#and it’s not even in a dismissive way like that’s genuinely the root of a lot of my problems!!

[dickdevotionals]

the ghost of you in my palms

summary: Dick Grayson is annoyingly persistent, but you don't seem very eager to say no either.

tags: dick grayson x vigilante!reader, gender-neutral, no use of y/n, mostly fluff with a hint of angst

link to ao3: here

You should've said no.

You never intended to say yes, not really. This wasn't the first time someone at the precinct had decided to ask you out or coyly ask for your number; not only were you new, you were also the youngest there. That alone put a target on your back—people were dismissive, people were curious, people were condescending. It'd taken you two weeks to learn how to escape conversations politely, how to smile at godawful jokes, how to turn morons down without offending them.

You were a temp in all but name, holding a job that didn't exist before you and might not exist after you. Everyone was unsure exactly what your job even was—something to do with computers, definitely. Were you supposed to digitise records? Were you supposed to help cross-precinct communications? Were you just tech support? Who knew? Not you, certainly.

All of that to say—there'd always been a certain impermanence about your stay in Blüdhaven. You had no intention of putting down roots, and you would leave the moment you grew familiar. You'd built yourself with blurred edges, intentionally out-of-focus. You did what you were supposed to, kept your head down, and made yourself as unobtrusive as you could be.

So when Detective Grayson—hotshot from Gotham, doesn't work with a partner, some relation to Bruce Wayne he tries not to draw attention to—leans on your desk one Tuesday morning with two coffees and asks if you're free Friday evening, you say no before you've even processed his question fully. He doesn't look offended, or even thrown, just intrigued, like someone saying no to him is a new event that's never happened before.

(Knowing him and his stupid pretty face, it probably hasn't.)

"I haven't even told you what we're doing," he says, setting one of the coffees down on your desk anyway. You take a sip and wrinkle your nose—far too strong, far too bitter.

"We are doing nothing," you reply. "I don't date coworkers."

"Why not?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

This question is not in any of your pre-planned scripts for how this conversation usually goes, so you take a moment before saying, "I just… don't."

Not your strongest moment, you'll admit, and Grayson apparently agrees, if his smile is anything to go by. "What if I said it wasn't a date?"

"Then I'd say I don't go on non-dates with coworkers either," you answer promptly.

Grayson laughs. It's bright, loud, and attracts attention—all three things you avoid. "So what do you do, then?"

"Work," you say. "Something you're clearly avoiding by loitering around my desk."

He raises his hands in self-defense, backs off. "Okay, okay. Enjoy your work."

"I will," you say to his back, instinctively taking another sip of the coffee and grimacing again.

He brings tea two days later.

It takes you a moment to notice him, too busy using the frankly archaic system to digitalize casefiles from ten years ago. You could come up with a better system in your sleep, but you aren't being paid to make detectives' lives easier, so outdated systems it is. When you do notice him, however, he grins at you, pushing the tea your way.

"What makes you think I drink tea?" you ask, not touching the container just yet.

"You didn't like the coffee," he replies. "So I assumed you preferred tea."

"Maybe I just don't like anything except water," you say, resisting the urge to press spacebar repeatedly to get this stupid website to load faster.

"I've never once see you around the water cooler," Grayson says, "and you don't have a water bottle on your desk."

You look away from the screen for a moment to raise an eyebrow at him. "Astute observations, Detective Grayson," you say dryly. "Perhaps you should try applying that mind to your actual job and solve murders."

"Already solved two," he says, tone maddeningly cheerful. "One more and I get a punch card."

You snort against your will, and it's hard to not notice the way he straightens in response to that. "Unfortunately, you got me wrong. I don't drink tea."

He doesn't look put out. If anything, his grin widens. "Now I know for next time."

"Next time?" you ask.

"I'm not giving up," he says, leaning against your desk casually, like you're not supposed to notice just how far into your space he's gotten over the course of this conversation. "And hey, maybe if I get it right, you'll tell me when you're free after work."

"That's not how this works." You rotate your chair ever-so-slightly to face him, and finally look at him fully. He really is stupidly pretty—sharp and sincere blue eyes, hair messy in a practiced sort of way, easy smile. "You're wasting your time."

"I don't think I am," he says.

You are about to say something stupid—it's right there on the tip of your tongue. Thankfully, the website picks that moment to load completely and pull your attention away from the persistent detective at your desk and you lose the words. Instead, you say, "Suit yourself."

There's a pause before he responds, lightly, "Do I at least get a hint?"

"You're a smart detective," you say, tone mockingly condescending, eyes stubbornly fixed on the monitor. "You can figure it out on your own."

He's back to coffee, the next day.

"I recognised the cup from the cafe next door," he says, in lieu of a greeting. "You definitely drink coffee."

"Congratulations," you say, throwing your empty cup into the bin and taking a sip from the one he sets on the table. It's far too sweet, now, more milk and sugar than coffee. You still drink it, though, because caffeine is caffeine and you didn't exactly get sleep last night. You purse your lips. "Not this kind, though."

"Tough crowd," he says, hand on his chest. "Is it too strong? Not strong enough? Too sweet?"

"That," you say, "would be telling."

He clicks his tongue, thoughtful. "So you’re not going to help me out here at all?"

"Why would I make it easier for you?" You tilt your head as you glance his way. "And I thought you were supposed to be a good detective, or was it someone else who cleared more cases this month than the entire department did in the past quarter?"

"You looked into me," Grayson says, far too delighted about a potential stalker.

"Of course I did," you say. "Had to return the favour, didn't I?"

He laughs—an easy, rich sound that makes two of the junior officers at the copier glance over at you. "What else did you learn, then? Other than my admittedly impressive solve rate."

His middle name. His complete lack of late shifts and overtime. His expensive car that he can't possibly afford on his own. The fact that he was Bruce Wayne's ward but never officially adopted. Instead of saying any of that, you say, "Nothing important."

"Then you must not have looked hard enough," he says.

"I'm pretty sure looking any further into you would be considered stalking," you say, "and while I'm sure you'd derive a lot of pleasure from it, I'm not keen on being handcuffed and thrown behind bars."

"Well, you are right about that, at least," he says. "I would derive quite a lot of pleasure from that."

"I know you think you're being charming, but you just threatened to arrest me," you say. "That's abuse of power, by the way."

"Good thing I'm off-duty, then," he says smoothly. "Wouldn't want to end up in jail before I've gotten your coffee order just right."

"You might want to consider other hobbies," you say. "Other than wasting your time pursuing your hapless coworkers who've already turned you down."

"One, I don't anyone has ever called you hapless," Grayson begins, leaning against your desk again. "And two, you haven't turned me down."

This makes you stare at him for a moment, before saying, "You might want to get your ears checked out."

"You said, and I quote, I don't date coworkers. That's not a no, that's an excuse." His smile turns into a self-satisfied smirk that tells you he's very proud of himself.

You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary. "You're really reaching, huh."

"Am I?" he counters. "Is it called a reach to spot the difference between a no and a maybe?"

"No, but it is a reach to assume there was a maybe in the first place," you say.

"Fine, then." He stands up straight, one hand in his pocket and the other drumming a restless beat on your table. "Tell me no, and I will stop bothering you entirely."

You regard him carefully, trying to gauge just how serious he is. There's no trace of amusement in Grayson's face now—just that steady, unwavering kind of calm confidence that makes it impossible to tell whether he's bluffing. He's given you an easy out, and it's one that you should grab with both hands. And yet—

And yet.

You sigh, pointedly look away from his definitely-smug face and at your monitor, and say, "I would never turn down free caffeine."

You pretend you can't see his very victorious smile in your periphery.

Dick guesses your coffee order right on the fifth try, exactly two weeks from when he first brought you the blackest coffee you've ever had.

You don't even notice he's there, not even when he swaps out your nearly empty coffee cup with a new one. You only notice after you've taken a sip and your brain belatedly realises the cup's heavier than it should be. You glance at the cup, then to the man leaning oh-so-casually on the edge of your desk, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You… got it right," you say, impressed despite yourself.

"Best detective ever," he says, bowing.

"You're not Batman," you say, and then, "Did you bribe the barista to tell you my order?"

"That would be telling," he replies, grinning.

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your cup. "That’s not a no."

"It’s also not a yes," he says, which is exactly the kind of infuriating non-answer you should have expected by now.

You take a sip, letting the caffeine wake you up. You barely had any sleep last night, thanks to the idiot goons of idiot mafias that nearly made you reconsider your decision to moonlight as a vigilante. "So what happens now? You got the coffee right. What’s next, a parade?"

"I was thinking dinner," he says, casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

You freeze. Five days of free coffee and countless small interactions in between (Dick's laptop seemed to be acting up a lot these past couple days) had made you forget how all this had started in the first place. It takes you a second longer than you'd like to respond. You’ve gotten used to this rhythm—the banter, the drinks, the way he leans in just a little too close and makes the air feel slightly thinner. You’d convinced yourself it was harmless. That you were just letting him amuse himself. That you were just killing time.

Now he’s gone and reminded you that, from the beginning, this had been about something else. Something more deliberate.

You clear your throat. "I still don't date coworkers."

"It's not a date," Dick says. "Just a very platonic dinner between friends."

It's a moment of weakness that you will curse yourself for for the next two days, a statement you will nearly renege on twenty times. It's the stupidest idea you've ever had, but still, you tell him, "I'm free Saturday."

His grin in response is nearly blinding.

Saturday comes quietly. It sneaks in like an assassin, soft-footed and sure, and you'd almost forget what that evening entailed if Dick didn't message you at 9 in the morning: ill come pick u up at 8. wear whatever.

You stare at the text for longer than you probably should, nearly forgetting the spaghetti you'd reheated for breakfast in the microwave. You type a hundred messages in response, more than half of them cancellations, but in the end you put the phone down without saying anything at all and do your best to not stare at the clock more than twice in an hour.

At seven, when sitting down and focusing on anything becomes impossible, you throw open your closet and stare at your clothes. You don't own many 'date' clothes (it's not a date, Dick's smug voice reminds you, not leaving you alone even in the privacy of your own mind), so you grab the first thing that looks nice but not too nice and put it on, resolving to not think too much about it. You are tempted, more than once, to switch it for something else, but that way lies madness.

At seven thirty, you become unable to sit still. You keep pacing in front of your windows, looking out the blinds every few minutes just in case he's here early.

At eight, finally, there are three quick raps on your door. You stare at it for a moment like it might open itself, then cross the room and take a breath before pulling it open. Dick is standing there in a button-up and jeans, sleeves rolled up as if he's just gotten back from something casual. He gives you a once-over too, before saying, "Hi."

"Hi." You'd be embarrassed by how you sound almost out-of-breath, if he didn't also look so obviously taken aback too.

"You look great," he says, with a crooked little grin that does things to your heart.

You look away before it can settle too deep. "You don't look so bad yourself, detective."

"I try."

As you lock the door behind you, you ask, "So where are we going for this very platonic dinner?"

"Somewhere with good food and dim lights," Dick replies.

"Is that a food spot or a front for the mob?" you ask.

"Why can't it be both?" he asks with a charming grin you suspect has gotten him out of a hundred troubles before.

Dick brings you to a cozy little restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a discount furniture store—one of those blink-and-you-miss-it places that doesn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, it’s all low lighting, mismatched wooden tables, and the quiet hum of vinyl spinning in the background. The air smells like garlic and basil and something buttery. The kind of place that doesn’t need to advertise because the regulars never stop coming.

"This is lovely," you say as you sit in the chair Dick insisted on pulling out for you. "I didn't even know there was a restaurant here."

Dick smirks as he sits across you. "Well, I do have good taste, thanks for noticing."

You resist the urge to kick his legs under the table; something about the action seems too intimate for a dinner you're pretending is platonic. Instead, you look at the menu and place your order when the server comes by your table. Dick, of course, places his without even looking at the menu.

"You didn't even glance at the menu," you say, narrowing your eyes at him once the server's gone.

"I come here a lot," he replies, entirely unbothered. "I basically have the dishes memorised."

"Do you live around here, then?" you ask, genuinely curious. You could have, of course, found his address without even doing anything too illegal, but you dislike invading the privacy of people who aren't criminals.

"That eager to see my house?" Dick asks, with an honest-to-god wink, immediately making you lean away.

"Not a very platonic thing to say to someone," you retort.

Dick grins, entirely too pleased with himself. "I can not be blamed for assumptions you made."

You raise your eyebrows. "That was not an assumption. That was a reaction to your very non-platonic wink."

"I wasn't aware one could assign intent to winks," Dick says.

The food arrives before you can find a better comeback. Dick’s plate is heaped with something golden and cheesy. Yours smells like roasted garlic and heaven.

You eat in companionable silence for a minute or two—actual silence, not the strained kind that prickles with unsaid things. It feels almost… normal. Like you’ve done this a hundred times.

Like maybe you could do this a hundred times and not grow tired of it.

It's a terrifying thought.

You take a slow bite, partly because the food is good and partly because your brain is spinning too fast for you to say anything coherent. You tell yourself you’re imagining it—that this hum of domesticity is nothing. Just ambiance. Just good food and low lighting and a boy with soft hair and kind eyes who keeps looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every expression.

"So how'd you get here?" you ask, mostly to distract yourself from your own thoughts. "Blüdhaven, I mean. It's not exactly anyone's dream location."

"I could ask you the same question," he says, pointing at you with a fork. "I'm pretty sure you moved here a week after I did."

"Okay, how could you possibly know that?" you ask, and it's a deflection from a question you don't want to answer, yes, but you hope it's not obvious.

"I hate to break this to you, but your interview became water cooler gossip before you even left the building," Dick explains solemnly.

You do remember vaguely mentioning you only moved here a month ago in your interview, but you didn't think the officer taking your interview was paying enough attention to remember your name, let alone something you mentioned off-hand to make him feel guilty. Still, that must be how Dick knew, because it's not as if you have any social media accounts he could've stalked to find out that information.

"I thought you were too cool for water cooler gossip," you say. "Aloof and rude super-detective that you are."

"I am choosing to take that as a compliment," Dick says, and you can't quite bite back your laugh.

Dick’s eyes light up like you’ve done something extraordinary just by laughing, and that’s somehow more dangerous than the dim lights or the soft music or the way the table is just a little too small, forcing your knees to brush his every so often when you shift.

"Just for the record, I did not mean that as a compliment," you say.

"Words can hurt, you know," Dick immediately retorts.

You grin at him, but it slips before it settles.

Because this is the problem.

He’s funny and charming and kind. He made you laugh in under twenty minutes, and that hasn’t happened in months. He’s got this warm, golden thing about him—like sunlight held in a person—and it’s not just the dim restaurant lights that make you want to lean closer.

But the more you talk, the more you like him. And the more you like him, the worse the ache gets.

Because this isn’t sustainable.

Because the kind of life you live after dark doesn’t leave much room for golden boys with soft smiles and regular lives.

So you fold your napkin and pretend you're not cataloguing his smile, pretend you haven't already decided this was a one-and-done thing, pretend you haven't already pulled away.

"Do you always bring coworkers here?" you ask lightly, tilting your head as if you're just curious, not fishing.

Dick tilts his glass toward you, just a little. "Only the ones I like."

You make a show of raising your eyebrows. "Must be a very exclusive list."

"You have no idea." He takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t elaborate.

You manage a small, noncommittal smile and return to your food, even though you’re suddenly not very hungry. You’d blame the garlic, if the garlic weren’t objectively perfect.

The conversation drifts after that—nothing too heavy. He asks about your favorite movie, you dodge the question by listing three genres. You ask if he plays any instruments, and he tells you he can play a little guitar but nothing overtly complex. You talk about the coffee in the precinct being a crime against humanity and he grins and says something about filing a report.

You don't notice the time until the restaurant has half-emptied and your water's been refilled three times. The server comes by with a polite, "Take your time," that has please pay the bill and leave very thinly hidden underneath it.

Dick asks the bill to be brought around. You consider fighting him over who pays, but frankly, if he is getting pocket money from Bruce Wayne, you're going to let him pay.

As he drops his card on the bill tray, he says, "You can pay next time, for equality's sake."

What next time? you think and don't ask. He’s already standing, already heading to the front to tip the server personally. You watch him for a moment longer than you should.

You remind yourself again that this is just once. That it’s a brief little golden blip in the grayscale of your life. That nothing comes of this.

(You hate how even just looking at him fills you with bone-aching want.)

You walk back to his car in comfortable silence. The air is still warm from the day, but there's a breeze now, carrying with it the scent of the sea and faint car exhaust. You can hear music from somewhere down the block—something slow, jazzy, old.

Dick doesn’t touch you.

It’s strange how not touching can feel somehow intimate. Like if he even brushed his knuckles against yours, you might shatter right there on the sidewalk.

He opens the passenger door for you, but you pause, look up at the sky, and said, "It’s too nice out. Let’s walk."

And he—of course—smiles and said, "Lead the way."

You step off the curb, boots tapping softly against the cracked pavement, and Dick falls into step beside you. The city feels different tonight—quieter, softer, like it’s holding its breath just for the two of you. You could almost forget that this is the same Blüdhaven that has proved a gracious host to half a dozen rogues and probably two dozen gangs.

You don’t speak for the first few blocks. There’s no need to. The silence stretches between you, not heavy, not awkward—just there. Unspoken, companionable. His steps match yours, perfectly in sync, and you wonder if he's doing that on purpose. Can you do that on purpose? But then you think about it far too much, and you fall out of sync.

A cat darts across the road ahead of you, startled by some unseen movement. Dick watches it go, then glances your way, like he might say something. But he doesn’t.

You don’t ask what he was going to say. You’re not sure you want to know. You’re not sure you can handle knowing.

The streets are mostly empty now. A couple passes on the other side, laughing too loudly; a cyclist speeds past, headphones in. Blüdhaven sleeps light, but it does sleep eventually. That’s more than you can say for yourself most nights.

Dick tips his head back as you cross into a quieter stretch of road, eyes on the sky. "You can’t see a single star," he says, not quite disappointed. "Just light pollution pretending to be clouds."

"I like it," you say, glancing up to look at the sky even though you already know what you'll see there. "Not the pollution bit, obviously, just—"

"Just?"

"The stars make me feel small," you say, your words half a whisper by the time you finish saying the sentence.

Dick glances at you—just a flick of his eyes, sharp and thoughtful. You fall back into silence again, and this one lingers till you reach your own front step.

You stop at the base of your stairs, hands half-in your pockets, unsure of what you’re supposed to say next. The walk was supposed to give you time—time to cool down, to build your walls back up, to remind yourself what this wasn’t and couldn't be.

But now you’re here, and Dick is still beside you, close but not close enough to touch. Respectful. Careful. Patient in a way that feels more dangerous than any bold move could be.

You don’t move toward the door. Neither does he.

Instead, he breaks the silence, voice low. "Thanks for coming out tonight."

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose. "You say that like you didn’t spend two weeks bribing baristas and faking computer issues just to make it happen."

His mouth pulls into a lopsided grin. "I didn’t fake the last one. My laptop does hate me."

"That doesn’t mean you weren’t milking it for attention."

He laughs, and there's a lull of quiet again, before you say, "This was fun, Dick. I had a good time."

"Then why do you sound upset?" he asks, because he is a detective and maybe you're being a touch too obvious.

"I still don't date coworkers," you say, tone light. It's supposed to be a joke, supposed to hide the real reason, but you think he notices anyway. His smile in return is soft but a little forced.

"Well, then," he says. "Good thing this wasn't a date."

"Good thing," you repeat.

And if this night has been borrowed from some version of you that gets to have this, then maybe— maybe you get to borrow one more thing.

You press a kiss to his cheek, and linger there, for a moment, in his space before moving back. "Goodbye, Dick."

He doesn't respond to that, even when you walk up the front steps and close the door behind you.

[curly-cottage-girl]

if exercise is supposed to help stress than why is my blood pressure still high!! I have fantastic cardio health now but my blood pressure is still in the high range. I cannot win

[luthiensaralonde]

Gale Dekarios and his respect for women

It has become increasingly common in certain circles of discourse to dismiss Gale Dekarios as an “incel” or to accuse him of misogyny, based primarily on surface-level misinterpretations of his demeanor, his failed romance with Mystra, or his initial "arrogance." However, such takes fall apart when you actually delve into his relationship with women throughout the game. When examined holistically, Gale’s character is not only deeply shaped by his reverence for women, but he is, in many ways, a man defined by them.

Let’s begin with the obvious:

1. Mystra

Gale’s entire identity as a wizard is shaped by his worship of Mystra, the Lady of Mysteries, a goddess who not only governs magic but also represents the divine embodiment of the Weave itself. His desire to please her is not rooted in blind servitude or entitlement, but in reverence, devotion, and a sincere need to be worthy. The rupture in their relationship breaks him (not because he was spurned, but because he failed in her eyes).

Rather than rejecting her divinity in anger, Gale continues to refer to her as his goddess. There is no bitterness, only regret and longing. He blames himself, not her.

2. Morena

Gale proudly claims his mother’s surname, Dekarios. This is not just trivia, it is narrative choice. It speaks volumes about the figure who raised him. We hear nothing about his father and perhaps by design. The person Gale claims, honors, and symbolically identifies with is his mother.

3. Tara

Even Gale’s most loyal companion, Tara, is female. Gale never belittles or dismisses her, but listens to her, even when she challenges him. Their relationship is playful, but deeply respectful.

The idea that a man would form his closest companionship with a magical female creature, one who scolds him and still follows him across Faerûn, hardly aligns with any definition of misogyny. She's basically his second parent.

4. His Dream Guardian

Gale is notably the only origin character who refers to the Dream Guardian as "she". This subtle but significant detail shows how he relates to femininity even in liminal, psychological spaces. It’s not just that he can project a female identity onto the Guardian, it’s that he chooses to.

5. His Reactions to Female NPCs

Take, for instance, the scene with Mayrina. While other characters show skepticism or even irritation toward her plight, Gale immediately expresses concern:

"She's a pregnant lady in distress, we can't just stand by and pretend she's not here."

This moment reveals his instinctive protectiveness and empathy, particularly toward vulnerable women. He doesn’t question her intelligence or her choices, he simply believes she deserves help.

Another subtle but telling scene is with Isobel at the Last Light Inn. Gale’s interactions with her (especially if you let him speak) are marked by concern and measured respect. He doesn't undermine, or try to dominate the conversation. He listens, asks questions, and is genuinely invested.

This probably isn't as important to my point, but I just want to mention his protectiveness/concern for children, most of them in the game, female: Arabella, Mol, Yenna etc.

6. His Respect for Female Companions

Gale’s interactions with the women in the party are often gentler, more complimentary, and emotionally open than those with the male companions. I could list an abundance of dialogue examples, but I'll save that for another post perhaps.

Meanwhile, Gale’s interactions with male companions (like Astarion or Wyll) are often tinged with sarcasm, rivalry, or distance. While not hostile, they lack the warmth and admiration he reserves for women.

With that said, Gale Dekarios is not a perfect man, but he is a profoundly emotional and thoughtful one. His arrogance masks deep insecurity, and his charm belies years of shame, grief, and loneliness. What is undeniable, however, is that women occupy a place of importance in his life, not as objects of conquest, but as guides, caretakers, protectors, friends, and potentially lovers.

To reduce him to an “incel” is to ignore the text in favor of a meme. At the heart of Gale Dekarios lies a deep and abiding reverence for the divine feminine.

To dismiss his love for Mystra as toxic entitlement is to misunderstand heartbreak.

And to overlook the way he trusts, follows, and loves women is to miss the deeper beauty of Gale Dekarios entirely.

[queenofwands89]

Quiet Affections

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Pilot!reader

Summary: After her friends tease her about Jake having a crush on her, Y/N reflects on certain memories that make her question whether there might be some truth to their playful jabs.

Warnings: Teasing, pining, Jake being a sweetheart, Y/N being oblivious, insults aimed at Y/N, protective Jake, mention and description of injury, anxiety, doubts, fluff.

Notes: Happy Friday, everyone! We made it! 🎉 I just hit 2,500 likes on here and wanted to thank each and every one of you who liked, reblogged, or commented on my works. It means the world to me. I’m down bad for Jake, and need him badly so I wrote this. Enjoy byeeee

You find yourself deep in the heart of the Hard Deck, the familiar hum of chatter and clinking glasses forming a comforting backdrop. Rooster, Natasha, Javy, Bob, Reuben, and Mickey are clustered around the pool table, laughter spilling freely as they take turns making shots and throwing jabs. Jake had just excused himself to go to the restroom, but not before brushing a lingering hand against your shoulder and whispering something that made you smile. This action set off a chain reaction of teasing directed at you.

"Y/N, you know Hangman’s got a huge crush on you, right?" Rooster's mustache twitches with a sly smile as he lines up for his shot.

You laugh it off, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh please, Bradley. Jake? No way. He's just... nice."

Rooster and Natasha exchange glances before Natasha cocks an eyebrow at you. "Nice? Hangman is many things, but nice isn't the first word I'd use. Unless he’s talking to you," she remarks, tapping her cue stick against her palm.

Bob, always the quiet observer, chimes in. "He's got a point though, Y/N. I've seen how he looks at you."

You can't help but roll your eyes. "I'm just completely unaware of it," you say, sarcasm dripping from your voice. "You guys are ridiculous."

Mickey grins, his boyish charm lighting up his face. "Maybe, but can you really deny the way he's always got your back?" he asks, leaning casually against the pool table.

Your first instinct is to rebut, but as their words settle in, you start to think about some of the things Jake had done for you. Not just the grand gestures like saving your hide in aerial combat, but the small, everyday things. The way he'd always save you a seat, bring you coffee exactly how you like it, offer subtle words of encouragement when you doubted yourself.

Javy steps forward, his competitive spirit twinkling in his eyes. "You're telling me you haven't noticed how he always goes out of his way to make sure you're okay?"

Reuben, good-natured but always vigilant, nods in agreement. "Hangman's not exactly an altruistic guy, Y/N. But for you? He'd go to lengths he wouldn't for anyone else."

You crack a wry smile, determined to stay firm in your denial. "He's just protective. We're teammates."

Natasha had already joined in, her voice warm yet teasing. “Don’t sell yourself short, Y/N. It’s not just about being teammates. He genuinely cares.”

In the ensuing silence, you can't help but ponder on their words. Jake "Hangman" Seresin is charismatic and assertive, traits forged from his exceptional flying skills and competitive nature. But beneath that cocky exterior, there lies a heart incredibly loving and caring, willing to sacrifice anything for his loved ones. Slowly, you find yourself drifting into a vivid memory, reliving the countless cherished moments and experiences you've shared with Jake.

You recall that evening at the Hard Deck vividly. The bar was buzzing with the usual chatter and laughter, the hum of camaraderie filling the air. You were amidst your friends, enjoying the rare downtime when an unfamiliar voice cut through the noise—this stranger making an offhand but cruel remark about you. The comment was subtle, yet it stung deeply, rooting you in place with a mix of shock and mortification. Your cheeks burned under the weight of the ridicule, words lodged in your throat.

Before you could muster a response, you felt Jake's presence beside you, solid and reassuring. He stepped forward, placing himself between you and the offender. His usual easy going demeanor was replaced by a steely resolve, his eyes dark with anger. "Do us all a favor and think before you speak," he said, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge.

The bar fell into an uneasy silence as Jake’s glare pinned the offender in place. "If you've got a problem with Y/N," he continued, his voice low and unwavering, "you’ll be dealing with me."

The tension hung in the air, thick and palpable. The offender, unable to match Jake's intensity, muttered an apology and slunk away, deflated. The moment passed, but the impact lingered. Jake remained there a moment longer, ensuring the threat had fully dissipated before turning back to you.

As he met your gaze, the hardness in his features softened, replaced by a gentle concern. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with a tenderness reserved just for you.

You felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude, the initial embarrassment giving way to a profound sense of relief. Jake had stood up for you without a second thought, his protective instinct leaving no room for compromise. In that moment, you knew you were safe, not just physically but emotionally, knowing Jake had your back. His touch and the concern in his eyes reassured you even more, providing a solace that words alone could not.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

Then there was the night when you couldn’t sleep, tormented by insecurities that gnawed at the edges of your mind. It was long past midnight, and you found yourself seated on the deck of the aircraft carrier, trying to get some fresh air to clear your head before the mission. The vast expanse of the ocean and the cool night breeze did little to quiet the whirlwind of self-doubt swirling inside you.

The stars dotted the sky like tiny beacons, and the waves below gently lapped against the ship's hull, but none of it brought you peace. You wrapped your arms around yourself, tense and lost in thought, barely noticing the sound of footsteps approaching.

Jake emerged from the shadows, his silhouette becoming clearer in the soft glow of the ship's lights. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing with concern. He looked around, ensuring no one else was around, before walking over to you with determined but careful strides.

"Y/N, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice breaking the solitude with an edge of worry.

You hesitated, feeling foolish for bothering him. "I…I just can't stop thinking about everything that's been going wrong. I don't know if I'm cut out for this, Jake."

Jake's eyes softened, and he lowered himself to sit beside you on the cold metal deck. "Tell me more," he said gently, coaxing you to open up. His voice was so steady, so soothing, that you found yourself pouring out all your fears and anxieties—the relentless pressure, the fear of failure, the nagging feeling that you weren't good enough. With each word, you felt a weight lifting from your chest.

Jake listened without interrupting, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by an unwavering focus on you. His eyes never left your face, and his expression remained kind and attentive. "You know what I see when I look at you?" he said quietly once you had finished. "I see someone who's brave, who fights every day to be better, who cares deeply about others. You're stronger than you think, Y/N. Don't let those doubts control you."

His words felt like a balm to your soul, soothing the raw edges of your insecurities. When he reached out to brush a stray tear from your cheek, the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his eyes melted away your remaining doubts, leaving you wrapped in a cocoon of reassurance. Sitting there on the deck, under the endless sky, you felt profoundly grateful for Jake's unwavering support and the strength he helped you find within yourself.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

You also remember the time when you injured your ankle during a training exercise. You had insisted on limping back to your quarters, trying to maintain your independence. But Jake wouldn't hear of it. He had scooped you up without a second thought, cradling you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic gentleness. The entire trek back, he kept you engaged in light-hearted banter, ensuring your mind stayed off the pain.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

And how could you forget the morning he had brought you coffee? Not just any coffee, but a complex, personalized concoction—an oat milk latte with a shot of caramel, a pinch of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg, and no foam. You hadn’t even mentioned it to him before. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up," he had said nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But you knew the effort he had put into remembering such a detailed order, and it made your heart swell with an unfamiliar warmth.

These memories play in your mind like a cherished montage, each moment a testament to the man beneath the bravado. Jake "Hangman" Seresin wasn’t just the cocky pilot everyone else saw. He was a protector, a confidant, a friend who cared deeply for you, even if you had been too blind to see it before.

Returning back to the present moment amidst the lively ambiance of the Hard Deck, surrounded by the warmth of friends and laughter, you notice Jake returning from the restroom. As your eyes meet, his familiar smirk emerges, but this time there’s a tender softness in his gaze that you hadn’t noticed before—or perhaps, hadn't allowed yourself to see.

“Miss me?” he jokes, sliding back into the chaos of pool cues and friendly banter.

You chuckle, shaking off the speculative thoughts. “Like a bad habit, Seresin.”

But later, as the night winds down and the camaraderie ebbs into a quieter hum, you catch yourself glancing his way more often. The teasing remarks of your friends aren’t so easily dismissed anymore. And as Jake catches your gaze across the room, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they might be onto something.

Because sometimes, the most significant realizations are the ones that had been right in front of you all along, masked by the comfort of friendship and the chaos of duty.

You smile to yourself, feeling an inexplicable warmth. Maybe it was time to see what was beyond the camaraderie, to delve into the possibilities of what if. The thought lingers, like an unopened letter, waiting for the right moment.

For now, you return to the laughter and games, but with a new awareness, a curiosity that couldn’t be easily shaken. One thing was for sure—things were going to get interesting.

-

Text divider credits: @bunnysrph

[deathofacupid]

BEYOND CLOUDS. ᡣ𐭩 content — satoru gojo. depression, poor mental health. hurt + comfort, fluff. requested!

satoru's noticed that look. it starts with a slow blink, your eyes glazing over, as if everything is fading. satoru isn't sure if you even realize it, but you do. that's how it always begins. you grow quieter, like the world's volume is being turned down, replaced by a faint ringing in your ears.

every single time. so, when he sees the energy draining from you, satoru can't bring himself to leave your side. you insist you're fine, but there's that flicker of uncertainty, and that's enough to keep him rooted.

you don't know where it comes from, this feeling. one moment, you're fine. better than fine. you've got the love of your life sitting in front of you, laughing at some silly joke, and then… you're not. suddenly, you're swamped by an overwhelming dread, a weight that drags you down. thinking too much and too little, all at once.

you're curled up on the couch with him, tired. not the kind sleep can fix, and believe you, you've tried. it's the kind that settles deep in your bones, stealing your ability to do anything.

it's quiet. not uncomfortably so, but you wouldn't mind hearing his voice. as if he's reading your mind, he opens his mouth, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back.

"the weather's nice today," satoru muses.

you give him a look. "you haven't been outside all day. how would you know?"

"well, the weather's always nice when i'm with you," he grins. you think he's trying to be romantic, and you appreciate it. even if it doesn't make much sense. but he's got that giddy look, eyes bright and gleaming, that deep blue you love.

you snort in response. it's enough encouragement for him, enough to keep him talking. "it's true! i feel… sunny," satoru insists, and you indulge him, shaking your head.

"yeah?"

"yeah. you make me feel sunny."

that gets a chuckle out of you, though it's more sarcastic than he intended. "seriously? i'm not a sun. i'm, like, a giant looming raincloud."

"no, you're not. you're a giant looming sun-cloud."

you sigh. you always feel guilty. guilty that satoru's pulled into this mess, your mess. he tells you not to think that way, that he loves you and he's always here. a part of you feels selfish.

you haven't gone through a fraction of what he's endured, and yet, he still fares so much better. so, what right do you have to curl up in a ball, curtains closed, sheets messy, pillows scattered, dishes in the sink unwashed, laundry overflowing?

"sorry," you murmur.

"for?" he asks, genuinely confused. does he really want you to spell it out?

"this. you know. you're supposed to be at school."

"don't apologize," satoru says, dismissing it immediately. you're about to protest, but he cuts you off. "remember when sugu died?" he asks, his voice quiet.

"i was a wreck. you were the only one who saw me like that, at my weakest, when i shouldn't ever be."

"satoru…" you breathe.

"you got me through that, because you love me. how is this any different?"

"well, i didn't lose anyone," you protest, weakly.

"so? hurt is hurt, baby. doesn't matter how you get it."

you fall silent. what can you say? satoru tilts your chin up, his gaze meeting yours. "why don't we go check out the weather, then? see if i'm right?"

and, as you stood in your lawn, squinting up at the vast sky, hand-in-hand with satoru and his goofy grin, you realized he was right.

[etz-ashashiyot]

Hi, I saw your post about Jewish indigeneity and as a non-Jewish, non-indigenous person, have a genuine question that I hope you will take in good faith. At what point of conflict and violence do we say that being indigenous to a region does not actually confer land rights? I understand that having land stolen is a travesty and a part of genocide, and I don't mean to be dismissive. But at some level of conflict and violence, is it not healthier for individals to learn to love the place they are at, the people around them, and the new culture they can build together? I think there are ways to do that which are not assimilationist. And I think the ongoing suffering in war cannot be justified by mere land claims. I am presenting this to you hoping you can help me understand your view better, especially if you disagree with me. What am I missing? Thank you for considering my questions.

I'm gonna be honest: the fact that this is coming from a blank blog makes me far less likely to want to answer it, especially because I haven't been on tumblr as much lately and thus don't know if this is a copypasta ask.

Who are you? Have you read my pinned post? Have you read the many, many sources in it?

I am going to give you extremely truncated answers, but understand that you have a lot of reading to do that is not possible to summarize in an answer to a tumblr ask. (Edit: this got a lot longer than I expected, but I stand by my words that these are truncated, incomplete answers. You need to read several books to actually develop a reasonable understanding of this.)

At what point of conflict and violence do we say that being indigenous to a region does not actually confer land rights?

Never. What you are asking here conflates two separate concerns: (1) the rights of an indigenous group to the land they are indigenous to, and (2) the ethical responsibilities said indigenous group has towards other human beings, in particular those who also live on that land. People don't lose their indegeneity and thus their ties to the land by being bad people. "Indigenous" is not an indicator of moral purity or uprightness. It means that they have deep cultural, historical, and (often) religious roots in a particular land that cannot be severed without totally destroying the group as such.

Eretz Yisrael will always be the homeland of the Jewish people regardless of whether we have control over it or not, whether we have a sovereign nation there or not, whether we are permitted to live there or even visit there or not. All of our religious and cultural practices tie back to eretz Yisrael, even ones that have been adapted to the diaspora. Religiously observant Jews pray facing Jerusalem three times a day, our liturgy is infused with references to the land, the Temple in Jerusalem, the redemption (of the people to the land) and/or specific attributes of the land. Our sacred texts occur in and make constant reference to the land and our observance of the mitzvot and how that relates to the land. (A ton of the religious laws we are given are land-based because it developed as an agricultural religion, and a huge number of the rest are related to the Temple in Jerusalem.) We have three pilgrimage festivals that pre- forced diaspora, all Jews would make back to Jerusalem to make specific sacrifices. We still observe these festivals in ways adapted to the diaspora, but you need to understand that the essential condition of diasporic Jewry is one of constant longing to return to the land. We observe these things today to keep the knowledge alive so that someday, future generations of Jews can use that knowledge in eretz Yisrael. Jews are of that land and can never be severed from it without becoming something entirely different.

Now. Does that give us a right to act with total impunity? Absolutely not. We still have moral obligations to our fellow human beings that we have to observe no matter what. That is true of all peoples everywhere, indigenous or not.

But the idea that you can "punish" an indigenous group by severing their roots is to say that total cultural annihilation is a valid punishment ever, which is genocidal rhetoric.

I understand that having land stolen is a travesty and a part of genocide, and I don't mean to be dismissive.

You answered your own question here, don't you see? Reread what you wrote here, as many times as you need to, until you get it.

But at some level of conflict and violence, is it not healthier for individals to learn to love the place they are at, the people around them, and the new culture they can build together?

You need to read some Jewish history.

If you are asking this question about Israel, and in particular the Israel / Palestine conflict, you need to read more Jewish history.

"....to learn to love the place they are at" Jews in the diaspora tried this. Please read this list.

"...the people around them" Do you think that Jews were expelled, pogrommed, and genocided multiple times across numerous locations because we didn't "love the people around us" enough? For real? Read about the Kielce Pogrom and get back to me on that.

"...the new culture they can build together" Ah. I see. Yes this is the thing:

We don't fucking need a new culture. We have been fighting to practice the culture we already have in peace for thousands of years.

I think there are ways to do that which are not assimilationist.

Well. You're wrong. You are one in a long long long long long long long long long long long line of gentiles who think that "Jews can just..." and (1) you're wrong; read what the Nazis did to ethnic Jews who converted to Christianity, the history of "new Christians"/conversos/etc. but also even if that were guaranteed to work (2) why should we have to change our culture instead of other people not trying to kill us for it?

And I think the ongoing suffering in war cannot be justified by mere land claims.

This war is not about land claims though; not really. Hamas wants every Jew dead. That is why they started this war. They have promised a new October 7th every day until the whole land is entirely judenfrei. Of course there are reasonable Palestinians with legitimate policy objectives, but that's not who's driving this war, and the ones in Gaza who speak up about it tend to get abducted or have their families disappeared and are tortured until they escape, die, or are silenced.

Are there legitimate things to be discussed about Israel's approach in this war and/or in general? Sure. But this isn't "mere land claims." This is about the safety, lives, and self-determination of half the global Jewish population, the vast majority of whom are only there in the first place because they themselves or their parents/grandparents/great-grandparents fled (or were forcibly relocated) there as refugees of genocide. Israel is the only remaining place in the world for certain smaller Jewish sub-ethnicities. If Israel is destroyed, so much will be lost. And, we will be back to being subjects of the whims of hostile foreign powers who have proven again and again that they will just periodically expel or murder lots of us when it is politically useful for them to do so.

That is what is at stake for us.

The fact that you think that our connection to the land is "mere land claims" and not an existential part of our identity says volumes by itself, but the fact that you don't know what is actually at stake for us says even more. It tells me that you have a lot of reading to do.

What am I missing?

Empathy. History. Context.

Read People Love Dead Jews - I think it will help you understand more of these issues. There are other helpful sources in my pinned post too.

[heliosunny]

Hi! An idea I'd love to see - Fae!Phainon with a Reader that used to play with him where they were a child and visited the little village they grandma lived in. It's too bad they made a little promise to him long time ago without thinking through the consequences and now that they are back...

Yandere!Fae Phainon x Reader

You were only a child when you first met him, lost in the dense, whispering woods beyond your grandmother’s village. The elders always warned you about the Fae, about the creatures that watched from the shadows, their laughter mingling with the rustling leaves.

They said the Fae despised humans. That they could see through human nature, through the greed and the lies, and that no bond between mortal and fae could ever be genuine.

But you were young. You didn’t understand hatred. Not yet.

You found Phainon sitting in the roots of an old, gnarled tree, silver hair tangled and matted, his strange, sharp blue eyes narrowed in pain. Bruises marred his skin, dark against his pale complexion. His fine, delicate clothes were torn, though even in their ruined state, they were more elegant than anything you had ever seen.

It was clear that he was not human. He glared at you, his small hands curling into fists as you stepped closer.

“Go away!” His voice was sharp, like the cold bite of winter. “I don’t need your pity.”

You hesitated.

“I just want to help” you said.

Phainon bared his teeth at you, his pointed canines flashing in the dim light. “Help? Like a human could ever help me.”

Even at that young age, his hatred for humans ran deep. You should have listened. You should have left. But instead, you did something foolish. You took him back to your grandmother’s house.

It was not easy. He resisted at first, lashing out like a wounded animal, but he was too weak to fight you properly. The moment your grandmother saw him, her face paled, and she immediately started whispering old protection charms under her breath. But she did not turn him away.

“Fae or not, a child is a child” she murmured as she tended to his wounds.

Phainon never forgot that.

For days, he was silent. You would sit near him, chattering about the village, about the flowers that bloomed in spring, about how you wished you could fly like the birds. You never expected him to respond. Until one evening, when the fire crackled low, he finally spoke. “I hate humans” he whispered, staring into the flames. “They’re cruel. Selfish. Liars.” You were quiet for a moment. Then, you asked, “Do you hate me?” Phainon turned his head, and for the first time, he truly looked at you. “…I don’t know yet.”

Time passed, and Phainon became your only fae friend.

He showed you the hidden places in the woods where the fae danced under the moonlight. You brought him food from the village, and in return, he whispered the names of things humans had forgotten, the true names of the wind and the rivers, the secret paths that bent reality itself.

But the fae did not forget. Phainon was warned, again and again, that no good would come from caring for a human. And yet, he stayed.

When the time came for you to leave your grandmother’s village, you saw something you never expected in his eyes. Desperation.

“You’ll come back” he said.

You smiled. “Of course, I will. And when I do, we’ll be together. Forever.”

It was just a childhood promise. A silly thing. You meant it in the way children always do fleeting, thoughtless, without weight.

But words have power. And the fae never forget.

Years passed. The world changed. Fate pulled you back to that village, back to where Phainon waited, where your long-forgotten promise had never been forgotten at all.

Phainon had changed.

Once a wary, quiet fae, he had risen through the ranks, becoming one of the most revered among his kind. Where once his presence had been dismissed, now fae spoke of him in hushed admiration, their words laced with awe and devotion. He was no longer just Phainon, he was an elite, his power undeniable, his beauty otherworldly.

When you returned to your grandmother’s house, the air felt different. She was no longer there.

The fae had not forgotten you, nor had they forgiven. The moment you stepped into the village, whispers slithered through the wind, voices filled with contempt.

“The human has returned.”

“They dare come back after abandoning him?”

“Phainon will visit them. Let’s see if they still holds that promise.”

You barely had time to react before you felt it, an undeniable presence looming nearby. And then, from the shadows, he stepped forward.

Phainon stood before you, taller, sharper, his gaze piercing through you with unreadable intensity.

“You came back!” One evening, while wandering near the village, you stumbled upon a scene that made you pause. A beautiful fae woman, adorned in glistening silks and with eyes full of admiration, stood before Phainon, her voice carrying through the air.

“Phainon, you have become someone great. Would you consider taking me as your bonded one?”

A silence stretched between them before he replied, his tone cold and dismissive. “No.”

The fae woman's face twisted in disbelief. “Why? Is it because of the human?” Her gaze flickered in your direction before she turned on her heel and vanished into the night.

Later, you found Phainon sitting beneath the same ancient oak you used to share. Smirking, you teased “So, rejecting admirers now? You must be quite popular.”

He sighed, but the corner of his lips quirked slightly. “Their affections are meaningless.”

You nudged him playfully. “I dunno, she seemed quite taken with you.”

Phainon only looked at you, his gaze unreadable.

However, what you didn’t see was the seething anger lingering in the eyes of the rejected fae. She had seen the way Phainon looked at you, the way he reserved his softer moments for you alone. Her heart burned with jealousy, and she would not accept being cast aside so easily.

That night, something was slipped into your drink. A strange, shimmering liquid that clouded your vision and made your limbs feel weightless. Panic gripped you as the world spun, and before you could cry for help, only one name slipped from your lips.

“Phainon…”

He was there in an instant, catching you as you collapsed. His grip tightened as he caught the scent of foul magic laced within you.

“Who did this?” His voice was deathly quiet, but rage simmered beneath his words.

You barely managed to whisper “I... don't know.”

His expression turned lethal. Whoever dared to harm you would pay.

A flush spread across your cheeks, and your fingers instinctively gripped his cloak. "Phainon... I feel strange."

Realizing something was terribly wrong, he scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you inside your room as you buried your face against his chest, your breath ragged.

Laying you down on your bed, his fingers brushed your damp hair back, his gaze flickering with a mixture of worry and something deeper. "Focus on me." he whispered.

A strange, intoxicating need curled in your gut, making you shift restlessly. Your hand trailed up his arm, seeking warmth, grounding. He exhaled sharply, his resolve flickering. "Damn it" he muttered, reaching into his pouch with one hand while the other took out a dagger. He brought a bundle of crushed herbs to your lips. He used the dagger to cut his wrist, leaving blood flows upon your lips "Chew on this. Careful."

You obeyed, the bitterness jolting your senses. The fog clouding your mind slowly lifted, though your body still trembled with residual heat. Phainon's thumb brushed against your bottom lip as he ensured you swallowed the antidote, his eyes lingering on yours.

"Better?" His voice was quieter now, rough with restraint.

You nodded slowly, the frantic beating of your heart beginning to settle. "Phainon... thank you."

His fingers traced your cheek before he pulled away, visibly struggling with his emotions. "They won’t get away with this" he vowed. But the fae were relentless. The whispers started first, mocking murmurs whenever you walked through the village. "Pathetic human" one sneered. "Thinking you belong here just because Phainon protects you."

Another laughed cruelly. "He only pities you. Do you really think he’d ever choose a weak creature like you over his own kind?"

Shoves in the marketplace, stolen goods, malicious pranks that left bruises and cuts, each incident only added to the growing tension. When you confronted Phainon about it, he merely stared at you, his eyes unreadable. Then came the worst of it. You had been walking near the cliffs, taking in the salty air, when you felt an unnatural shove against your back. The world blurred as you teetered dangerously close to the edge. A voice whispered "Oops, did you slip?"

A shriek tore from your throat as you struggled to regain balance, the abyss below calling to you. Just as you began to fall, strong arms wrapped around you, yanking you back with inhuman speed. Phainon.

He turned to your attacker, his expression deathly cold. "You dare lay a hand on Y/n?" His voice was low, laced with a promise of suffering. The air crackled with an ominous energy, the fae responsible shrinking back in fear.

You clung to him. "Phainon, don't waste your energy on such matter."

But the damage was done. When you returned to the house, you made a firm decision. "I should leave" you said firmly. "If they keep coming after me, it’ll only put you at risk too."

"But... You promised me that we will be together forever." he whispered, brushing his fingers along your wrist, where your pulse trembled. "You said we'd never part. That no force in this world or the next could take you from me."

You didn't remember making such a promise. Forever? That word felt too large, too binding. Yet Phainon gazed at you with the certainty of someone who never forgot. His ethereal blue eyes shimmered in the dim light, holding you captive in their depths.

You tried to deny it, but a distant memory stirred, laughter echoing beneath the silver moon, hands clasped tight. Oh the naivety of youth. You hadn't thought it serious. But Phainon had.

"And now..." He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your fingertips before turning your palm upward. A faint, sharp sting followed, his nail slicing just enough to draw a drop of crimson.

Your protest died on your lips when he did the same to himself, allowing a single droplet of his shimmering fae blood to meet yours. The moment they touched, the world shifted.

A searing warmth crawled through your veins, more intoxicating than fire, more binding than chains. Your breath hitched as unseen threads wove around your soul, pulling tight. You swayed, gripping Phainon's arm for balance, and he only smiled, his touch gentle, his eyes alight with triumph.

"It's done. I've been planning this for so long." He licked on your fresh wound, it healed almost immediately. His voice held no malice, only devotion "You are mine, as I am yours."

"Do you remember the night you drink my blood along with those herbs. I didn't expect them to act so careless. But lucky me, you didn't even doubt a thing. With this bond, you can never leave."

A chill ran through you, even as your senses sharpened. You could hear the whisper of leaves outside, feel the heartbeat of the forest in time with your own. You had changed.

The following days brought a drastic shift. Barriers of ancient magic wove around your grandmother’s house, binding you in an invisible cage. Phainon's voice carried over the wind "No matter what happens, you’re staying here. With me. Forever"

[joyswonderland1108]

"It's Just Company Content" - A Masterclass in Missing the Entire Point of BTS (and Jikook for obvious reasons)

You ever see someone say "Jikook is just fanservice" or "that's just company content" and feel like your last three brain cells just collectively jumped ship? Same.

Let's break this down. Grab a snack. I'm about to get emotional, petty, and philosophical all in one go.

1. "Company Content" Is literally how we know them. Let that sink in.

So let me get this straight: You're dismissing Jikook moments because it was.. filmed? Uploaded? Edited and shared with us?

BABE. That's how we know all of BTS. You didn't personally sit across from Namjoon while he read Nietzsche. You didn't hold Yoongi's mic during his underground rap era. You didn't see Jungkook's first dance lesson. Everything we know, their personalities, quirks, chaos, brilliance, kindness, and vulnerabilities, came to us through content.

Whether it's Run BTS, Bon Voyage, random lives, AYS, Run Jin, Suchwita, IG posts, etc. We built our connection with them through what they shared, be it company-directed or personal.

2. Imagine being BTS, sharing your soul, only to be told "Fake!"

Jungkook: [writes songs about missing someone, cries mid-performance, posts literal dream confessions]

Jimin : [Shows up unannounced to support him, writes letters, bakes bread with his hands that are legally considered lethal weapons]

Some armchair analyst on Twitter: "That's fake. It was in a Bangtan Bomb"

Okay, sure Brenda.

Imagine the audacity of someone giving you pieces of themselves in the form of music, dance, laughter, and years of consistent bonds, only to be told it doesn't count because you saw it through official means.

What were you expecting? Hidden camera footage from their dreams? Should Jungkook have sent a carrier pigeon instead?

3. "We don't know them personally" - EXCEPT when it's convenient for you?

The irony of people screaming "You don't know them personally!" while also confidently stating "Jikook isn't real. They're just close friends, stop deluding yourselves."

So wait.. You do know them personally? Did they text you that?

Because unless Park Jimin called you crying at 2 AM saying "Hey, FYI, I'm not emotionally attached to Jungkook" maybe, just maybe, don't dismiss what has been shown to us for over a decade.

You can't pick and choose when they're real people with real emotions and when they're holograms programmed by BigHit.

4. "It's Only Jikook that's fake apparently?"

Curious, isn't it? Other duos can have their moments. Other friendships are "sweet", "loyal", "soulmate-level". But when it's Jikook, suddenly there's an NDA and a green screen involved?

They hold eye contact like a telenovela? "That's editing."

They giggle like they just kissed behind stage? "Just bros"

They disappear together and show up glowing? "Maybe they just exfoliated."

Why is Jikook the only bond people feel the need to aggressively sanitize?

If the only argument you have against them is "It's filmed content" you might want to double-check your bias list.. Or your subconscious.

5. Some of y'all sound like you want to get BTS content illegally and THEN you'll believe it?

The real kicker: the same people saying "company content is fake" are also the ones digging through sketchy private airport videos or whispering about sketchy "sightings" like they're in a true crime doc.

So you're saying the only way to validate Jikook's relationship is to see it off-screen.. by stalking them? What??

And i'm not even talking about random genuine sightings when Army happen to come across them, but full on people getting their private schedules, camping outside their places or the places they usually like to go to, etc..

Let's be clear:

Company content = BTS choosing to share with us.

Organic Army sightings = accidental, often sweet, and rooted in respect.

Stalker footage = creepy, unethical, and not content.

So if you're ignoring what they willingly give and romanticizing what they don't, maybe you're not a skeptic. Maybe you're just.. disrespectful.

Because again, why is it that the realness of Jikook, or any BTS bond, only matters to you when it's behind a grainy camera lens, not when it's in HD, with subtitles, and wrapped in genuine affection?

6. Jikook has shown up consistently. For Years. In Every Format.

Let's roll the tape.

Run BTS? Jikook are physically glued to each other.

Bon Voyage? They sleep next to each other like it's a law of physics.

Interviews? "Who are you closest to?" "Jimin". "Jungkook"

Lives? "I miss Jimin" "Jungkook is watching"

Dreams?? Jungkook : "I dreamed about Jimin again"

They're not hiding. They've never hidden. You just don't want to see it unless it fits your idea of "real".

But real doesn't have to be off-camera. Real can be live. Real can be edited. Real can be content.

I'm taking this opportunity to share @slaaverin 's amazing edit:

7. Company Content is a Window. Don't spit on the glass.

Yes, we don't know BTS personally. But the only way we know them at all is because they decided to show us parts of themselves.

So when you say "It's just content", what you're really saying is : "Everything they've shared doesn't matter."

And that's just.. tragic.

They could've kept it all to themselves. But they didn't.

They let us in, in their own way, through what they chose to share, and honestly? That's more real than anything you could steal from a hidden camera or baseless rumor mill.

In Conclusion: Just say you don't like Jikook and Go

Because if your only counter-argument is "it's company content" then:

You're not debunking anything.

You're not smarter than the rest of us.

You're just uncomfortable with the possibility that Jikook is actually unapologetically real.

And you know what?

That's okay. Just admit it and move. Don't drag the entire concept of content, trust, or the emotional contract between BTS and ARMY down with you.

So yeah, dismissing Jikook as "just fanservice" is lazy, weak, and honestly disrespectful to BTS, the fans, and the literal art of communication.

And if content is all we have, then content is what we honor. That's the deal. That's the bond. That's BTS.

[nothorses]

Hi, I'm new on Tumblr. I've been doing a ton of research on TERFs and TIRFs and white feminism, and a lot of people say that the problems with all of these movements at least partially stem from the fact that they all are based off the framework of radical feminism. I'm having trouble understanding the connection, and you seem pretty knowledgeable about this sort of stuff. Could you explain the flaws in radical feminism that cause the problems in these movements?

Sorry this has sat for so long!

"Radical feminism" originates in the second wave of feminism: the first-wave/liberal feminist belief was that patriarchy is a legal issue that can be solved through changes in law. The second wave/radical feminist belief is that patriarchy stems from individually-held biases and large-scale cultural misogyny, and requires a fundamental cultural shift in order to solve. Which is an important step forward in feminist thought! Subsequent waves of feminism included and built on those ideas.

The core of the issue with radical feminism is that it is still very much holds that the oppression of women is the first or most fundamental form of oppression, and everything else is built on top of that. Even when radical feminists do pay lipservice to other forms of oppression, ultimately those things just can't be as important; and even when this belief isn't explicit or conscious for a particular individual, the implication is present in all of the other radical feminist beliefs that have come from that core idea.

So, if women's oppression is the root of all oppression, why focus on other kinds of oppression? Why focus on racism, ableism, classism, religious persecution, or any other form of oppression? Surely, those problems will be resolved when we dismantle patriarchy.

If misogyny lies at the center of it all, well, it follows that other forms of oppression also stem directly from misogyny- or are, literally, just misogyny. For example, they tend to believe that lesbophobia exists entirely because lesbians aren't available to men, and homophobia exists entirely because men are acting like women; biphobia is just a combination of those two things, and therefore doesn't actually exist as a unique phenomenon.

It also follows that the greatest privilege that one can hold is being a man. Black men cannot be uniquely oppressed, because male privilege is the ultimate and most fundamental privilege there is- and the same goes for other men of color, disabled men, gay men, etc. Radical feminists are generally uncomfortable with the idea that white women can oppress men of color at all, or they dismiss that possibility outright.

Bioessentialism and gender essential are foundationally important to radical feminism for this reason: they need to know how to categorize you. Are you a man (oppressor), or a woman (oppressed)? Or, if you don't like that language: Are you woman-aligned or man-aligned? Are you feminine or masculine? Woman and/or femme, or other? Man or non-man? AMAB or AFAB? Are you TME or TMA?

Whether they define "woman" and "man" by some oversimplified version of "biological sex" (think TERFs); by a more lenient, but still oversimplified version of gender identity; or whether they redraw the lines slightly to create a new gender binary, the core idea is the same: women are one way, men are another, and men always oppress women.

This gender essentialism is also why radfems tend to cling so hard to ideas that very obviously strip women of their agency. Misogyny is viewed as so fundamental to the shaping of every single person and their every decision that radfems often believe that a woman cannot truly consent to certain kinds of sex or sex-related work. If it is in service of a man in any way, it must be motivated by patriarchy and misogyny, and it therefore cannot be genuinely consensual. (Nevermind the fact that this work is also often in service of the woman in question, performed for other women, performed by men for women, or performed by men for other men... etc.)

The original shift from first- to second-wave feminism was a good one, and radical feminism contains some really solid feminist ideas. There are also a lot of other branches of feminism, most of which share the exact same good ideas & build on them in far better, more intersectional and inclusive ways. People don't see "radfem" as a red flag because they believe liberal feminism is the way to go-- they avoid it because the reasons for identifying as a radfem in the present day are generally limited to the aspects of radical feminism that virtually every other feminist movement has long since left behind.

(This is also by no means comprehensive, and while I've spent time digging around in this, I'm very much not an expert in gender theory as an academic field. This is just my understanding!)

[thetrialsandtribulationsofeb]

“you don’t respect buck and eddie’s sexuality if you insist on buddie getting together (like making buck’s bisexuality all about buddie, or ignoring that eddie is ‘straight’ (i can’t not put it in quotation marks))” takes are so fucking stupid, because the writers are literally on board with buddie

they get it, and they’ve been subtly - and not so subtly - hinting at it since the season 7 premiere

the minute they realized eddie was turning out to be gay, narratively speaking, they knew the only right person for him romantically - again, narratively speaking - is buck

and they’ve been planning bi-buck way before they noticed gay-eddie, but when they introduced buck’s bi-awakening, they made sure to show that his new relationship with a man doesn’t click the way it clicks with eddie. they’re cute together, sure, they have chemistry, yes, but it’s constantly highlighted in the show that the only right person for buck is eddie - because he’s just always fucking there, he gets buck like no one else does, their connection is unmatched and this new love interest can’t compare because they’re not meant to be

because the two characters who are meant to be already met each other

i totally respect buck’s bisexuality and how important it is for representation, but i also respect buck as a whole character - and if you respect him that way too, you also understand that buck’s the one is eddie. because it’s been shown across all seasons that eddie is the one person in buck’s life who matches his level of love and his personality

like, it all always comes down to people never actually seeing a proper queer slow burn before because it never really existed - previous queer relationships on screen were either fast-developing, pre-established, or never got a real resolution

so people keep dismissing buddie’s connection as “just friendship”, even though the signs of it being a love story have always been there - with both buck and eddie’s sexualities, and with how they relate to each other

the writers saw it because they’re not stupid. and the way they went about making these characters slowly understand themselves and realize their feelings for each other tells me they’re actually geniuses. there was an insane amount of subtext in s7, and basically plain text in s8

and if you can’t see it, then you’re stupid - sorry not sorry - ‘cause i genuinely can’t comprehend how bt-endgame fans or eddie-straight-truthers can’t see what’s happening right in front of them

we finally got a queer friends-to-lovers story for once, stop whining

every time someone says, “why do people always need to ship characters that are cLeArLy just friends?” i’m like:

‘CAUSE WE NEVER FUCKING HAD THIS TROPE WITH SAME-SEX CHARACTERS. it’s always disregarded, even when it makes perfect sense for the story - because of heteronormativity, homophobia, or a general lack of understanding of queer sexualities and experiences

so, yes, i root for them. because it’s a smart thing to do. because i can read between the lines. because it’s written in the story, and the story doesn’t make any sense otherwise. because it’s there in the chemistry between the actors, and in the compatibility between the characters

[endlesslyhyperfixating]

Every time people try to pretend there’s no existence of racial bias in the way Sydcarmy is dismissed, an angel loses their wings.

You know what’s exhausting? Watching people bend over backward to insist that there are no racist or misogynoir undertones to the way Sydcarmy gets dismissed as a valid ship.. like let’s just be real for a second.

I understand people who don't ship it or believe in the ship because they prefer to take the show at face value, focus on different dynamics, or interpret relationships in other ways. However, the people who deny any validity to believing their relationship is more than meets the eye? That needs to be addressed.

People will swear up and down that their issue isn’t with Sydney, that they love her, and that they "just think Carmy should go to therapy first" , but then in the same breath, you'll catch them romanticizing the hell out of his dynamic with Claire, a relationship that was unhealthy, regressive, and rooted in avoidance rather than growth. @yannaryartside covers the very strong existence of the Oedipus complex and the fulfillment of Carmy’s mommy issues through Claire’s behavior and manipulation in their relationship, and I agree wholeheartedly.

Let’s talk about the “Carmen needs therapy before a girlfriend” argument. Let’s be real, Carmy needed therapy when he was with Claire too, but nobody seemed to mind that. In fact, everyone around him—Richie, the Faks, even the audience, enabled this idea of Claire as a “good” thing for him, as if she wasn’t feeding into his worst tendencies. And the most infuriating part? Claire was, in fact, manipulative. (Again, covered by @yannaryartside .)

She didn’t do it in an overt, villainous way but used **soft, socially acceptable manipulation**—the kind that gets ignored when it’s coming from a conventionally attractive, non-threatening, quirky white woman.

Claire’s Manipulation: The Softness of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl

People like to act like Claire was just a character who wasn’t well-written or worth the time for analysis, but that was the entire point of her: to feel underwhelming, to feel forced into place. In many ways this is true of course, she's under/not well-written in ways, and people think she was simply there, offering Carmy what she believed (and convinced him to believe) was love, when in reality, she inserted herself into his life in a way that preyed on his vulnerabilities and pre-existing issues.

And before anyone jumps in with "she didn’t do anything wrong!"...let’s actually look at how she operated.

- She sought him out when he wasn’t in a good place.

She made it a point to go out of her way to get his real number after being given a fake one. If course she uses that classic manipulative play it off as a joke move when she threatens him but not the best way to start. I know it's been said before, but can we imagine if the roles were reversed? Would we not think that creepy?

- She made it about her when he was struggling.

When Carmy tried to set a boundary, Claire framed it as him pulling away from her, rather than him dealing with his own issues. She encouraged his avoidance, gave him an easy escape from his problems, and then was surprised—and (validly) hurt—when reality came crashing down. Even when Carmy was harsh in breaking up with her, he was speaking from a place of truth for himself. To be with her, when he was so damaged and not really in a space of genuinely liking her, was bullshit.

- She used nostalgia as a tool.

Claire’s entire presence in Carmy’s life was based on a past version of him that no longer existed. Just as Carmy didn’t really see Claire, but rather a projected version of her shaped by his family (and a little bit of Sydney), Claire didn’t love him, she loved the idea of Carmy she had from childhood. And she expected him to fit back into that mold, to regress into a state where he could blow off work to hang out with her and forget his partnership with Sydney, someone he's meant to work with and has a responsibility to be with. That’s not love. That’s entitlement to a person’s growth or lack thereof.

And yet, people ignore all this because Claire fits their idea of what a love interest should look like to them. She’s non-threatening, familiar, digestible. They don’t question why she feels right, - white - while Sydne, who actually challenges Carmy, who understands him in ways Claire never could, gets written off as “not romantic.”

Claire, for "clarity" or "peace" (ugh) is simple. She's the painted picture of a woman who puts others before herself, the quirky manic pixie dream girl inching too close to the camera, sneaking her way into his life. People argue it feels like the same effect Sydney has on Carmy, but it's not the same at all. Claire is easy. For Carmy. He can fuck up, regress, and stay stagnant, and she’ll applaud him for it. "Never ever, ever apologize."

Sydney is the opposite. She calls him on his shit, and she sees him for who he really is. Sydney is the real peace for him (how many times do we need to bring up that damn panic attack, the table scene, and strange currencies? Thank you, @chefkids ).

Phew...

Moving on,

The Hypocrisy of the “Carmy Needs Therapy First" Argument

Back to the “Carmy needs therapy before a relationship” excuse, because wow, is that just selective. People only seem to apply it when Sydney is involved, not when Claire is around. It’s the most transparent double standard imaginable. I’ve seen one too many “I ship Carmy with therapy” memes, and I need to talk about it.😾.

When Carmy was with Claire, he was a mess..but people loved to romanticize it, acting like she was his “breath of fresh air,” even when she was just another distraction. Even he fell for it, tricking himself into believing the false sense of security she contrived for him.

When these people talk about Carmy and Sydney, suddenly it’s “he needs to work on himself first” as if the mere suggestion of them together is too high-stakes to even consider. It’s always “God forbid we have well-written female-male relationships without it being romantic.”

So we prefer shitty romantic relationships between the quirked-up white woman and our white male main character rather than the chemistry, character plot, and dynamic between Syd and Carm? Okay.

It’s not about Carmy’s emotional availability for these people. It’s about who people *want* to see him be available for, and it's not Sydney.

Why Do People Feel So Pressed About Sydcarmy, Anyways?

If Sydney were white—let’s be honest—this wouldn’t even be a conversation. The dynamic is already there. The intimacy, the trust, the undeniable chemistry. Their relationship fits the mold of that slow-burn, work-obsessed partners-to-lovers trope better than any other ship that actually makes it to canon.

But instead, people act like EVEN speculating about it is ridiculous, like the idea of Carmy feeling something deeper for Sydney is somehow beyond the realm of possibility. They’ll call it “forced,” “delusional,” or “just not where the story is going," as if every single element of storytelling isn’t deliberately crafted to suggest something simmering under the surface. Whether platonic or romantic, it's there. It’s genuine soulmate energy.

They pretend their dismissal of this ship has nothing to do with race, but race is an integral part of the ship because Sydney is a black woman.

It's almost like erasure in itself when they deny it's importance, as if there isn’t a long history of Black women in media being sidelined, desexualized, and treated as expendable when it comes to romance. Sydney isn’t “just a coworker.” She’s not “just his business partner.” She is one of the most important people in his career—and even his life—whether people want to admit it or not.

So yeah, maybe people need to interrogate *why* they can believe in Claire(a character who offered Carmy nothing but regression)but not Sydney, who actually represents something real.

Because if the reason is "Carmy's growth," you're bullshitting.

---

Tags

@fairestbeard @chefkids @thoughtfulchaos773 @yannaryartside

[gay-dorito-dust]

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who could see that her nephew was smitten with you from the moment eyes met, falling evermore when you handed him his ass during sword training.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who could see that Benjicot would often act as your second shadow, standing close by but never in the way he wanted as he forced himself to find comfort in your seemingly platonic relationship; however friends do not let their eyes linger on the others lips as much as you and Benji did, nor did they subtly brush the backs of their hands against one another’s like you and Benji often did in reassurance.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who could see the anger cloud her nephew’s stormy eyes as his jaw tighten and his fists clenched at his sides, watching in silent hurt and uncertainty as you talk to another from across the room. She could feel his desire to walk over to you and let it be known for all in attendance that you were the other half of his soul, and therefore should be his betrothed, for he knew you better then most men and had moulded himself to fit into the kind of man you’d be proud to seen beside.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who couldn’t help but smile when watching you fret over Benjicot, a bloodied and dirtied mess of a man that looked at you with such a adoration unbeknownst to you as you quickly worked to heal the bruises on his knuckles. He had a fight with some Brackens that day and one took a jab at your expense, and just like that he had lost all composure as a fury unlike any other overcame him.

Now within the care of your hands however, Benji was at peace and was as serene as a calm lake, a lake that’s stillness would’ve mistaken if for a mirror of the sky above, while he only listened as you communicated your worries and fears to him openly. Never once did Benji dismissed your feelings or made you feel less for having them, if anything it made him recognise just how much time he had been wasting away pining, contemplating the what if’s instead of acting on his deep rooted feelings.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne who celebrated in silence as her nephew held your face in his calloused hands, whispering his confession so sweetly against your lips as you happily accepted, the the look of content upon your face as you melted into his kiss. The internal war was over for Benjicot as he eagerly pressed more kisses on to your lips and face, all the while your laughter and squeals of a happily ever after reached her ears like a melody.

She was happy to see you both so happy and in utter love, a love so rare within Westeros that it was easily the most valued thing of all, for no amount of riches, glory, nor power would even dare compare to that of genuine feelings blossomed from a beautiful and respectable friendship.

Through the eyes of aunt Alysanne, who spoke the story of your love story with your own children as a bedtime story, hoping to one day encourage to do as you and Benji did; find love through a strengthen friendship for there was no love quite like it as you and Benji watched from the doorway, closely pressed against one another with matching smiles as your souls sung together in harmony.

[nanamis-princess]

Can I rq jjk x depressed reader hcs? And gn reader please!!

Love your works btw, 10/10! You're genuinely one of my favorite people on here

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Jujitsu Kaisen men x depressed reader headcanons

Synopsis: your depressed & they wanna make you feel better:)

Genre: fluff with a dose of depression

T/w: depression, mentions of geto making someone go bye bye loll, not being able to take care of yourself. Plz lmk if I missed anything.

Nanami, Gojo, Geto, Yuji, Megumi (separate) X gen reader

Nanami

-Nanami is a very observant partner, that new ice cream flavor you tried and said you liked is now written down in his notes app. When he brought you as his plus one to his company dinner party, he could tell you weren’t found of one of his coworker without you having to say a word about it. He dismissed you both and you carried on with the night. So Kento notices when you start slipping, sometimes even before you do.

-kento will use his sick days to spend time with you, to make sure you’re okay. You’ll spend the morning cuddling, if you want to be held he will hold you and kiss your forehead.

- If you start crying he lets you get it out, he will wipe your tears away. Kento runs his hands along to your upper cheek after wipe your tears, rubbing your temple as tears run down your cheek. “You’ll get through this I promise” he says rubbing your temple near the roots of your hair.

-if you are in a state where you can eat he will prepare you a home cooked meal along with a glass of water. But if you prefer takeout he’ll get it for you, whatever you want to eat its yours as long as you are eating something. Eating together on the couch with light rain hitting the widow, snuggled in with blankets and candles going.

-if you aren’t able to eat he’ll just you take a few bites so you have something in your system along with a glass of water. He also encourages you to indulge, you are already going through enough and he wants you to take it easy.

-along with trying to make it easy if you take any medication he has reminders on his phone until it’s mussel memory to remind you. He cleans up after you as well, he knows how hard it is to get through this and wants to make this process as easy for you as he can.

-he takes care of your hair for you, he’ll bathe you while using essential oils and helps you get dressed along with your nightly routine. “I’m so proud of you for making it through today darling, I know it was draining” he say in a low tone as he rubs the lotion onto your back. He places a soft kiss to your shoulder.

-during the day he gets you out of the bed and to sit in the living room with him, just so you are up out of bed. He picks you up carrying you to the living room along with your comfort blanket. He puts on your comfort show or movie.

Gojo

-He’s a very quick learner, he learned how to take care of you, what to do and what not to do. Satoru will not let you slip through his fingers he will be right there for you. When he was younger he didn’t understand what Geto was going through, now he does so he truly means he will never let you fall.

-after an evening of teaching he comes home with goodies for you and him to share, along with gossip of course to see you teary eyed on your shared bed with your day time clothe still on. The past few days just took a lot from you and he can tell. “My cutie patootie gumdrop what’s wrong?” He asks using the nicknames you laugh at but with actual concern.

-he understands if you prefer not to talk about how you feel or if something made you feel this way but he listens if you do. “If its not easy to talk about right now, we don’t have to” he says softly. Satoru sits at the edge of the bed with you as he gentle wipes off your makeup. After running you a bath and getting you settled in for the evening you both lay in bed eating the sweets he brought home for the two of you.

-it doesn’t matter if he is up all night, he makes sure that you some how get one rest if you have a hard time getting sleep. But if you sleep for long periods of time he lets you. You guys even take naps together, he puts on rains sounds or white noise, your stuffed animals and fluffy bedsheets.

-Satoru makes sure you eat something, big or small portions all that matters is you eat. Along with medication, he even gets you a sweet treat to eat after you take it along with kisses all over your face. “Now that the hard part is done” he kisses your cheek “we can do what you want” he gives you another kiss on the cheek. “We can watch a movie, or that new season of that show you wanted to watch?”

-the next morning after you’ve been going through it you wake up to the curtains slightly open letting some sunshine in with flowers on your nightstand and piece of media you’d been eyeing lately. Along with the smell of breakfast flowing through the apartment.

Geto

-as we know he’s been through this himself so he can spot it a mile away, he stops you mid way as you are trying to make a cup of coffee/tea for yourself. “I can make it, go sit I’ll bring it to you” he say with compassion and a small kiss to your forehead.

-when all you want to do is curl into a ball and do nothing, he lets you but he never leaves your side. Even when its hard he tries to take care of you, getting you to eat or take a shower together. He wants to make this go away for you, so you don’t stuffer anymore. You don’t deserve to suffer.

-if something is bothering you he encourages you to talk about what made you fall into this pit, if he’s able to fix it he will. Annoying coworker or boss that wont leave you alone? That’s too bad they went missing.

-he doesn’t want you to be alone he wants to be right there with you. He cups your face as your tears fall, his thumb wipes them away. “Breath in 1..2..3..4..5, hold it. Breath out 1..2..3..4..5” he says quietly looking into your eyes. “The storm will pass I promise” he says before kissing your cheeks lovingly.

- The curtains are slightly open as the sun goes down your head gentle resting on his thigh as he gently plays with a strand of your hair whiling reading to you.

Yuji

-he loves making you smile and laugh, he will do anything to make you happy. His heart aches when he notices the depression coming back again, he just wants to pick you up and run from it so you never feel that way ever again.

-yuji will take a shower with you while a playlist of your favorite songs are playing, he understands if you just want to get in and out to lay back down so he takes care of washing your body and hair. He gives you a back massage too. He gives you his favorite hoodie that smells like his cologne, it’s a pull over hoodie that he got for his birthday.

-he read somewhere that your environment impacts your mental health so when you go through this he cleans the apartment and lights candles that are your favorite scent.

-holds you all day, all night and every moment that he can. Giving you forehead kisses or kisses on top your head. You guys also have a movie marathon until you feel better, he always lets you pick what you watch.

-has many many many reminders in his phone to remind you to take your medication if you take any. He will even make you milkshakes to take with it.

Megumi

-like nanami he is very observant especially about the ones he loves, he always keeps tabs on you so when it rises he’s ready to take care of you and be there. Doesn’t want you to lift a finger, he just wants you to ride this out. “I promise it won’t last forever, you will come out on top” he says before kissing your temple.

-when he washes your hair and body for he also is washing the bedding. He added essential oils like lavender or eucalyptus to help with calmness.

-pulls you gently to lay on his chest as you drift back asleep. You both take long naps together, you always wake up in his arms.

-he already reminds you everyday to take your medication, this is no different. Expect he got you a new plushy along & your favorite candy along with your refill.

-when he’s up making dinner you got up to use the bathroom, on your side of the bed on the floor you find a stick and a chew toy along with both the dogs on your side of the bed. When realizing you got up they both stood up to follow.

A/N: I really hope you like this! Ur so sweet thank you for saying that! As someone who struggles with depression this made me smile. For anyone going through it, you’ll get through it babes I promise. Plz try drinking water & getting something in your stomach. You deserve amazing things and to take care of yourself.

[anneliese-and-erika]

A dare in the dark— various creepypasta x fem!reader

Summary: drunk, dared, and dangerously curious, you stumble into a local legend: a derelict mansion in the woods, supposedly home to killers.

Cw: drunk mc, alcohol, intoxication, weapons, gore (description of Jeff LMAO). Normal creepypasta stuff— but there’s no murder, this is more crack-fic material :)

This was a request and I had so much fun writing it!! Thank you so much for the request and I hope you love it :) ♥︎

Let me know if you guys would like a part 2!

♥︎ Xo, pauper

The dividers are by the lovely @tsunami-of-tears! Check them out :)!

“Truth or dare, y/n?” Someone yelled over the music, their voice distant. A ripple of snickering went through the small circle. You grinned, a little too wide, your inhibitions long since drowned in whatever questionable concoction you’d been nursing all night.

“Dare!” You slurred, throwing your hands up.

A chorus of suggestions erupted, most of them crude and quickly dismissed. Then, a voice, clearer than the rest, cut through. “I dare her to go into the woods! To find the old mansion, you know, where the ‘killers’ live.”

A few nervous titters, but mostly grins. The local legend of the “band of mysterious killers” residing in a derelict mansion was a well-worn tale, more ghost story than genuine fear. It was what everyone blamed for the occasional disappearance and grisly finds in the area, but no one really believed it. Not in the cold, sober light of day. But tonight? Tonight was a different beast entirely.

You scoffed, a tipsy bravado bubbling up. “Easy peasy! Give me twenty minutes.”

With a dramatic flourish, you pushed through the throng, nearly tripping over your own feet. The cooler, crisp air outside was a shock, making your head spin even more. You stumbled off the porch, navigating the overgrown yard with a distinct lack of grace, and pushed through the treeline, leaving the fading glow of the party lights behind.

The woods swallowed you whole. The path, if there ever was one, dissolved into a chaotic tangle of roots and low-hanging branches. You’d hit your shin once, cursed, and then giggled at your own clumsiness. This was an adventure! A stupid, drunken adventure, sure, but an adventure nonetheless. You wandered for what felt like hours, the moon a sliver of white through the dense canopy, your sense of direction entirely shot. Just as you were about to give up and curl up under a tree, a faint, high-pitched static drifted through the trees.

It was almost imperceptible at first, like the whisper of a distant, dying radio. But it was there. And your muddled brain, now momentarily distracted from the chill and growing unease, latched onto it. Curiosity, especially in your state, was a powerful motivator. You followed the sound, pushing deeper into the darkness, until the trees began to thin, revealing a gaping, black silhouettes against the bruised velvet sky.

It was the mansion.

It loomed before you, a skeletal structure of broken windows and crumbling stone, bathed in an eerie, almost oppressive silence that the faint static only served to amplify. Your heart gave a little lurch, but you immediately dismissed it as the lingering effects of the alcohol. This was just a dare. This was fine.

you circled the decaying structure, the static growing slightly louder with each step. Eventually you found a way in— a sagging, weather-worn back door, hanging slightly ajar as if daring you to enter. Without a second thought, your mind now entirely fixated on the source of that strange sound, you pushed it open.

The air inside was stale and cold, smelling of dust, decay, and something else… something metallic and faintly sweet. The static was definitely louder here, a constant, buzzing hum that seemed to emanate from deeper within the house. You took a tentative step inside, your shoes crunching on broken glass.

“Hello?” You slurred, your voice a little wobbly. It echoed oddly in the vast, empty space. You swayed, squinting into the gloom. “Anyone home?”

A low growl rumbled from the shadows to your left. Your head snapped in that direction, your vision swimming slightly. You blinked, trying to focus. A tall figure emerged from the gloom, face obscured by the darkness, but you could make out something glinting in its hand.

“Oh! Are you… are you the one playing that… static noise?” You asked, squinting at the shape. “Are you part of the da-“

The figure moved into a shaft of moonlight before you could finish your question. He was broad, dressed in a disgusting, what once was, white hoodie. His face… or rather, what should have been his face, was a stretched, almost leathery canvas of pale skin, with a rictus grin carved into it and eyes that were wide, unblinking black holes rimmed in singed flesh. His dark hair hung in oily, matted clumps around his shoulders.

Any words you might have had died in your throat as you stared at him. The logical part of your brain insisted that someone from the party had set this up to scare you, but with the foggy haze clouding your senses, you couldn’t help but stare.

As you opened your mouth to speak, he moved with startling speed. His hand shot out, surprisingly gentle yet firm, and he cupped your jaw. His fingers pressed into your cheeks. He tilted your head side to side, his unblinking back eyes scrutinizing you with an unnerving intensity. His skin was cold, almost clammy, and as his thumb brushed against your cheek, you felt a rough, rigid scar against his palm.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” his voice was low, guttural and raspy, utterly devoid of the amusement you expected from a party prankster. He sounded genuinely bewildered, a touch of irritation lacing his tone. “How did you even find this place?”

You mumbled something unintelligible, trying to pull away, but his grip was surprisingly strong. Your eyes, though still swimming, were now fixed on the grotesque reality of his face. The impossibly wide, carried grin. The singed eyelids, making his black eyes seem to bulge. The pale, almost cadaverous skin that looked stretched too tight. A shiver traced its way down your spine.

“This isn’t… this isn’t part of some party game,” he murmured, his thumb still pushing harder into your face. “And this is real.” He lifted a hand, and in the sliver of moonlight, you saw the glint of a long, wicked knife, slick with something dark. “Not some fake blood for your ‘dare’.”

The casual way he said it, the genuine horror in his appearance, began to chip away at your drunken haze. The fog in your brain dissipated, replaced by a cold, sharp blade of terror.

This isn’t a joke.

He’s real.

“Oh… oh god,” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure, unadulterated panic.

His smile seemed to widen, though a flicker of genuine surprise remained in his eyes. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

Suddenly, a series of agitated whispers and low murmurs reached your ears from deeper within the house. His head snapped up, his grip on your face momentarily loosening.

“What the hell is going out there?” A flat, unfeeling monotone voice echoed, laced with intense annoyance.

“Did you invite someone?!” A gruff voice grumbled, sounding utterly bewildered and almost personally offended.

“No, she found us!” The man holding you practically shouted back, his voice a mix of disbelief and frantic urgency. “She just… walked in!”

With a sudden burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, you wrenched free from his grasp. You didn’t think, didn’t plan. You just ran. Bolted, actually, a desperate scramble through the kitchen and up the grand staircase, your bruised knees screaming in protest, but your terror overriding the pain.

“HEY! Get back here, you little drunkard!” He roared, his voice full of frustrated fury. “HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND US!”

Footsteps pounded behind you. Heavy, purposeful, and terrifyingly fast. You burst into a long, dusty hallway on the second floor, flinging open doors in a desperate search for an escape. Each room was a ruin of forgotten furniture and peeling wallpaper. You could hear their voices, closer now.

As you rounded a corner, a figure detached itself from the shadows. He was taller, leaner, wearing a dark blue mask with empty eye sockets that seemed to drink in the light. A dark, viscous substance, almost like tar, seemed to weep from where his eyes should be. He moved with a disturbing fluidity, blocking your path.

“Out of my way!” You shirked, scrambling past him, nearly tripping. “What are you?!”

“What am I?!” What are you?!” The masked figure roared, sounding genuinely taken aback by your directness, his voice a flat, bewildered monotone. “No one just stumbles into this place!”

From the top of another grand, sweeping staircase, a small, almost childlike figure appeared, clad in what looked like a damp, green tunic, with a shock of blond hair that seemed to defy gravity. His eyes were entirely black with tiny, glowing red pupils that pulsed erratically. “She’s fast! How’d she bypass all the proxies?!” His voice, digitally distorted, echoed as if from a faulty speaker, laced with pure madness.

Suddenly, two more figures emerged from side corners, unknowingly guiding your desperate flight deeper into the house, their frustration palpable even through their masks. One wore a perpetually creased, yellowish-orange hoodie and a dark ski mask with a red frowny face painted on it . The other, in a white mask with feminine features and a tan jacket. They didn’t speak to you, but their movements were sharp, precise, funneling you.

“Don’t let her get to the west wing!” The one in the white mask barked, his voice tight with urgency.

“She’s too fast! Just grab her!” The one in the hoodie yelled, a flicker of frantic energy in his voice.

You skidded to a halt in a large, circular room, finding yourself trapped. The window in front of you was large, but boarded up. Panic flared, white-hot and blinding. You spun around, cornered. The man with the carved face was already there, blocking the doorway, his horrific smile somehow even wider, but his eyes were wide with a desperate need to contain you. The tar-faced one stood beside him, a scalpel glinting in his hand, looking utterly perplexed. The glitching, child-like figure came in next, his eerie glitching growing louder, he was practically vibrating with agitated confusion. The two masked men were right behind him, their silent presence as menacing as any shouted threat.

“Stop! Just stop for a second!” The carved-face man demanded, throwing his hands up in exasperation, though the knife in his hand negated any calming effect. “How did you get here?!”

There was no escape. Except…

Your eyes landed on another, smaller window, partially obscured by heavy, tattered drapes. It wasn’t boarded. It was a long drop, but compared to the alternatives, it was a lifeline. Without another thought, you flung yourself towards it, tearing through the decaying fabric, fumbling with the stubborn latch.

“NO! WAIT!”

But it was too late. With a desperate shove, the window flew open. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back, just swung your legs over the sill and pushed off into the cold, black night.

You hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, the impact stealing your breath. Pain shot through your ankles, your knees, your entire body. You lay there for a moment, gasping, the taste of dirt and fear in your mouth. Above you, in the now open window, you could see the blurry silhouettes of the monstrous figures, staring down at your crumpled form.

“Are you KIDDING ME?!” The man with the carved face shouted, his voice high-pitched with outrage.

“She just… jumped! Why would she jump?!” The tar-faced one sounded utterly confused.

“This is not good, not good at all!” The glitching voice whined, distorted and frantic.

The two masked men were just standing there, their masked faces angled downward, a silent tableau of disbelief.

You pushed yourself up, every muscle screaming in protest. Your head throbbed, your vision swam, but the terror was a potent motivator. You stumbled to your feet, favoring one leg, and began to hobble away, back into the chaotic embrace of the dark woods. The static from the mansion seemed to follow you, a low hum of malevolence and… something else. Something that felt like a siren song.

You ran until your lungs burned and your injured leg threatened to give out. The party, the dare, your so-called friends, all faded into the distant hazy memory. Only one thing remained clear: the eerie static that had drawn you into that house of horrors. You had followed it, a drunken curiosity leading you to something far more real and terrifying than any local legend. And now, as you limped deeper into the forest, a cold certainty settled in your gut. You heard the static, and you met them. There was no going back.

[yannaryartside]

CARMY IS NOT AN AVOIDANT

A brief revision of attachment styles

This may be a little random, and I may be wrong, but I'm a little frustrated with the people, especially those who support Clairexcarmy, who say Carmy is an avoidant, and that's where the conflict lies in their relationship. Additionally, this directly dismisses the other factors at play, such as the fact that Claire is a parallel to Donna or the superficiality of their relationship. But for now, let's get back to attachment styles.

I'm not a psychologist, but I have been reading this book, and I have a few thoughts. @thoughtfulchaos773 wrote an excellent essay covering Carmy's pursuit of Sydney, and his examination of her in conversations, which I revisited while thinking about this. The GIFs in this post also belong to that post.

Attachment styles refer to the ways in which individuals approach and respond to intimacy. For me, Carmy is not an avoidant; if he is, perhaps he is anxious-avoidant, but that type is quite rare, and I think he mostly falls into the anxious attachment style. I will not be quoting the book here but I will get you some definitions that align with it.

An anxious attachment style is characterized by a strong desire for closeness and intimacy in relationships, coupled with a fear of abandonment and rejection

Anxious attachment styles are also more common in people with abusive or narcissistic parents. For what we know, Donna despised Carmy since his birth, and an anxious attachment style correlates more with a person who never bonded safely with their caregiver.

I didn't see one Clairexcarmy scene that displayed avoidance of intimacy. If anything, once he let himself believe he could have a girlfriend, he leaned so heavily into the intimacy Claire gave him that he didn't realize Claire was love-bombing him. The relationship is superficial, yes, but the intimacy feels real, at least for Carmy, even if they don't really know each other. There is not a single scene where Claire is like "let's do this" and Carmy says no, not even when it would have been a natural response or clear boundaries, like the frat party or being absent from the restaurant. He is so desperate for intimacy that he doesn't realize the parts of himself that suffer because of it, and that includes the panic attacks he gets because of her.

Carmy is also in alignment with the mindset of an abused child, some of whom avoid conflict at all costs. He is trapped in the freeze response, which is something you feel when you are in danger. He developed that response by being paralyzed by fear in front of his mother, unpredictable and violent displays of rage.

But it is in his interactions with Syd, one of the most genuine relationships he has, the one based on a healthy dynamic, that his anxious attachment tends to show the most. He stresses a lot when he notices her retreating from him. He wants to please her, and when his efforts to create intimacy with her don't work, he gets quite defensive and combative. That's kinda the root of lines like "This is what you wanted" and "I gave you what you wanted." His brain is basically yelling at him: "You are not doing enough for this person to love you," like he felt with his mother, which of course hurts him.

All this is extremely interesting to me, because you know who I would actually consider an avoidant?

Sydney!

One of the most common romantic pairs (and sometimes quite damaging) is an anxious person paired with an avoidant person. I would love if the show were totally dedicated to exploring this dynamic between Sydney and Carmy, because there is a lot to untangle.

There was this post about how Sydney never tells her father that she loves her, never out loud. She was also unable to look Marcus in the eye after he asked her out. And what does Sydney do every time Carmy tries to talk about something in her life outside work? She changes the subject or fails to fully engage. Funny enough, both when they are making pasta and in this scene, cutting fruit, Carmy asks something about her dad, and in both scenes, Sydney changes the subject.

This may be a clue as to where this avoidance originates. I think it is fair to say that Sydney is not always the most transparent with her father. I think she feels that she can't show all her fears and worries because she either doesn't want to appear as lost as she feels, or she believes that sharing them may make the situation worse. I don't have enough to make a conclusion about it, but she didn't get that sentiment of "It's scary to rely on someone" out of thin air. We don't see her having friends. I think she was pretty lonely growing up, or maybe it has to do with the failed romantic relationship she had. For all of this, I would call her an insecure avoidant.

Individuals with this style tend to prioritize independence and self-sufficiency, often struggling with intimacy and emotional closeness in relationships. They may have difficulty expressing their feelings and may push others away to avoid feeling vulnerable.

The thing is, Sydney is also emotionally mature and patient, which gives Carmy the reassurance he needs. Scenes like the table scene also show how she reaches for intimacy and vulnerability with him, but only when she feels secure enough to do so. Which is also the reason why, at this moment in the show, they are at an impasse. She cannot be truthful unless she feels secure, but perhaps she needs to value herself to resolve their conflicts instead of waiting; she doesn't trust herself to make choices, even emotionally.

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔇𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔰 Until Dawn males x male reader

Summary: 4 smut scenarios featuring each of the men from Until Dawn. Each scenario exists in its own standalone world, completely unconnected to the others—distinct, isolated, and unforgettable.

Tags: He/Him pronouns used for the reader. Mike Munroe x male reader; Matt Taylor x male reader; Josh Washington x male reader; Chris Hartley x male reader. Set before the events of the game. All of these are separated and not connected. All of these with bottom male reader. Friends to lovers/ established relationships. Smut. Gay smut. Dom Mike Munroe. Gentle dom Matt Taylor. Dom Josh Washington. Submissive Chris Hartley. Pinning. Anal sex. Shower sex. Riding. Blowjob.

Recently reached 300 followers and i wanted to do something special <3

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words counts: 8000 words (around 2000 for each character)

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

ℳ𝒾𝓀ℯ ℳ𝓊𝓃𝓇ℴℯ

Cocky and relentless. Teasing that borders on merciless, using his natural charisma to push buttons and see you squirm and blush beneath him. He doesn't stop until he's left you utterly wrecked, trembling and begging for more. He'd enjoy having full control, alternating it with whispered reassurances or moments of tenderness.

Mike Munroe sat in the chair beside you, leaning back with his signature cocky grin plastered across his face, a textbook in front of him that he hadn't opened once since arriving. He had the look of someone who didn't really care about studying, which, frankly, was true. This entire night was a ruse, a flimsy excuse to be alone with you under the pretense of needing help with an exam.

The plan had seemed solid in his head. You'd sit close, explain things to him with that focused, determined look he loved and he'd lean in, let his charm work its magic and, eventually, your studying would devolve into something much less productive.

Mike had always been good at getting what he wanted. A flash of his smile, a sly remark and most people melted. But now, as you sat at the desk flipping through pages and genuinely trying to explain a concept he couldn't care less about, Mike was starting to feel… frustrated.

"You're telling me I have to memorize all this crap by Thursday? Who the hell needs to know about… what even is this—" he glanced down at the page in front of you, squinting as if the words offended him “—polynomial functions for real life? What, am I gonna solve equations at my job interview?"

You sighed, trying to ignore his dark eyes locked onto yours instead of the textbook in front of him. "You signed up for the class, Mike. I didn't force you to take it."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. "But that's why you're here." He leaned in closer, resting his elbow on the desk and his chin in his hand, his face mere inches from yours. "You make it all make sense. You're, like, my personal genius."

Your stomach twisted at the compliment, even though you tried to brush it off. This was just Mike being Mike, wasn't it? He was like this with everyone. Charming, flirtatious, impossible to ignore. You'd seen him in action before: the way he smirked at the girls in class, the playful winks he threw at random people in the cafeteria.

It was just his thing. And yet, being on the receiving end of it made your heart race in a way that was becoming harder to ignore.

"Your 'genius' thinks you should actually start paying attention," you said, nudging the notebook closer to him. "Try solving this one."

Mike groaned dramatically, dragging the notebook toward him like it physically pained him to do so. "You're cute when you're bossy."

"Mike—“

"I'm kidding." He shot you a lopsided grin before glancing at the problem you'd written out. He picked up the pen, twirling it between his fingers as his brow furrowed in mock concentration. "Okay, so, uh… the square root here is… this, right?"

You couldn't help but laugh at how off he was, shaking your head as you leaned over to correct him. The faint scent of his cologne, woodsy with a hint of spice, hit you as you got closer and you froze for a moment, suddenly all too aware of how close you were.

Mike noticed. Of course he noticed. His grin widened and he tilted his head slightly, his eyes flicking from your face to your lips and back again.

You cleared your throat, quickly retreating to your seat. "Focus, Michael."

"I am focusing," he said, his voice warm and husky now, enough to make your pulse race and your breath catch. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms behind his head, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of toned stomach. He caught your eyes flicking down and smirked. "On you."

Your face burned and you buried it in the textbook, pretending to reread a section. "Don't you have an exam to pass?"

"Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah," he said, waving his hand lazily. "But it’s hard to concentrate when you're sitting there all cute and stuff."

Your heart stuttered, but you forced yourself to roll your eyes, words stuck in your throat as you kept your focus ahead.

He shifted on the chair, his eyes trailing to your lips as you read aloud from the book. God, you had no idea how good they looked, slightly pursed as you concentrated on the material. He could only think about how soft they would feel against his, how warm they'd be as they moved down his body.

His gaze darkened, drifting lower, watching the way your throat moved as you spoke. He wanted to trace his lips there, feel your pulse against his tongue. The idea made his pants feel uncomfortably tight and he shifted again, trying to will the thoughts away.

The study session continued, with you trying your best to keep things on track despite Mike's constant interruptions. He'd accidentally brush his hand against yours when reaching for a pen, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. He'd lean in close under the guise of needing help, his lips so close to your ear that his breath tickled your skin as he murmured, "Explain that one more time?"

The shift you made brought you closer, your thigh brushing against his and Mike had to work hard not to react.

"Here," you said, pointing to a diagram you'd sketched out earlier. "This is how you get everything right. Got it?"

Mike barely registered your words. He was too busy realizing how he could feel the faint heat of your body. His eyes dropped to your hands as you gestured toward the page, wondering what they'd feel like gripping his shoulders, his hips, his—

"Mike”

"Hmm?" He blinked, forcing himself to meet your gaze.

"Are you sure you're okay? You keep zoning out. You said you needed help with this, right?"

Mike sighed dramatically, flopping back on the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I need help," he muttered, though he wasn't talking about school.

As you leaned forward to grab some papers on the desk, his eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the line of your neck, the way your shirt shifted slightly to reveal just a hint of skin.

It was torture.

Sweet, delicious torture.

"Can we take a break? I feel like I'm not gonna retain any of this if I don't decompress a little."

You glanced at the clock. "We've only been at it for 20 minutes."

"Exactly!" Mike said, his grin widening. "That's, like, more than I've ever studied so far."

You rolled your eyes, doing your best at suppress the warmth rising at his warm gaze in your direction. "Let me at least finish this thing?"

"Alright, fine," he muttered, picking up the book with a theatrical sigh and flipping through it aimlessly. "Keep cracking the whip, Teach."

You smiled faintly and got up to grab another set of notes from your backpack. The second you stood, Mike's eyes trailed down the curve of your back, lingering too long on the way your jeans clung to your butt. He bit his bottom lip, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

Enough was enough.

With a quick sigh, he stood, ego hurt and curiosity piqued. He closed the textbook on your desk with a sharp thud. His lip curled briefly at the sight of the boring equations inside, a momentary flicker of irritation at how they'd monopolized your attention. Then he turned his focus back to you.

When you turned around, annoyed at now being able to find what you were looking for, you froze.

He moved closer until your back pressed against the wall. His chest rose and fell steadily, his lips curving into a soft, almost vulnerable smile.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice was low, the teasing edge stripped away, leaving something raw and earnest.

"Uh… sure?" Your pulse quickened as his hand came up, resting lightly against the wall beside your head. His tall frame radiating heat as he leaned closer to you. His dark eyes bore into yours, not with the usual teasing glint, but with raw, unfiltered emotion that made your heart race.

"Do you like me?" he asked, his voice low and intense.

The question hit you like a punch to the chest. "What?"

"You heard me," Mike said, his tone softening, though the intensity in his gaze didn't waver. "Do you like me? Because, damn it, I can't keep this up anymore. I came here because I wanted to be with you, not to study. I just… I need to know."

You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely think after hearing the vulnerability in his voice.

"Just tell me the truth," he murmured, his hand lifting to cup your jaw. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek and the tenderness of the gesture made your knees weak.

Your throat tightened and you felt heat flooding your face. "Yes, Mike. I like you. A lot."

His grin returned, slow and breathtaking, as though your words were the only answer he'd ever wanted. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that."

He closed the distance, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It was hungry, raw, as though he'd been starving for this moment. His hands found your waist, pulling you forward until you were pressed tightly against him as his tongue pushed into your mouth, exploring with urgency.

You gripped his shoulders instinctively, your fingers digging into the firm muscle as he deepened the kiss.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, his voice rough and breathless. "Fuck, I've been wanting this for so long. You have no idea."

He bent down abruptly, his arms sliding under your thighs to lift you effortlessly. You gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist. Mike's lips moved to your neck, kissing and nipping as he trailed down to your collarbone. His light stubble scratched your skin, a delicious friction that left you squirming in his hold. He sucked a mark just above your collarbone, his tongue soothing the sting before he moved up to your jaw, his breath hot against your cheek.

"You taste so fucking good," he murmured, his voice a husky growl.

His lips found yours again, the kiss deeper this time, his tongue delving into your mouth as though he couldn't get enough. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he ground his hips against you. You could feel his hardness through his jeans, pressing insistently against you and making you ache with need.

With a grunt, Mike turned and carried you to the bed, laying you down carefully before crawling on top of you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, his sturdy frame caging you in as his lips found your neck again. His hands were everywhere, exploring your body with a mix of reverence and urgency.

You moaned softly as his teeth grazed your neck, his tongue soothing the sensitive skin before his lips claimed yours again. His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, tugging it off in one swift motion before discarding his own. His bare chest pressed against yours, the heat of his skin making you gasp as his lips continued their assault on your neck.

Mike's hands moved lower, unfastening your pants with a speed that made your head spin. He slid them down along with your underwear, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you fully bare beneath him.

His fingers found their way between your legs, teasing you as he leaned down to kiss you again. His other hand wrapped around your length, stroking you with firm, steady movements that made your hips buck into his hand.

"You like that?" he asked, his grin wicked as he watched your reaction. "I want to hear you, baby. Don't hold back."

He worked you with expert precision, his mouth returning to your neck to suck another mark. He was relentless, his fingers slipping lower to tease your entrance, his voice low and commanding.

"Relax for me," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'll take care of you, I promise."

His fingers moving in and out with practiced ease as he murmured praises against your skin. His other hand continued stroking you, his thumb teasing your tip in a way that had you writhing beneath him.

"God, you're so tight," he muttered, his breath hot against your neck. "I can't wait to feel you around me."

When he finally replaced his fingers with the hot, throbbing weight of his cock, the stretch was overwhelming. You hissed, your hands gripping his shoulders as he sank into you slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against yours.

Mike’s lips didn't stop their assault on your neck, alternating between wet, searing kisses and the light scrape of his teeth that left trails of fire in their wake. Each movement of his hips pressed his thick, throbbing length deeper against you, and the friction was maddening.

"Fuck," he whispered, "You feel so good. So fucking good."

His restraint snapped, his hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he fucked you deeply, his groans mixing with your moans in the heated air.

His pace quickened, his thrusts hitting deeper as he angled his hips just right. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as pleasure overwhelmed you.

"That's it," he growled. "Let me hear you."

You couldn't hold back, your moans growing louder as he pushed you closer to the edge. His hand slipped between your bodies, stroking you in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispered, his voice strained.

His words sent you over the edge, your climax hitting you as you cried out his name. The way your body clenched around him pushed him over the edge, his thrusts growing erratic as he spilled inside you with a deep groan.

He collapsed on top of you, his body trembling as he pressed soft kisses to your neck, his arms wrapping around you as he held you close. "Worth every second," he murmured, his voice soft and full of affection.

ℳ𝒶𝓉𝓉 𝒯𝒶𝓎𝓁ℴ𝓇

He would seek constant reassurance as he takes tentative steps. However, once he gains confidence, he becomes surprisingly assertive. He'd focus entirely on your pleasure. His athleticism would lend itself to strength and stamina, ensuring you're worshiped and cherished. He would revel in making you feel safe yet utterly overwhelmed by the raw power of his passion, glowing with pride every time he draws out a moan or gasp.

The campus was alive with the lazy hum of an afternoon sun. Matt Taylor was out on the field, his athletic frame in constant motion as he jogged the perimeter.

The way his shirt clung to him, damp and snug from exertion, only highlighted the strength in his broad shoulders and the subtle definition of his chest. It clung stubbornly to his abs, outlining the defined ridges of his stomach. Every muscle in his body seemed to work in perfect harmony as he moved.

The sweat glistening on his caramel skin only made him look more enticing.

He stopped after a lap, bending slightly to catch his breath, hands resting on his thighs. The sight was enough to steal yours.

There were moments when his head would turn, his dark, warm eyes flicking in your direction. He always seemed aware of your presence, like you were a natural part of his environment. The way you looked at him was as essential as the air he breathed.

He'd catch your gaze just for a second, his lips quivering into a smile. It was like he knew you were watching and wanted to remind you that he saw you, too.

With a deep breath, Matt straightened, one hand pushing his damp shirt away from his torso, exposing the hard lines of his stomach. Wiping the sweat from his face and neck with a calm, unhurried precision.

Matt tilted his head just slightly, as if gauging your reaction. Then, without missing a beat, he pressed his hand to his lips and blew a kiss in your direction.

Your heart stuttered, the sheer casualness of it leaving you stunned.

He turned toward the bench at the edge of the field, where his water bottle rested and took a moment to hydrate. He poured some of the cool water over his head, letting it cascade down his face and neck before trailing over his chest. The droplets caught in the sunlight, gleaming as they traced the curve of his shoulders and the hard ridges of his collarbone. His free hand dragged across his jaw, wiping the excess water away in a move that was as unintentional as it was captivating.

The others called out to him, ready to start another round of drills and he responded with an easy wave. As he jogged back to join them, he passed by where you sat.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and warm, tinged with the kind of softness he reserved for moments like this. He leaned down, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "I was trying out some new moves. Gotta know if they're, you know, impressive enough." His tone was light and teasing, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his expression, like he genuinely cared what you thought.

"They're impressive," you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended.

His smile softened and for a moment, he looked almost shy. "Thanks," he said, straightening up and running a hand through his short, damp hair.

You watched as he jogged back to his friends, the muscles in his legs flexing with every step. He jumped right back into the game, throwing himself into it with renewed energy. He made daring plays, diving for the ball in ways that sent his friends laughing and clapping him on the back. He'd glance your way after every particularly bold move, his smile growing brighter each time he saw you watching, eager to impress you.

The dim lighting of the locker room cast soft shadows over Matt's glistening body as he leaned against the lockers, phone in hand, his voice warm and playful. His towel hung loosely around his neck and his shirt was long forgotten, leaving his torso on full display. Every inch of him radiated heat.

The room was quiet now, save for the distant echo of running water in the pipes and the soft shuffle of Matt's footsteps as he paced near the benches.

"Yeah, I'm still here," he chuckled into the phone, his deep voice carrying a hint of teasing affection as he talked with you. "No rush, though. No one else is around."

He glanced at the screen, his smile softening before he made up his mind on what to do next.

"Want to hang out? We can talk later after I'm done here, if you want?" He murmured, voice low with a sweet and earnest tone.

"Turn around," you said.

Matt froze for a moment, processing your voice now coming from behind him. He spun on his heel, his eyes widening as they landed on you standing just inside the locker room door. A surprised laugh escaped him and he hung up the call, sliding his phone into the pocket of his gym bag.

"You're here," he said, his grin growing wider. His dark eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and shyness as he took a hesitant step forward.

"I wanted to surprise you," you replied, your voice soft but steady.

He moved closer, the heat of his body palpable even from a few feet away. The faint sheen of sweat making every curve of his muscles stand out.

"Let me—uh—just a sec," Matt stammered, rubbing the back of his neck as he closed the distance between you. He was so careful, leaning in slowly as though worried he'd overwhelm you. His lips brushed yours lightly at first, the saltiness of his sweat mingling with the sweetness of his breath.

"You don't mind the, uh…" He gestured to himself, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"Not at all," you murmured, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, his mouth moving against yours with a mix of gentle passion and restrained hunger. One arm looped around your waist while his big hand cradled the back of your head. His hands found your hips, his touch firm but tender.

He broke the kiss only to glance over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the empty locker room. Once satisfied you were alone, he turned back to you, his expression soft but smoldering.

"Shower's right there," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Think we could, uh… clean up together?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in a nervous smile, but the desire in his eyes was undeniable.

You didn't answer with words, letting your lips find his again instead, this time with more urgency as he backed behind with you caged in his arms.

The shower stalls were humid and warm, steam curling in the air as Matt turned on the water, letting it cascade down his back. He stood under the stream for a moment, his head tilted back, droplets running over his shoulders and down his chest, washing away the sweat that clung to him.

He turned to you, his expression soft but filled with intent. "Come here," he whispered, holding out a hand.

You stepped into the stall, the warm spray hitting your now naked skin as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His lips found yours again, deeper this time, his hands exploring your back, your sides, the curve of your hips. His touch was firm but gentle, every movement infused with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

His hands moved to your waist, lifting you slightly to press you against the cool tile wall. The contrast of temperatures sent a shiver through you, but Matt's body pressed against yours was a furnace, his heat keeping you grounded.

The water ran between you, slicking your skin as his kisses trailed down your neck, his lips warm and soft against your wet skin. His breath was hot, mouth lingering over every inch of you like he couldn't get enough.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours, water dripping from his hair and into your eyes.

Hands broad and rough from years of training roamed your body with deliberate care. He started at your waist, his thumbs grazing your hips, then slid them down to cup your thighs, pulling you closer until every inch of him was flush against you.

His lips moved down the side of your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses that lingered, his tongue flicking out to taste the droplets sliding down your skin. "You feel so damn good." Matt murmured, his voice thick with need.

His teeth grazed your bottom lip before his tongue pushed into your mouth. His hands drifted lower, gripping your ass firmly as he hoisted you up, pressing you against the cold tile wall.

His hips pressed into yours and you felt the unmistakable hardness between his legs, the weight of him grinding slowly.

"Matt," you gasped, your voice catching in your throat as his lips found your collarbone, then moved lower, trailing down your chest. He paused at your nipple, his mouth closing around it, his tongue swirling as his teeth grazed just enough to make you arch into him.

The water streamed down his back as he continued his descent, his tongue and lips mapping a path across your stomach, his hands gripping your hips tightly, anchoring you. He looked up at you as he knelt, his eyes filled with a hunger that made your knees weak.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

You nodded quickly, your breath hitching as he kissed along your thighs, his mouth hot against your damp skin. His fingers traced delicate patterns, teasing you, making you ache for more. He submits his mouth to take on your length, his tongue flicking out to taste you, slow and deliberate as he traced every vein and ridge.

The sensation of his mouth on you was almost too much. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as you arched up against him.

His hands gently rested on your soft, supple ass. He circled the hole gently before pressing his finger inside up to the second knuckle. Your head tilting up as the finger went in deeper before adding in another finger.

When you were trembling beneath his touch, Matt stood again, pulling you into another searing kiss. His hands gripped the back of your thighs, lifting you easily as he aligned himself with you. The anticipation was overwhelming, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "Tell me if I'm too much. I don't want to hurt you."

His sweetness melted into raw passion as he slowly pushed inside, stretching you in a way that made your breath catch. The pressure was intense, the fullness almost too much, but Matt paused, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured against your skin.

"You're doing so good for me," he said, his voice strained, his restraint obvious as he let you adjust.

When you nodded, giving him the okay, he began to move. His thrusts were slow at first, measured, each one sending sparks of pleasure through your body. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you steady as he found a rhythm, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the small, steamy space.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his voice barely above a whisper as he buried himself deeper.

His pace quickened, his control slipping with each thrust, his eyes watching you intensively, filled with unspoken adoration and need.

Matt's hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations were overwhelming, your body tightening around him as you felt yourself teetering on the brink.

"Come for me. I want to feel you," Matt whispered, voice a mix of command and plea.

His words pushed you over the edge, your climax ripping through you with an intensity that left you shaking, your cries muffled against his shoulder. The way your body clenched around him sent him spiraling, his thrusts becoming erratic as he groaned your name, his release spilling inside of you hot, heavy and overwhelming.

He held you there, both of you trembling as the water continued to pour over your exhausted bodies, his breath ragged but his smile soft.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse but filled with tenderness.

You nodded, your fingers threading through his damp hair as you pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss. "More than okay."

And with that, Matt grinned affectionately before wrapping you in his arms, his warmth and love enveloping you completely.

𝒥ℴ𝓈𝒽 𝒲𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓉ℴ𝓃

He would be almost hypnotic. His hands firm, guiding you like a puppeteer while he watches every reaction with piercing eyes. Touch that alternate between rough and tender. He'd seek absolute surrender, his lips tracing feverish paths across your skin as he demands every gasp, every shiver, until you're completely undone.

The basement was dimly lit, a warm glow from the single overhead bulb casting shadows over the eclectic collection of items Josh's family had accumulated over the years. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with dusty film reels, old cameras and props from Josh's endless experiments in cinematography. You trailed behind him as he rifled through a box, muttering under his breath about where he'd left the camera he needed.

"You've got enough stuff down here to make a whole trilogy,” you spoke amazed, picking up a fake severed hand from one of the nearby tables. "Let me guess, this was for some horror project?"

Josh turned, his smirk lighting up his face even in the shadows. "Oh, that? Nah, that was just Halloween last year. Dad thought it'd be funny to have it sticking out of the candy bowl." He rummaged through a nearby crate, pulling out a few props from old projects like the fake blood packets and a weathered script.

You laughed, shaking your head as you placed it back on the table. Josh returned to rummaging through his box of supplies and your attention wandered to a nearby shelf where a cracked clown mask hung ominously. This place is like a treasure trove, a mix of fascinating and unsettling, much like Josh himself. His mind always worked a mile a minute, brimming with ideas that danced somewhere between genius and chaos.

"Found it!" Josh declared, holding up a vintage film camera triumphantly. "This baby's gonna make my project an A+ for sure."

"Finally," you teased, crossing your arms. "I thought we'd be down here forever."

Josh's grin widened, that familiar mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. "Oh, don't tell me you're scared of basements."

"I'm not scared of this place," you replied, rolling your eyes while turning around to see again a cool looking mask that you wanted to try out.

"No?" he asked, his tone mock-innocent as he casually reached for something behind him.

When you turned around to face your boyfriend again, your eyes were met with a mask that resembles a skull-like style with a pair of thin black eyebrows, a cracked nose and rotten styled teeth. The dim light casting eerie shadows across the distorted features.

He lunged at you with a guttural growl, arms outstretched. Startled, you yelped involuntarily, stumbling back a step as he grabbed you with exaggerated ferocity. He gripped tightly your waist and hoisted you effortlessly onto a nearby table, pinning you in place.

"Gotcha!" he exclaimed, pulling the mask off to reveal his gleeful grin.

"You absolute jerk!" you gasped, swatting at his chest with your right hand in frustration.

Josh laughed, his deep, warm chuckle echoing through the basement. "You should've seen your face! Priceless."

"You're the worst," you muttered, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed how flustered you were.

"Oh, come on," he said, leaning closer. His hands rested on either side of your hips, trapping you. "You're even more handsome when you're scared. Seriously, it's not fair."

He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, "Let me make it up to you for my genius prank." He concluded the line with a kiss to your neck, his lips warm and insistent against your skin.

"Trust me," he whispered, his voice low and rough, his hands sliding up your sides as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your breath hitched, your hands finding their way to his shoulders as his mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down your neck and along your collarbone. His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, pushing it up to expose more skin, his lips following the path his hands carved.

"We’ve done it not even an hour ago," you murmured, your voice trembling as he nipped lightly at your shoulder.

Josh chuckled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. "Perfect then! Means that you’re ready for me," he admitted, pressing his lips to yours into a kiss that was equal parts sweet and consuming. His hands roamed your body with a mix of confidence and care, his touch leaving trails of heat in its wake.

He broke the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you. "You look good," he said simply, his voice tinged with awe.

"Stop being sappy," you teased, though your heart raced at his words.

Josh grinned, his hands sliding to your waistband. "Fine, I'll focus on other things"

He made quick work of your pants, his lips finding yours again as he pressed you back against the table. The feel of his body against yours, the weight of him grounding you, sent a shiver down your spine.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and intimate.

"You," you replied without hesitation, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer.

Josh groaned softly, his fingers tightened on your thighs, his thumbs stroking the bare skin just above your knees as he stepped closer, pressing himself against you. His lips trailed along your jawline, soft and teasing at first, but the heat in his movements grew with each passing second.

He tilted your head slightly, exposing more of your neck and pressing his lips there, warm and insistent.

Your breath hitched as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, his tongue following in a slow, deliberate sweep that left you shivering. His hands roamed upward, fingers hooking under the hem of your shirt before tugging it over your head in one swift motion.

"God," he breathed, pulling back just enough to take you in. His eyes were dark, predatory. "You're fucking amazing."

"You don't look so bad yourself," you managed, your voice shaky but laced with a teasing edge.

Josh smirked, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, there was no pretense of restraint. His tongue slid against yours, the kiss messy and consuming as his hands pulled you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

Your hands found their way to his shirt, pushing it up over his torso. He broke the kiss just long enough to yank it off, tossing it carelessly to the floor before returning his lips to yours. The heat of his bare chest against yours sent a thrill through you, his skin warm and slightly damp as your hands explored the defined lines of his back.

Josh's hips rolled against yours and you felt the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh. Your own erection makes your pants feel painfully tight. He groaned softly, his breath hot against your neck as he ground into you, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through your body.

"You're driving me crazy," he admitted, his voice rough as his hands slid to the waistband of your pants. He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes meeting yours. "Can I…?"

"Yes," you said quickly, the word barely more than a whisper.

He grinned, his usual cocky demeanor softened by the flush in his cheeks, and tugged your pants down, his hands deliberate and firm. You kicked them off, your skin prickling with anticipation as he leaned back to admire you.

"You're perfect," Josh said, his voice husky as his fingers traced along your thighs, his touch featherlight but electrifying.

You reached for him, pulling him closer until his body was pressed fully against yours. The feel of him, hard and eager, against your own growing arousal made you gasp. Josh took the opportunity to kiss you again, his hands sliding lower to grip your ass, lifting you slightly as he aligned himself with you.

"Ready?" he asked, his hands voice soft but filled with intensity.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck as he positioned himself. The stretch as he pushed inside was slow and deliberate, his movements measured as he let you adjust to the fullness.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as he buried himself completely.

The words sent a shiver through you, your hands tightening on his shoulders as you urged him to move. Josh pulled back slightly, his hips rocking forward again in a slow, steady rhythm that left you breathless.

He found a pace that was both gentle and intense, his thrusts deep and deliberate, each one drawing soft moans from your lips. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as he pressed kisses to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

Your own voice trembling as the pleasure built with each movement.

Josh's pace quickened, his control slipping as his need for you overwhelmed him. The table beneath you creaked with each thrust, but neither of you cared. The only thing that mattered was the way he filled you, the way his body moved against yours like you were made for each other.

Your climax hit suddenly, a wave of pleasure crashing over you and leaving you trembling in his arms. You cried out his name, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

Josh wasn't far behind. His thrusts grew erratic, his grip on your hips tightening as he buried himself as deep as he could, groaning your name as he spilled into you. The warmth of his release sent another shiver through you, the sensation leaving you breathless.

For a moment, the two of you stayed like that, tangled together on the table, your breaths mingling as you came down from the high. Josh pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hands trailing soothing patterns on your back.

"Am i forgiven now?" he asked, his voice hoarse but laced with his usual humor.

You laughed softly, nuzzling into his neck. "Yeah, I'd say so."

Josh grinned, his arms tightening around you as he rested his forehead against yours. "Good. Because I'm not done yet."

𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℋ𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓁ℯ𝓎

Hesitant, nervous chuckles and self-deprecating jokes peppering the atmosphere before his passion takes over. He's the type to fumble slightly, then find his rhythm as he becomes more confident. He'd moan sweetly, almost embarrassed by how lost he becomes in you, whispering heartfelt praise and words that reflect just how irresistible he finds you.

The game's victory screen flashed across the TV, the sound of triumphant chiptunes filling the room. Both you and Chris collapsed onto the bed in an exhausted heap, the adrenaline of finally beating your highest score leaving you giddy. His laughter bubbled up first, that unmistakable mix of relief and joy that only he could manage and you couldn't help but join in.

"We actually did it," Chris said, breathless as he flopped onto his back, one arm draped lazily across his forehead. "I thought we were doomed when you missed that jump in the third level."

"Excuse me, you're the one who forgot to grab the power-up right before the boss fight." You shot back, turning your head to face him.

Chris groaned, dramatically rolling onto his side to look at you. His glasses were slightly askew and his hair was sticking up in every direction, but he looked so completely relaxed and at ease in that moment that it made your chest ache in the best way. "Okay, okay, my bad. But you have to admit I nailed that final combo."

You snorted, nudging his shoulder with yours. "Yeah, sure. But only because I carried us through the rest of the game."

His jaw dropped in mock outrage. "Carried us? You died twice in the first round, man!"

“And who revived you at the end?" you shot back, smirking.

Chris opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his grin widening as he broke into laughter. "Alright, alright. You're not entirely useless. We're gaming legends now! They're gonna put our names in the Hall of Fame or something."

"Right next to the guy who discovered cheat codes for unlimited lives," you quipped.

"Exactly," he said, grinning as his blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses. "We're pioneers of our time."

The two of you laid there, the laughter slowly fading into a comfortable silence. The faint glow of the TV bathed the room in soft light, illuminating the faint curve of his smile as he gazed up at the ceiling. His arm was still close to yours, his fingers just brushing against your skin in a way that felt deliberate but unspoken.

"It was fun," Chris said after a moment, his voice quieter now.

"Yeah," you agreed, your own tone softer. "I don't think I've laughed this much in a while."

He turned his head to look at you, his glasses sliding down his nose slightly. "From now on you'll be my good luck charm."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You just needed someone to keep you focused. You do get distracted a lot."

Chris groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Don't remind me. I'm like a dog chasing squirrels. Oh look, shiny object—game over."

You both laughed again, the sound soft and intimate in the late-night stillness. When it faded, you found him watching you, his blue eyes catching the flicker of light from the TV.

"What?" you asked, your voice tinged with curiosity.

"Nothing," he said quickly, but his grin gave him away. "You're a lot of fun to hang out with, you know that? Like, even when you're roasting me."

"Glad to be of service," you teased, your own grin mirroring his.

His gaze lingered a little longer than usual, his expression shifting slightly. "No, but seriously. I mean it. You're, uh… you're really great."

You felt your cheeks warm at his words, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

"Thanks," you said softly. "You're pretty great too, Chris."

He smiled, a little shyly this time, and turned onto his side fully, propping his head up on one hand. "Have you ever thought about how weird life is? Like, one day you're just doing your usual things, then Sam one day shows up with someone like you and suddenly everything's a million times better. Boom. Butterfly effect."

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to be romantic at two in the morning? Because I think the lack of sleep is getting to you."

"Hey, don't ruin my moment!" he protested, but his laughter undercut his words.

You laughed too, the sound mingling with his as the moment stretched on.

You sat up on the bed and then crawled toward your destination, the TV's glow fading as you turned it off. When you turned back to the bed, Chris was sprawled out like a contented cat, his arms spread wide, his legs slightly apart. His glasses were back into their original place at the top of his nose.

"You just gonna stare, or are you gonna accept my invitation?" he teased, wiggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

You laughed, shaking your head, but the way his smile widened when you leaned closer told you that you weren't fooling him for a second. You crawled onto the bed, resting against his side as he let his arm fall lazily around your waist.

"Happy now?" you asked, pressing a quick kiss to his left cheek.

"Getting there," he said, voice soft and a little breathless

You didn't stop, peppering more kisses along his cheek and down to his jaw, light scratches from his stubble against your lips. Your hand wandered lower, brushing over his stomach, then down to his pants, where you felt the beginnings of his growing arousal.

Chris chuckled, the sound nervous but filled with anticipation. His free hand moved to your back, pulling you closer as his breath hitched. "Wow, okay, uh… Someone's feeling bold tonight," he murmured, though his grin betrayed how much he was enjoying it.

"Aren't we supposed to be basking in our gaming glory?"

You squeezed him gently through the fabric, feeling him harden further under your touch. "Should I stop, then?" you teased, feigning innocence as your fingers lingered.

"Nope!" he blurted out quickly, his voice cracking slightly as his head shot up. His face was flushed, but his lips found yours in a soft, insistent kiss, his usual shyness tempered by a growing determination.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours as his hand slid under your shirt, his fingers warm and exploratory against your skin. You shifted, straddling his lap, and he let out a quiet groan as your weight pressed down on him. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you slightly as he rolled his hips up, creating delicious friction that left you both breathless.

"God, you're… You're really good at this," Chris muttered, his lips trailing down your neck, each kiss accompanied by a soft hum of approval.

"You sound surprised," you teased, grinding against him again just to hear the way his breath caught.

He laughed softly, though it quickly turned into a low groan. "No, no, I mean—I just—" He stopped, shaking his head as if words were failing him entirely. "Never mind. Keep doing that… please?"

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him again, your hands slipping under his shirt to explore the warm expanse of his chest. He was lean but toned, his body radiating heat as your fingers traced over him, eliciting small, breathy noises that only spurred you on.

Chris's hands slid to the waistband of his pants, fumbling slightly as he worked them down. "Help me out here," he said with a nervous laugh, his cheeks red but his smile never wavering.

You helped him and he helped you out, the two of you working together to peel away the layers until you were completely bare. Him beneath you with your naked body on top of his. His erection stood proud, flushed and eager and the sight of him vulnerable yet so clearly aroused made your own desire burn hotter.

"You're handsome, you know that?" you said softly, running your hands over his thighs as you sat back to take him in.

Chris laughed, covering his face with one hand. "Oh my God, don't say stuff like that. I'll die."

"Too bad. I’ll say it, whether you like it or not," you teased, leaning down to kiss him again.

His response was a muffled laugh against your lips, but it melted into a moan as you reached down to guide him to your entrance. He gripped your hips tightly, his eyes searching yours for confirmation and when you nodded, he let out a shaky breath.

"Okay," he said, his voice soft but steady. "Okay, just—take your time."

You did, slowly sinking onto him, the stretch intense but achingly good. Chris's grip on your hips tightened, his head falling back against the pillow as a low groan escaped him.

"Holy shit," he whispered, his hands trembling slightly as he held you steady. "God, you feel amazing."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest as you began to move, your body adjusting to the rhythm as you found a steady pace. Chris's eyes were half-lidded, his lips parted as he sat up from his previous laid position. His hands were guiding your movements but never pushing, always letting you set the pace.

"Is this— shit, is this okay?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly as his hips bucked up involuntarily.

"it's perfect," you murmured, leaning down to kiss him. "You're perfect."

His laugh was breathless, almost disbelieving, but he met your kiss with fervor, his tongue tangling with yours as his hands explored your body. The soft gasps he made, whispered curses, your name falling from his lips like a prayer… it all drove you closer to the edge with every thrust.

Chris's movements became more erratic, his hips meeting yours with increasing urgency. "I'm—oh God, I don't think I'm gonna last," he admitted, his voice high and strained

"Don't hold back," you said, your own voice trembling as your climax built.

With a choked groan, Chris buried himself as deep as he could and tightened his arm around your body, his release hitting him in waves that left him trembling beneath you. The feeling of him filling you, combined with the look of utter ecstasy on his face, sent you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing through you as you collapsed onto his chest.

For a moment, the two of you stayed in that position, your breaths mingling as you came down from the high. Chris's arms pulled you close as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

"Best. Night. Ever," he murmured, his voice warm and content.

"Agreed," you said, your own smile matching his as you nuzzled against him.

If you liked this, please leave a comment. I love reading them <3. Let me know if you had a favorite one out of this four fine men ;)