @pix-stuff @manitscold @darkumbreon92 @s-ajia @disappointment-san @louissatturi @cjafjatkstke @luvercat @rainofcrime @danae-misfortune @rosedellamorte @rentaldarling @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee @labryel

[charlottes-diary-entries]

HELLLOOO :) could I request a wolfstar x reader where there’s an upcoming exam that r is super stressed about and how the boys would help or comfort them? (This is indeed self indulgent bcuz I’m stressin for finals 😭)

oh my god darling, i'm aware this is two MILLION years late, but i fear i was ALSO stressin for finals :( i hope all of your exams went completely swimmingly and if they didn't then here is a little comfort for the start of your summer <3

"academic avalanche" poly!wolfstar x reader, very fluffy, mostly comfort

This was it. You'd considered it might come to this, but today seemed to make it official. You were now living, to eventually die, and then rot forever, beneath a wall of books in the library that completely obscured you from view. It was ridiculous. One gentle breeze and you'd be a victim of an academic avalanche.

As you once again desperately tried to cram information about the giant wars of the 19th century into your brain, tears began to slip down your cheeks. Hopelessly, you thumped your head against the horrid tome before you and let the tears fall. Hiccups and sobs also began to escape before you could stop them, and soon enough, you were trying as hard as you could to break down quietly as to not disturb the peace of the library.

They would write your name and death date on your gravestone, paired with the phrase, "Killed by History of Magic."

"Dovey?"

At the sound of a familiar, endlessly comforting voice, you wished you could pull yourself together and only fell apart more. A miserable moan left you from your place faceplanted in the evil textbook.

"Is that you tucked away there, darling?"

One of the shorter stacks was shoved aside before the voice cooed and you were suddenly shoved by an overly-aggressive hug. The voice chided your attacker with a quiet, "Sirius..." but was ultimately ignored as you were squeezed within an inch of your life.

"What have they done to you?" Sirius pulled you upright and gasped at the tears that still flowed down your face. "Scratch that, how did we let you hole up here like this?! Oh, dovey..."

You hiccupped through another sob as Sirius shushed you, pressing kiss after kiss all over your face in attempt to cheer you up.

"I think-" You began, "I think this exam is going to kill me. Actually kill me, I can't do this."

Remus perked up from where he had begun to deconstruct your cavern of books. "Alright dove, it's okay. Why don't we take a break, hm?"

This only served to upset you more as you moaned, flopping completely into Sirius's arms. Frustration only continued to bubble up and out of you as Sirius cradled you.

"I've got to pass this exam. I think I'm going to fail otherwise and I can't fail. I hate this stupid professor, I hate History of Magic, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"

Sirius cooed and pressed a kiss to your temple, holding you tighter. "I think passionate declarations of hate are a pretty decent sign you're due for a break. Just a little one love, and then we'll help you study after, yeah?."

"I second this plan, besides," Remus said, now a little sheepish, "we've missed you dove."

"Missed them! Missed them, he says!" Sirius scoffed, "You've been holed up in here for nearly a week and your absence has actually taken a toll on our health! I swear, I've never felt so sick as when you're stuck studying!"

At this, you sniffed and smiled a little up at Sirius, who only grinned down at you, allowing himself to kiss your forehead.

"Starting to feel better now, though."

You giggled and Remus rolled his eyes fondly, having now successfully returned most of your books to their respective shelves. Sirius then easily pulled you up and you didn't have the energy to resist. Now with you on your feet, he began to speak before you were tugged away from him and into Remus's bone-crushing hug.

Whatever dramatic protest at you being stolen from him died on Sirius's lips as he watched you deflate even more in your boyfriend's arms. A few more tears rolled down your face as he joined the hug.

"C'mon dovey," Remus said as he eventually pulled away, leaving his hand tightly entwined with yours, "let's all go cuddle for a bit, yeah?"

You nodded and let him pull you along, Sirius attaching himself to your unoccupied arm. You continued to hang off them as they walked you back to their dorm feeling endlessly grateful for their ability to carry the weight of the conversation on their own.

There was something indescribable about the comfort that came from Remus holding you on his bed with Sirius on your other side telling you both about some muggle band he loved. You felt loved. Completely surrounded by love, actually.

And exam be damned, there was no where you'd rather be.

this isn't very long, but i hope you enjoyed love! <3

[phoenixblaze1412]

Ermmmmm ya fav bow anon here askin again BUT since i knoww you like reca so much how about like a cute reca fic with both reca and the reader being enemies to lovers type stuff ( > 3<)

— 🎀

It's not just me who likes reca<3 but here is your requestt

You had never hated anyone as much as you hated Mr. Reca.

The self-proclaimed “genius” director had a knack for pushing every button you had—smug, infuriating, and utterly relentless in his teasing. Ever since you’d been assigned to assist with his latest film project, he had made it his mission to remind you who was in charge.

“Ah, my favorite assistant,” Reca drawled as you walked onto the set, carrying a stack of freshly printed scripts. “How wonderful of you to finally grace us with your presence. Tell me, did the cosmos delay your journey, or were you just.. lost in thought again?”

You scowled, setting the scripts down with more force than necessary. “Not everyone has the luxury of lounging in a chair barking orders all day, Reca.”

“Lounging?” He feigned shock, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Darling, this is art. Every decision I make is a stroke of brilliance. You, on the other hand, are merely holding the brush.”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you forced a smile. “Well, your ‘brilliance’ might want to check page five. There’s a typo.”

That wiped the smirk off his face, if only for a second.

----------

It wasn’t just his words, it was the way he said them, the way his gaze lingered on you like he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He’d call you by nicknames, like “Assistant director” or “Grammar monster” always with a teasing lilt in his voice.

But what really got to you was that beneath all the teasing, Reca was undeniably talented. The way he directed scenes, coaxed performances from actors, and crafted narratives, it was mesmerizing. Not that you’d ever admit that to him.

“Watching me again?” he teased one day, catching you observing him as he directed a particularly complex scene. “Careful, or I might think you’re impressed.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “I was just wondering how someone so insufferable can make something halfway decent.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “You’re lucky I like your sass.”

----------

The shift came during an impromptu night shoot. The crew was tired, tempers were frayed, and you were on the verge of snapping when Reca surprised you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, handing you a thermos of hot tea. “You’re doing great.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What’s this? Genuine kindness from Mr. Reca?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said with a grin but his tone lacked its usual tease.

From then on, the teasing softened. It was still there but there was a warmth to it now, a playfulness that made your heart race instead of your blood boil.

----------

One evening as you were reviewing footage together, he leaned closer than usual, his voice a low murmur.

“You know,” he said, “I only tease you because it’s fun watching you fight back. Most people just fold.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Take it however you want,” he replied, smirking.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the way your pulse quickened when his hand brushed yours.

----------

It happened during a quiet moment on set, the stars of the Xianzhou glowing faintly through the ship’s windows. You were alone, cleaning up after the crew had left for the night when Reca appeared.

“Still working, assistant director?” he said, his tone softer than usual.

“Someone has to,” you replied, not looking up.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You know, you make this whole thing worth it.”

You froze, turning to face him. “What?”

“All of it,” he continued, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. Leaning over to your height and giving you a smile. “The late nights, the chaos, the.. everything. You. You keep me on my toes.”

Before you could respond, he kissed you, soft and teasing, like everything else he did. But this time, it didn’t feel infuriating. It felt perfect.

When he pulled back, his smirk was back in place. “Well, what do you think? Worth the wait?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so annoying..”

“And you love it,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

This time, you didn’t argue.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Fruits

I don't know what's possessing me to write all these Bucky fics but they exist now. I really should be doing school work but...man the brain worms, someone needs to help me kill them. I secretly blame marvel rivals for this resurgence

Summary: Fruits have a special place in your heart for what they've done to help you and Bucky become closer

You don't know what possessed you to do this, but now you have a scowling ex-Hydra assassin super soldier who could kill you at any moment sitting across the table from you in your very own safe house. He silently stares at the table as if it's going to attack him at any moment, flesh arm resting on said table as you peel an orange, popping a slice into your mouth.

"Want one?" You internally cringe at how loud your voice is when the house is deathly silent and nearly take your words back when he looks up, his blue eyes a mixture of curiosity and wariness. His fingers twitch, reaching towards the slice of fruit in your hand but just as quickly, he pulls back and resumes his staring contest with the table.

Looks like you're not going to be able to get him to talk any time soon. You're surprised he even took up your offer of a safe house in the first place, his look of confusion which faded into the familiar scowl when you handed him a cell phone as well as an address made you believe he wouldn't show up at all. Yet here he is, silently brooding in his chair with no signs of wanting to going anywhere else.

Rising from your chair, the way he flinches ever so slightly doesn't escape your notice and you head to the kitchen cabinet to grab a small plate, setting the porcelain object in the middle of the both of you. You pick up the half eaten orange and resume peeling it, placing slice after slice on it. A quick glance in his direction tells you he's intrigued by what you're doing and an idea strikes you. Setting the skin aside, you begin arranging the slices in a circle, stacking them into a mini pyramid of orange slices before nudging the plate towards him.

"All yours," you say with a smile but he doesn't move. You raise an eyebrow, slowly taking a slice from the top of the pyramid and popping it into your mouth, chewing it. "It's safe to eat."

His hand inches towards the plate, cautiously taking a slice before biting into it, blinking in surprise as juice begins to drop from the corner of his mouth. You can't help but laugh, pushing the box of tissues towards him and he takes one with his metal hand, wiping off the juice. His eyes crinkle, lips tugging upwards but the expression quickly vanishes and he's back to his stoic self. He finishes one slice in two bites and reaches for more, taking his time with each slice as you busy yourself with taking stock of what groceries you need now that you have a super soldier to feed as well.

When you look back at the table, you find the plate cleaned out and smile. "It's good, isn't it?"

He gives you an uncertain nod, then a soft 'yes' escapes his lips and you internally cheer. Progress! He's talking now!

You head back into the kitchen, emerging with two more oranges and set one down in front of him. He stares at the orange, picking it up and setting it down, then at you as you walk over to him.

"May I?" You gesture at the chair next to him and after a moment of deliberation, he nods. You take a seat and begin showing him how to efficiently peel the orange. He frowns, struggling to control how much strength he's using with his metal arm but manages a pretty decent attempt, revealing the juicy flesh beneath. You grin, watching as he manages a small smile, clearly proud of his orange and begins stacking the slices in a pyramid on the plate.

You let him, even contributing a few slices of your own orange to the pyramid and sit back as he looks his creation over, giving it a few pokes before looking over at you.

"All yours." You gesture at the pyramid. "You peeled it, you should be the one to eat it."

He blinks, then takes a slice and pops it into his mouth. With a huff of amusement, you leave him to eat his orange in peace and head out to the grocery store.

The next few weeks continue on like this, with you bringing back groceries, ordering takeout because you can't cook and arranging fruits on a plate that you both share. The Winter Soldier, no, Bucky, sometimes helps with the unpacking of the food but he always helps you prepare the fruit platter, silently working away at the fruits in the kitchen and comes out with a beautifully decorated plate of fruits whenever you present him the fruits for the night. You let him be, realising that he's happiest when preparing the fruits and always let him decide what fruits to get from the grocery store. The first time you had asked him for the fruits he wanted you to get, he'd stared at you silently until you prompted him further, but you refused to give up. He deserved to take back his autonomy, and heck it, you were going to help him do just that starting with choosing what fruits would end up on the platter. You also begin to realise that Bucky enjoys eating plums the most.

Weeks turn to months and Bucky begins to gather enough courage to roam outside the safe house by himself. You don't monitor him like a hawk but you do tell him to text you when he leaves and when he's roughly be back just in case anything happens. At the start, he tells you exactly where he's going and what he will be doing but you quickly explain that you don't need to know all that, you just want to know when he'll be back just in case anything happens. It takes him a while to stop going to you with his detailed plans for the day but when he does, you can tell it's having a positive effect on him. The grouchy scowling ex-assassin smiles more often now, even if it's only in private and his posture has relaxed a bit. He no longer tenses at every little thing and you can sit beside him without needing to ask his permission.

You only found out about the latter when you did so by accident after a long day at work and he didn't flinch or say anything. He even shifted a little closer to you, offering you a half of the plum he was eating. That had been huge progress, and for the first time it was you who didn't know what to do. The plum that day tasted especially sweet, and something clicked between the two of you.

"Hey, I'm back," you call out, shrugging off your backpack. Bucky's head whips around at the sound of your usual greeting, ice blue eyes lighting up as he makes his way over to you, only for his steps to falter when he sees you.

"You're hurt." His gaze flicks over you, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

"Just a couple of scratches, nothing to worry abou — ow!" You yelp as Bucky gives the gash on your arm a poke.

"That doesn't sound like a scratch." He firmly seats you on the couch, leaving to grab a first aid kit only after he's sure you won't move away the moment he turns his back on you. You sigh, leaning back against the couch as much as your injuries will allow you and close your eyes, waiting for your roommate to come back. Exhausted, you feel yourself begin to fall asleep.

"Don't die on me, doll." His voice is a low murmur but it startles you awake anyways.

"Who said I'm dying?" You crack open an eye. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"You've got to stay awake for me, alright doll? Even if you're too tired." Bucky begins cleaning your exposed gashes, expertly bandaging them with a gentleness you rarely see from him. He flinches slightly at every wince you make but resumes his task when you relax once more. He always bites his lip when he's deep in concentration, you realise. Yet another habit of his that makes him more human than weapon, traces of the man called James Buchanan Barnes coming back to the surface now that he wasn't forced to be the Winter Soldier.

The rest of your wounds are hidden beneath your clothes, and Bucky looks to you, hand hovering over your shirt in silent question.

"Yeah, sure." You wince as you try to take it off, pulling at your wounds in the process. He gently tugs your hand away, helping you pull your shirt off the rest of the way. A light blush creeps onto his face when you catch him staring at your chest and he quickly tears his gaze away, focusing on the deep cut in your side, but the tips of his ears still burn red.

"What happened?" He asks quietly as he finishes bandaging your last wound.

"Intel was inaccurate. It happens from time to time, don't worry about it." You pat him on the hand in thanks. "You should see the other guy though."

"Do I need to kill them?"

"What?"

"Do I need to kill the person who hurt you or the one who gave you the inaccurate intel? I'll kill both if needed." Bucky's face hardens, the Winter Soldier rearing his head. He really means it, he really will kill people for you.

As much as you would like to see certain people punched in the face, you're a little worried about asking Bucky to help you with that. No face is going to be able to withstand that metal fist of his, and considering how much irritation is radiating off him, he's going to be hitting faces hard. You're just going to have to do that once you've recovered enough to throw a punch without reopening any injuries.

"Uh, no thanks. You don't need to kill anyone. Thanks for the offer though, I'll keep that in mind." You flash him a pained grin. He scowls and heads for the kitchen, leaving you alone with your thoughts on the couch.

This is the first time Bucky has shown so much concern for you. You're touched, and rather proud of how far he's come since the first time he silently sat across the table from you, staring at the table. The nights where his nightmares haunt him in full force still happen often but it's not something you can really help with aside from ensuring that there's always hot tea available for him to drink. You're pretty sure he still doesn't know that you wake up every time he has nightmares, startled awake by the heart-wrenching screams that echo throughout the house. He doesn't need to know that you stay awake for the rest of the night, listening out for him just in case he needs help. You hope that one day he'll be free of them, free of the fear that binds him to Hydra and free to truly live the life he wants.

Your fingers brush over the bandages on your arm as you continue to sit in silence, slowly drifting off to sleep.

"You should at least eat something before going to sleep. And drink some water." Fingers gently brush your hair out of your face. The clink of glass against wood followed by porcelain against wood makes you open your eyes again. Bucky is standing in front of you, pressing his flesh hand to your forehead to check your temperature.

"Good, no fever. Finish the glass of water and the fruits then you can go to sleep, alright?" His ice blue gaze is soft, filled with an uncharacteristic gentleness that you've never seen before. You tiredly reach over for the glass and your hand bumps into another warm hand as Bucky's flesh hand reaches the glass before yours. He lifts the glass to your lips, gently tipping it such that water trickles into your mouth at a drinkable rate.

"You don't have to —" You get cut off by a piece of fruit shoved into your mouth. Bucky scowls, as if daring you to continue talking and you deflate, letting him feed you. You chew the cube of plum in your mouth, realising that Bucky had taken the time to pit the plum and cut it into bite size pieces just so that it would be easier for you to consume it. Wait plums? You don't recall having that fruit in stock in your kitchen previously.

"Did you buy the plums today?" You ask.

"Do they not taste nice?" He pulls back, looking at the plum cube he had just picked up with the fork. You swear he looks like a sad puppy from the way he hunches over, nibbling on the plum.

"They taste good! It's just I don't remember having plums in the house."

"Oh. I…went to buy them today. Do you not want me to? I won't buy anymore if you don't want me to."

"It's alright. I don't mind plums, besides you seem to like them. By all means buy more." You chuckle, reaching over to stroke his hair.. "Thank you, for today."

He blinks, surprised and smiles shyly. "You're welcome."

Once you've finished the plums, he rises from his chair and is about to head to the kitchen to wash the dishes when you stop him with a firm tug on his flesh arm.

"Could you stay with me? For the night?" The words come out as a whisper. For some reason, you don't want him to leave tonight. You want his company, his warmth, to feel his arms around you and to rest your head against his chest. You're not sure why, but you can't shake the feeling.

"As you wish, doll," he murmurs, slotting himself into a free spot on the couch. You curl into him, humming happily as sleep finally gets to claim you and feel him gently run his flesh hand through your hair. One day, you'll get him to use his metal arm for physical contact, but for now, you're satisfied with him initiating physical contact. And his ability to choose good plums. Yeah that too.

[writing-with-olive]

ADHD task completing tip

okay so growing up i was usually told "do the hard thing first and then you get to do the fun thing." and generally that's reasonable.... if you've got decent executive function. but for those of us who don't, this is a thing i've been using to get through school/work/general human functioning. It's still using hard thing/fun thing, but it interweaves them WAY more

first step: find something that sparks some dopamine quickly. i usually use short-timer online chess or mobile games. if you pick scrolling social media or something that doesn't have a clear endpoint, make sure you have an easy way to set a timer. On apple phones, there's a timer setting that says "stop playing" instead of playing a sound. I love this because it'll take you to your lock screen so you can't accidentally dismiss the timer and keep going. Do NOT make this movement or taking care of bodily functions; eating/hydrating/going to the bathroom/moving around are things you can and should do when your body tells you. take care of ya self

second step: look at your task and break it up TINY. If you have to write a paper, don't break it up by paragraph. break it up into something like fifty words. Cleaning a room: ten items put away. Close reading: 1 page. Really you want something that if your executive functioning was playing nice you could do in 1-4 minutes. I recommend NOT saying "work for x minutes" however, since that's a really quick way to sit there watching the clock. You wanna tie progress to completion not time spent.

third step: estimate how many levels/games/etc of your dopamine source it takes to last 1-5 minutes. Ideally you will already have a sense of this. I'd advise not "testing it out right now" and procrastinating that way.

fourth step: get to work. every time you complete a tiny task, you can do one unit of the dopamine thing. If you get some momentum, you can stack rewards, so if your tiny task was 50 words for one mobile game level, 150 words straight would be three levels. If you are having a really hard time getting going, you can start with 1-3 units of your dopamine thing to kinda jumpstart the process, just decide how many you're doing first so you don't lose hours to it.

note that this ONLY WORKS if you don't ignore your timer/level cutoff. The idea is to get dopamine levels up and use that to power through the next tiny task.