#but it's... helping. i'm making some (slow) progress.

[byanyan]

when will my motivation & energy for writing return....

[meownotgood]

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?" 

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes. 

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat. 

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions. 

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest. 

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face. 

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers. 

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register. 

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug. 

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks. 

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone. 

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-" 

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy. 

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus. 

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this." 

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?" 

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins. 

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop." 

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?" 

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath. 

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh. 

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this. 

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose. 

"That's when you find it." 

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right. 

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside. 

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze. 

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles. 

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest. 

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days." 

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration." 

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again." 

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you. 

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to." 

"I am not-" 

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down. 

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count." 

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-" 

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that." 

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach. 

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-" 

"It is a necessary risk." 

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.  

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…" 

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going. 

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his. 

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him. 

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was. 

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn. 

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together. 

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background. 

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear." 

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal. 

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron. 

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula. 

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away." 

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on." 

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity. 

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again. 

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy. 

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles. 

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning. 

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams. 

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-" 

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet — 

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back. 

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving." 

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately. 

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale. 

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-" 

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me." 

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones. 

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion? 

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench. 

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please." 

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?" 

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears. 

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die." 

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears. 

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness. 

It's a reminder that you're right. 

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time. 

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions. 

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him. 

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands. 

He knows this body is… wilting. 

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him. 

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last? 

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted. 

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped. 

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology. 

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do. 

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus. 

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying. 

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to. 

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once. 

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful. 

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change. 

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline. 

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him. 

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you. 

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can. 

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral. 

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice. 

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned. 

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring. 

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him. 

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop. 

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt. 

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it. 

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before. 

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth. 

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it. 

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull. 

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve. 

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead. 

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back. 

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special? 

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck. 

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone. 

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks. 

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand. 

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you. 

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens. 

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his. 

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration. 

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead. 

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like. 

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone. 

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together. 

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat. 

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair. 

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold. 

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight. 

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation. 

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun. 

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his. 

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things." 

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids. 

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway. 

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different. 

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough. 

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to." 

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?" 

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired. 

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…" 

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting? 

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw. 

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?" 

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap. 

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession." 

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his. 

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression. 

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate." 

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears. 

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late." 

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?" 

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance." 

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate. 

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious." 

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day. 

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly. 

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you. 

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe." 

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress. 

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you. 

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd. 

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'" 

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums. 

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time. 

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional. 

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene." 

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you. 

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget. 

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm — 

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-" 

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you." 

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open. 

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking — 

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please." 

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it. 

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you." 

Viktor softens. 

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you. 

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark." 

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close. 

[thestarsaboveme]

Reader thinks the Lads men are cheating with MC

masterlist

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: angst with comfort, reader and lads men having a misunderstanding because reader is overthinking that they’re cheating on her with the mc since they always spend time with the mc and spending less time with the reader.

xavier ver. | rafayel ver. | zayne ver. | sylus ver.

caleb x reader | angst/comfort

There was a time when Caleb used to show up with your favorite drink before you even asked.

He'd call you ''pipsqueak'', kiss your forehead, and ramble about the most bizarre cosmic theories while you curled up beside him.

Now…the only thing constant was his absence.

And MC.

-

''I'm going out with MC again today,'' he'd said casually that morning, slipping on his jacket. ''She's got some readings I wanna help her decode.''

You nodded, trying to be supportive. ''Again?''

He glanced at you. ''Yeah. We've been making progress. She's intuitive. Gets the rhythm of it.''

You gave a faint smile. ''Right.''

He leaned down, kissed your cheek quickly, and said, ''I'll be back late, but I'll text you, okay?''

But he didn't.

Again.

-

You scrolled through your messages that night, seeing blue bubble after blue bubble with no replies.

Dinner's ready if you want to swing by.

Hope the readings are going well.

Are you okay? It's getting late.

Each one unanswered.

And then your heart twisted when you checked MC's social feed. Just a short video clip of her and Caleb, both laughing as he showed her something on a holographic tablet.

He looked happy. Relaxed. Engaged.

The kind of look he used to save for you.

-

It wasn't just tonight. It had been weeks.

You told yourself it was work. That MC was a client, a partner, a hero in her own right. Of course Caleb would be focused on her.

But even when you were in the room with him lately…you still felt alone.

Like he was always looking past you. Toward someone else.

You didn't even notice your hands were trembling as you typed the message.

I need to talk. Can you come over? Please?

It took six minutes for his reply to come through.

On my way. Give me 15.

-

He arrived exactly 15 minutes later, his hair wind-tossled, coat still half-zipped, and an easy smile on his lips that immediately faded when he saw your face.

''Hey…what's wrong?'' he asked, stepping inside.

You didn't answer right away. You just stood there, looking at him, trying to figure out where the boy you fell in love with had gone.

''You and MC seem close,'' you said finally.

Caleb blinked, confused. ''I mean, yeah. We've been working side by side for a while. Why?''

You looked away. ''Are you cheating on me?''

The words cut through the room like a sharp blade.

His mouth parted slightly, stunned. ''What?''

''I need to know, Caleb. I can't keep pretending this isn't eating me alive.''

He took a slow step toward you. ''Pipsqueak…no. I would never. Where is this coming from?''

You laughed bitterly. ''From weeks of watching you give her your time, your focus, your energy. And leaving me with scraps. From seeing the way you light up around her. From missing you when you're standing right in front of me.''

His brows pulled together, the easy charm in his expression replaced by something heavier.

''Is that really how you feel?''

''I don't know how else to feel. You don't look at me the way you used to. You don't see me.''

He ran a hand through his hair. ''I didn't know it had gotten this bad.''

''That's the problem,'' you whispered. ''You're so good at reading the stars, Caleb. But you haven't been reading me.''

Silence stretched between you.

Then, in a voice low and raw, he said, ''You're right.''

You stared at him, heart pounding.

''I've been out of sync. Focused on work. On helping MC process everything she's dealing with,'' he said. ''And I thought…I thought you were okay. That we were okay.''

''Because I didn't say anything sooner?''

''Because I wanted to believe we were solid enough to weather it,'' he said. ''But I see now I've been neglecting the one thing I can't afford to lose.''

You folded your arms tightly. ''So what was it, then? Just convenience? You two work well together, so I got put on the backburner?''

He stepped forward, voice steady but filled with something deeper. ''You were never on the backburner. MC is a colleague. A friend. Someone I respect. But you…''

He stopped, looking straight into your eyes.

''You're the only person I've ever loved without fear.''

Your breath caught.

''You think I'm fearless, right?'' he said. ''The charming one. The one who always has a line ready. But you terrify me.''

''Why?''

''Because you're real,'' he said. ''Because you see through all the masks. Because when I'm with you, I'm not pretending to be the guy who always knows what he's doing. I'm me. Just Caleb.''

You swallowed hard. ''Then why didn't you show me that lately?''

''I was scared,'' he admitted. ''That I'd burn out. That I wouldn't be enough for both of you. For her mission, for your heart. So I leaned into what I knew. Work. Banter. The stuff I could control.''

You looked at him, searching for the lie.

But there wasn't one.

''I thought maybe…'' you hesitated, voice trembling, ''you were starting to feel more connected to her. Like you admired her more.''

Caleb stepped forward again, slowly this time, until he was close enough that you could feel his warmth.

''I do admire her,'' he said honestly, ''But I love you. You are not the same. You'll never be the same.''

Tears welled up, and you turned your face away.

He gently cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back.

''I should've told you more. Made time. Asked how you were doing instead of assuming,'' he said. ''And I know an apology doesn't erase the loneliness I caused. But if you let me…I'll prove I haven't forgotten how to be yours.''

You let out a shaky breath. ''I didn't need fireworks, Caleb. I just needed you.''

His eyes softened. ''Then let me come back to you. No shields. No distractions.''

You didn't respond with words.

You just leaned into him, letting his arms wrap around you.

Letting the quiet between you finally mean something healing.

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 10th. tom riddle — oral sex, experienced!tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: your ex couldn’t make you orgasm, so you were certain you were broken. tom shows you just how wrong you are.

warnings: 18+, SMUTTT MDNI, tom riddle can eat me aliv—sorry who tf said that?, tom riddle is such a realist; he sees a problem and he finds a solution, tom is a munch, praise kink, oral f!receiving, experienced tom, hufflepuff!reader.

Months pass, and your project remains the only thing Tom ever prioritizes when it's you asking.

Progress is slow—slow because you're usually far too busy talking to actually focus—yet, he always stays. He listens, even when the things you say should bore him, even when they mean nothing at all. He sits there—giving you hardly the barest scraps of himself in return as you fill the space between you with everything that crosses your mind.

Things he'd never waste a second hearing from anyone else.

And tonight, to no-one's surprise, you're doing it again—rambling on about nothing and everything all at once. You've got this way of talking—weaving tangents into something almost poetic, and usually, he lets it fade into the background as he works. You're saying something about the differences between the seasons, or maybe it's just some other kind of sentimental nonsense—at this point, he's not entirely sure.

It's easy to tune out. He tells himself he's not really listening.

Until—

"Actually, I guess I should clarify that—it's all hypothetical. I don't date," he doesn't know what you said before this, but he's certainly intrigued by it now. "And really, it has nothing to do with like, self esteem or anything, I'm just broken. Best to save someone the trouble."

That stops him cold. It's not so much the declaration that you don't date—he could have guessed that himself—but more so the way you've just called yourself broken.

It's not a word he's ever heard you use before.

"What do you mean, broken?" He asks, the question coming out far more blunt than he probably intended.

It just seems so out of character for you—you've always been an optimist, far too annoyingly positive to speak of anything this way. He blinks when you freeze, and blinks again when a moment of self consciousness seems to pass over your face—and he notes how that's a first for you, too.

"Broken...as in, uh, not normal," your eyes flit down to your lap, tracing the wood beneath where you're seated on the floor in his dorm. "My ex made that very clear in his assessment of me."

The mention of an ex is something he'd been anticipating—you're in your twenties, after all—but it's the idea that your ex is the source of you calling yourself broken, that he can't quite swallow.

"You're 'broken' because of one ex?" He says, and he can't stop how derisive and skeptical his voice sounds. He doesn't care to try. "I'm not following."

"I'm what you'd call, damaged goods, I think," you murmur, and there's an almost self-deprecating smirk on your face. He can't help but think how he's never seen that look on you, either. "I've got a slew of unhealthy baggage that comes along with me. You know, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, daddy issues—"

He snorts at that—daddy issues—and your head snaps up, smirk deepening despite yourself.

"Don't snort at my daddy issues," you huff, and there's a familiar annoyance in your voice that puts him at ease. "They're valid and real."

"I'm not denying their validity," he counters, his own smirk beginning to surface. "But daddy issues? Come on. You're not some tired cliché ripped out of a teenage romance novel. I refuse to accept your declaration of brokenness until you give me factual reasoning."

You laugh at that—alive and genuine—and for a moment, he's reminded of why he even tolerates you in his space at all.

"Fine," you cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want to know then?"

He makes a low, contemplative sound at that—because there's a million questions that come to mind with the words damaged goods—and after a moment, he settles on the one that falls out first.

"What is it, precisely, that makes you broken?"

You sigh, a bit theatrically—he knows you're just putting on a show and he wants to laugh at you for it—but he reigns that in, for now, while you figure out how you're going to respond to that.

The truth is, you don't know how to tell him the real reason you're broken—the part that has nothing to do with the laundry list of emotional baggage you could rattle off with ease. It's something...different.

Something more physical.

"I don't know, okay?" You're getting defensive. You're not sure why but you are. "Just—forget I said anything. We have this assignment to—"

"You dodging the question tells me it's more than just psychological," he cuts you off, leaning back into the couch. The way he's looking at you makes it clear—there's no way he's letting this go. "You getting defensive tells me you're embarrassed by it."

You sigh again, leaning back on your palms to mirror his body language, though it doesn't feel half as natural on you as it does on him.

"And you, being an insufferable arse, is telling me I never should have mentioned it in the first place."

His smirk at that makes you want to glare at him.

"Stop dodging," he says. "You brought it up. You don't get to take it back."

It's a challenge—the gleam in his eyes is practically screaming so. You're not sure why the sight of it makes something low in your stomach clench, and you're even less sure of why you want to tell him something like this—something you haven't told anyone else—not friends, certainly not family.

Whatever the reasoning, you can feel yourself relent.

"Maybe," you pause, the look on his face makes you second guess yourself. "...maybe I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll look at me differently." You glance down at your lap, fingers twitching against the yellow pleats of your skirt before finally meeting his eyes again. "And I kind of like the way you look at me now."

Something like curiosity passes over his expression at that—but it's quickly hidden by the type of skepticism that tells you he still doesn't believe you're being serious.

"You're overthinking it," he replies, unmoving. "Whatever it is you think you're going to tell me, I'm not going to look at you differently. You're still you—no filter, unabashedly verbal—"

"Too verbal. Too positive, too loud," you finish his sentence for him—because you know that's how he thinks of you. "Too annoyingly optimistic. Far too hufflepuff for your cold snake skin. I know."

"Exactly," he says, tongue running over his bottom lip in attempt to quell his smirk. "So I reiterate. There's nothing you could tell me that would change that."

"Fine," you relent, giving in begrudgingly because you know there's no other option. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He just lifts a hand at that, as if to say; whatever you think it is, I can handle it. The action makes you suck a breath into your lungs, trapping it there.

"You're right," you say after a long exhale. "I have a slew of psychological bullshit that would take the span of a year for me to fully go over in one sitting—but, I'm fine with it. That's...that's not the thing that made me call myself broken."

He says nothing, just makes a motion with his eyes for you to keep going.

"It's, uhm...physical." You whisper, and your brain is moving too much and too fast and you're not even completely sure how to say it without sounding insane. "And...I don't know, I just...I can't orgasm. No matter what. I just can't—it's frustrating and embarrassing and it's the reason my ex ended things."

There's a silence that follows, and he knows if it were anyone else, they'd probably find a way to comfort you. Reassure you. Tom, however, isn't anyone else—

"You're joking," he says, and his tone is incredulous again.

A self-depreciating laugh leaves your lips involuntarily, the sound of it making you almost want to cringe.

"Would it be less embarrassing if I was?"

He's still just watching you, dissecting your words as if waiting for you to crack a smile and confess this was all some stupid joke—and the vulnerability of it aches like a stab to the gut.

"This is the reason you think you're broken?" Is what he goes with when he finally realizes you're being serious. "Because you haven’t orgasmed?"

The bluntness of it makes you flush, makes you wish you could sink into the floor. "I know it's not normal, okay—"

"It's not an abnormality, either," he asserts, with casualty. "You might just have a disconnect."

You blink, caught off guard—not just by his choice of words, but by how matter-of-fact he sounds, like this isn't the mortifying confession it feels like.

"A disconnect?"

"A disconnect," he repeats, looking you over, something clinical slipping into his eyes. "Between mind and body. And considering how loud your thoughts are—"

"Hey—" you snap, suddenly feeling a bit indignant, but he just continues on.

"—it's not surprising that you can't get out of your own head."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he's not a therapist, so what the hell does he know? But the certainty in his expression makes you pause. He doesn't look patronizing or condescending, just...assured. Like he knows exactly what he's talking about.

You hesitate, lips parting, a protest forming on your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, he raises a hand to stop you.

"Come here," he says, standing up from the couch.

You blink, trying to decipher what the hell he's implying—because if anything, the last thing that's going to make you less paranoid about intimacy is proximity.

"What?"

He just looks at you, making a motion with two fingers, beckoning you to stand.

"Don't ask questions. Just come here."

It's an order, and it makes your spine tingle in a way that's definitely not comfortable—but you get up from the floor, and move closer to him anyway, closing the distance between you with only a few steps until you're close enough to him that you can practically feel the heat that seems to come off him in waves.

It's weird—he's suddenly too much all at once—you're so much more aware of him being in front of you than you think you've ever been before and it does not help that he's just looking at you—as if studying you—blinking only once as he raises those same two fingers to your neck, resting them against the pulse point at your throat.

Your entire body tenses. His touch is far more gentle than you ever imagined it being, something disarming that makes your pulse beat faster against his fingers as a result—and because this is Tom, with all his smug and certainty—he gives you a look that tells you he can feel it before he slides his fingers up to rest on your forehead.

You scowl at the motion, but he clicks his tongue, the sound as condescending as it is amused.

"I told you, you're an overthinker." He murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips. "Too much noise."

You want to refute that—mostly because you're not overthinking, you can't be—he's just so unequivocally overwhelming—

"I'm not—"

You start, but he moves his fingers from your forehead and places them against your lips—

"Quiet." He scolds, and that makes something low in your stomach clench. "Your body knows what to do. You're just letting your thoughts get in the way."

You long to protest again, just for the sake of defiance—but then his fingers are against your collarbone, and that motion in your stomach becomes a bit more of a squirm—

"Your body is trying to tell you something," he whispers, watching each little hitch in your breath. "But you're too busy talking over it to hear what it's saying."

You realize—with a sort of horror that's laced with something a little more uncomfortable—that he's right. Your body is trying to say something. It's communicating through the unsteady force of your breaths, through the clench of your fists against your skirt—

Of course, he notices. He's noticing far too much.

"Relax," he murmurs, and now he's trailing those same two fingers in an unhurried path down your shoulder. You suddenly regret every decision that led to you wearing a T-shirt. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something about the way he says it makes you wish he wasn't quite so convincing—the familiar banter you long for gone with the sharp exhale that comes out of your mouth as his fingers encircle your wrist—

"Your pulse is racing," he says casually, far too casually for how much effort it's taking you not to scream. "Does that seem broken to you?"

Gods—you want to respond—you really, really do— but your thoughts flatline when you realize his touch has shifted. He's no longer just holding your wrist; he's guiding your hands to rest against his chest, and—

"There you go," he whispers, and the tone of it tells you he knows exactly what it is he's doing to you. "See? Your body's doing exactly what it's meant to do. You—" his fingers trail up your arms, and his voice gets lower. "—are not broken."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of your hands on his chest and the way your palms are clammy against the fabric of his shirt. He's shifting you now, deliberately crowding you, and it's only when you feel the edge of the couch press against the back of your calves that you realize—perhaps a second too late—exactly what it is he's doing.

You stumble back onto the leather, and he follows—crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp, startled, because despite everything you truly hadn't seen this coming. The kiss is messy, clumsy, and his hand finds the nape of your neck, tugging at your hair with just enough force to make it sting. And inevitably, when you gasp again, he takes it as an invitation to work his tongue into your mouth, other hand slipping under your shirt—trailing up your stomach.

You're trembling now, and he makes a low sound at the realization. Your brain is racing to catch up, and the irony of this isn't lost on you—he'd just claimed you weren't broken, but he might as well be destroying you himself.

He parts from your lips only to trail his own across your jaw—

"You're shaking," he murmurs with a smirk against your throat—as if he's taking immense pleasure in the fact—you hate how smug it makes him sound. "Do you want me to stop?"

You want to tell him he's being a bastard, but then his lips press to that spot on your neck—the one that makes your breath hitch and your pulse stutter—and you find yourself whimpering at the sensation.

"No," you breathe, and you'd be embarrassed by the pleading tone in your voice if you weren't so lost in the moment. "Don't stop."

He makes another low, satisfied noise at that.

"Good," he whispers. "No thinking. Just feel."

You swallow—throat dry. It's unfair how easily he's dismantling you with nothing but his mouth and hands. Unfair how he's leaving you breathless and unraveling while somehow making you feel seen in a way you can't explain, even with your eyes shut.

"Tom," you find yourself whimpering, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for—you just know you want more as his lips trail lower—as his fingers work to tug down your skirt. "Gods."

"Shh. Feel me," he murmurs, almost possessively, his lips brushing lower, grazing over your stomach, then your pelvis. "Let your body do the talking."

You've got your hands tangled in his hair before you even know what you're doing, and you hate the fact that you're pretty sure you'd melt into a puddle if he weren't holding you together.

"I feel you," you whimper as he kisses lower. "You're all I feel."

He makes another low sound at that, and you just know it's the response of ‘yeah, that’s right’—but then he's between your legs, panties shifted out of the way, and the first sweep of his tongue against your clit makes all coherent thought shift to static.

"Oh! God," you gasp, the word barely escaping before dissolving into a whimper when he does something with his tongue that makes your vision blur. "Tom—oh, fuck."

He just makes that smug, satisfied noise against you again before his tongue swirls over your clit and you find yourself almost cursing whatever deity made him so good at this, because it's not fair how quickly he reduced you to a whimpering, shaking mess beneath him and—

"Don't stop," you find yourself babbling, digging your nails into his scalp and knowing you look like a goddamn wreck as he makes a meal out of you—tongue lapping up your slick and swirling your clit before sealing his lips around it and forcing your back off the leather beneath it. "Please, don't stop, please—"

It's all you can manage to say. Your thighs are shaking now, and you're sure he's got you dripping all over his face with how soaked you are. He knows you're falling apart and he just keeps going— your brain ceasing function in favour of just focusing on how fucking close you are—how close you are to something you've never felt before in your life—and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore but it's incoherent and loud—

"I need—" you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know he has it. "I need—I need—“

"Let go," he murmurs against you, the roughness in it vibrating up into your belly. "I dare you."

There's still a little bit of you functioning on autopilot, just enough to tell you that when he murmurs those words—vibrations rattling up your cunt and into your chest—you're completely done for.

It’s merely a few seconds later that your high reaches its peak and he just keeps lapping as you shake apart beneath him with an intensity you've never felt before in your life—orgasm shredding you apart at the seams. Your thighs clamp around his face, your eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing so loud you barely register his low, muttered praises: "good girl," "so good," "there you go."

You’re fairly positive your legs will never be able to support you again when you finally come back down, feeling entirely like jelly as he pulls back, tongue flicking over his lips to clean off whatever's left of you.

And without thinking, you grab him and pull him up, crashing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. He tastes like you, like him, like something you can't quite describe—and it makes everything feel intense and unbearably real all at once.

He gives you a moment, as if letting you recover, just languidly kissing you back—and you have to be honest with yourself and admit that this kind of makes you want to scream.

"A disconnect," he smirks against your mouth, the tone still smug. You manage a weak smack to his shoulder, though it does nothing to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Still sure you're broken?"

You hate that he's right. Hate that he's managed to pull a reaction from you that you didn't think was possible. But as you sit there, shaky and spent, you know you can't deny the truth: no, you're not broken.

"Not broken." You whisper back. "You will be though, if you don't stop smirking at me like that."

[orteil42]

hey! if you've been following me for my game dev stuff here's an end-of-year summary

i would've liked to release a lot more things this year but between me moving and other life events i've been a little tight on focus and that's before accounting me being just very slow as a person!

nevertheless, here's what's been accomplished this year:

Cookie Clicker android update - this one was a LONG time coming and is the main reason i'm not writing this year off as unproductive. i've put a lot of care and time into it and i can say i'm proud of that release. some of it will help improve Cookie Clicker on web and Steam in future updates, ie. full offline idling and UI rework. a second, sizeable mobile update is planned at some point later to add sugar lumps, minigames etc

substantial headway on Cookie Clicker's dungeon minigame! it's been a lot of gameplay + layout tests, some resulting in design dead-ends ie. this whole "making the world map in Blender" notion i had. it's regardless seen the most progress it's had in a long time; i'm hoping next year will have me keeping my ambitions in check and keeping it simple enough for a proper beta release. sorry i couldn't make it happen this year again!…

various prototypes that started off as minor side-projects for a laugh or as code warmups but turned out oddly solid? i'd really like to keep pursuing some of these next year to the point where i can start showing off screens and playable alphas. said prototypes include an embeddable music composer/player, a painterly mini-photoshop and some kind of Pokemon-lite with level editor, all browser-based

a good amount of other behind-the-scenes Cookie Clicker-related stuff i'm hoping i get to disclose next year

2025 will see me starting fresh in a new town and hopefully with a steadier outlook on the way i get things done. i've started a good amount of new stuff this year that i'd like to finish in the next one. i'm writing this when i should be packing to visit my family for christmas i'll be right back

[ghstyles]

Pilates | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Smut | One shot | Long hair Harry | Masterlist

· ───────────

Summary: Yesterday’s Pilates class wrecked your body. Now every movement earns a breathy moan or a whimper—much to Harry’s frustration. Or…delight. Hard to tell.

· ───────────

The morning sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains of Harry's London flat, casting golden stripes across the rumpled bedsheets. Harry sits at the small desk in the corner of the bedroom, guitar in lap, notebook open before him, trying to capture the melody that's been dancing through his head since yesterday's studio session.

A pitiful groan from the bed breaks his concentration.

Y/N lies there, having barely moved since waking nearly an hour ago. Her hair is splayed across the pillow in a tangled halo, her face contorted in a grimace that would be comical if it weren't for the genuine discomfort evident in her eyes.

"I think I'm dying," she announces dramatically, attempting to shift to a sitting position and immediately regretting it. "Ohhh my god, " The sound she makes is somewhere between a whimper and a moan, high-pitched and breathy.

Harry looks up, his pen pausing mid-word, distracted by the sound. It's eerily similar to noises he's drawn from her in much more pleasurable circumstances.

"You're not dying, love," he says, amusement coloring his deep voice. "It's just a bit of muscle soreness."

"A bit?" Y/N challenges, finally managing to prop herself up on her elbows, wincing with each small movement. "Harry, my abs feel like they've been put through a meat grinder. I didn't even know I had muscles in some of these places."

She attempts to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but the movement triggers another pathetic whimper that sends an unexpected jolt of heat through Harry's body. He shifts in his chair, suddenly very aware of how similar those sounds are to the ones she makes when he's buried deep inside her.

"I told you not to overdo it your first time," he reminds her, forcing his attention back to the notebook, though the melody he'd been chasing has completely vanished from his mind.

"The instructor said I was doing great!" Y/N protests, finally upright on the edge of the bed. "She kept using me as an example for the class."

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. "Because you were pushing too hard, trying to match what the regulars were doing. Those women have been at it for years, baby."

Y/N attempts to stand, and the sound that escapes her lips, a breathy "ahhh" that trails into a soft moan, makes Harry's grip tighten on his pen, the lyrics he'd been writing now completely forgotten.

"Everything hurts," she whines, shuffling toward the bathroom with tiny, careful steps. "Even my ass muscles hurt. I didn't know ass muscles could hurt like this."

Harry watches her slow progress across the room, her usual graceful movements replaced by this stiff, awkward gait. She's wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh, offering tantalizing glimpses of her long legs with each careful step.

"Your ass muscles," he repeats, unable to help the smirk that tugs at his lips. "I believe the technical term is glutes, love."

She shoots him a withering look over her shoulder. "I don't care what they're called. They hurt."

She reaches the bathroom doorway and has to brace herself against the frame to turn. The movement elicits another soft gasp of pain that sounds entirely too much like pleasure for Harry's concentration.

He forces his attention back to the notebook, tapping his pen against the paper rhythmically, trying to recapture his creative flow. But instead of lyrics, his mind keeps replaying the little sounds Y/N's making, each breathy gasp and whimper conjuring memories of her beneath him, around him, making those exact same sounds for very different reasons.

The toilet flushes, followed by the sound of running water. A moment later, Y/N emerges, looking slightly more awake but moving no less gingerly.

"I need coffee," she announces, as though embarking on an Arctic expedition rather than a trip to the kitchen. "And maybe morphine."

Harry watches as she begins her slow journey across the bedroom toward the door, each step accompanied by a little huff of discomfort. When she reaches the doorway, she pauses, seeming to steel herself for the stairs that lie beyond.

"Want me to carry you down?" he offers, only half-joking.

"No," she says stubbornly. "I need to move or I'll seize up completely. That's what the instructor said."

She takes the first step out into the hallway and lets out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a curse, the pitch rising at the end in a way that makes Harry's jeans suddenly feel a bit too tight.

He shifts in his chair again, adjusting himself discreetly, and tries once more to focus on the song he's supposed to be finishing. The label needs it by the end of the week, and he's promised his producer he'd have a demo ready to record tomorrow.

But then he hears Y/N's slow progress down the stairs, each step punctuated by little gasps and whines that float up to the bedroom. It's like auditory torture, each sound reminiscent of their most intimate moments together, but delivered in this completely innocent context.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, setting the guitar aside. This isn't working.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the long curls back from his face in frustration. He needs to focus. He has deadlines, commitments, and an entire team waiting on this song.

The sound of something clattering in the kitchen below, followed by a drawn-out "Owwww" that's practically pornographic in its delivery, is the final straw.

Harry stands, adjusting his jeans again and heading downstairs. He finds Y/N in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a grimace on her face, the coffee canister on the floor where she'd apparently dropped it.

"Bending down is not happening today," she informs him miserably, gesturing to the canister. "I physically cannot."

Harry stoops to pick up the coffee, setting it on the counter beside her. His eyes roam over her face, the slight flush on her cheeks, the way she's biting her lower lip in discomfort, and he feels another surge of heat low in his belly.

"You're making a lot of noise up there," he comments, moving to the coffee maker and measuring out grounds with practiced ease.

"Well, excuse me for being in pain," she retorts, but there's no real heat in it. "Not all of us can be Mr. Perfect Fitness who never gets sore."

Harry snorts at that. "I get sore. I just don't sound like I'm auditioning for a porn film when I am."

Y/N's eyes widen, her mouth dropping open in indignation. "I do not sound like– "

"You do," he interrupts, a mischievous glint in his green eyes as he starts the coffee brewing. "Every little gasp and moan. It's very distracting, love."

A blush spreads across her cheeks as understanding dawns. "Oh my god, are you getting turned on by my pain?"

"Not the pain," Harry clarifies, stepping closer to her, his voice dropping lower. "The sounds. They remind me of...other situations."

His hands find her waist, gentle but possessive, and he pulls her carefully against him, mindful of her soreness.

"You're unbelievable," she murmurs, but he doesn't miss the way her pupils dilate slightly, the way she leans into his touch despite her discomfort.

"I'm trying to work," he says, his lips brushing against her ear now. "Trying to finish this song that's due. But all I can hear is you, making these little sounds that make me think of very specific things I'd like to be doing to you right now."

Y/N's breath catches, and the sound, half surprised, half aroused, only adds fuel to the fire building inside him.

"I can't help it," she protests weakly. "Everything hurts."

"I know, baby," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to her neck. "And normally, I'd be very sympathetic. But right now, all I can think about is how those same sounds would feel vibrating against my cock."

The crude words, delivered in his smooth, honeyed voice, make her gasp, another sound that goes straight to his groin.

"Harry," she breathes, half-scandalized, half-intrigued. "I can barely move without wincing. I don't think sex is on the table right now."

He pulls back slightly, looking down at her with that intensity that always makes her knees weak, or would, if her muscles weren't already trembling from yesterday's exertion.

"Who said anything about you moving?" he asks, a wicked smile playing at his lips. "I was thinking of something that would let you lie back and relax. Something that might even help with the soreness."

His hand traces lightly down her side, over the curve of her hip, then slips beneath the hem of the t-shirt she's wearing. His fingers dance along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, making her breath hitch.

"The coffee's going to get cold," she whispers, but her body is already responding to his touch, leaning into him despite the protest of her sore muscles.

"I'll make more," Harry promises, his fingers inching higher, finding her already wet beneath her underwear. "Right now, I need to hear those sounds properly. Need to know they're because of pleasure, not pain."

Y/N's head falls back as his fingers slide against her, a moan escaping her that's unmistakably one of desire now.

"Upstairs might be too far," she admits breathlessly, her hips moving slightly despite her soreness, seeking more pressure from his skilled fingers.

Harry smirks, enjoying the way she's already melting for him, despite her earlier protests. "Kitchen counter it is, then."

In one smooth motion, he lifts her onto the counter, careful not to jar her sore muscles too much. The new position puts her at perfect height, and he wastes no time pushing the t-shirt up to her waist, hooking his fingers in the waistband of her underwear.

"Lift up just a bit for me, love," he murmurs, and she complies with only a small wince, allowing him to slide the fabric down her legs and toss it aside.

The coffee maker beeps, indicating it's finished brewing, but neither of them pays it any attention now. Harry's focus is entirely on Y/N, spread before him on the kitchen counter, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her eyes dark with want.

"Remember," he says, sinking to his knees before her, his hands gently spreading her thighs wider, "you don't have to move. Just let me take care of you."

His mouth finds her center with practiced ease, and the sound she makes, a high, keening moan that echoes off the kitchen tiles, is exactly what he's been craving all morning.

"That's it," he murmurs against her sensitive flesh, his tongue drawing lazy circles around her clit. "Let me hear you properly, baby."

Y/N's hands find purchase in his curls, her body responding to his skilled mouth despite the soreness in her muscles. Each flick of his tongue draws a new sound from her: gasps, moans, his name whispered like a prayer.

These are the sounds he knows, the ones that fuel his desire, the ones that inspire lyrics he can't share with the world because they're too intimate, too raw, too much a reflection of what happens between them in private moments like this.

Harry loses himself in the taste of her, in the symphony of sounds she's making now, no longer whimpers of pain but cries of escalating pleasure. His hands grip her thighs, holding her in place as his tongue works its magic, bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

"Harry," she gasps, tugging at his hair, her body tensing in that familiar way that tells him she's close. "Oh god, Harry, "

He doubles his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly against her most sensitive spot, and she comes with a cry that's loud enough to make him grateful for the privacy his secluded home provides. Her thighs tremble around his head, her back arching as pleasure courses through her, temporarily making her forget all about her sore muscles.

When the aftershocks subside, Harry presses a gentle kiss to her inner thigh before rising to his feet, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"Better than coffee for waking you up, I'd say," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her properly, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

Y/N hums contentedly against his lips, her arms draping loosely around his neck. "Definitely better than coffee," she agrees breathlessly. "Though I'm not sure it helped with the muscle soreness."

Harry chuckles, his hands running soothingly along her sides. "Give it time. Endorphins are nature's painkillers."

She glances down at the obvious bulge in his jeans. "What about you? Don't you want me to...?"

Harry shakes his head, pressing another quick kiss to her lips. "Later. Right now, I've got a song to finish, and I think I just found my missing inspiration."

He helps her down from the counter, steadying her when her legs wobble slightly, partly from her orgasm, partly from her persistent soreness.

"Your muse is my pilates-induced agony?" she asks, raising an eyebrow as she retrieves her underwear from where he'd tossed it.

Harry grins, pouring them each a cup of the now-lukewarm coffee. "Not the agony, love. The sounds. The way you come undone. That's always been my muse."

He hands her a mug, his eyes softening as he takes in her flushed cheeks, her slightly mussed hair, the way she's still moving carefully despite the temporary distraction he'd provided.

"Though maybe stick to yoga next time," he suggests with a wink. "Less soreness, more flexibility. Win-win for both of us."

Y/N laughs, shaking her head at him. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it," he counters confidently, taking a sip of his coffee.

As they stand there in the morning light of his kitchen, her still in his t-shirt, him with the taste of her still on his tongue, Harry feels the melody return to him, clearer now, more insistent. The song that had eluded him all morning suddenly took shape in his mind, inspired by the sounds of her pleasure, by the intimacy they share that's deeper than just physical.

"Go back to bed if you want," he tells her, setting his mug down. "Rest those sore muscles. I'll bring you lunch later."

"Are you kicking me out so you can work?" she asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"I'm suggesting you get comfortable while I capture this song before it slips away again," he clarifies, already itching to get back to his guitar, to translate what he's feeling into music.

Y/N nods understanding, familiar with the way inspiration strikes him sometimes, urgent and demanding, requiring immediate attention.

"Don't work too hard," she says, stretching up (with only a small wince) to press a kiss to his cheek before taking her coffee and heading back toward the stairs.

Harry watches her go, still moving carefully but with a new languidness to her gait that speaks of satisfaction. As she begins her slow ascent up the stairs, she glances back over her shoulder, catching him watching her.

"Like what you see, Styles?" she teases, a knowing smile playing at her lips.

"Always," he answers simply, honestly. "Even when you're moving like an eighty-year-old woman."

She sticks her tongue out at him childishly before continuing her careful climb, and Harry can't help the rush of affection that washes over him. This is what the public doesn't see: the playful moments, the vulnerability, the way she inspires him not just with her beauty but with her spirit, her humor, her resilience.

· · ───────────

a/n: my first standalone one shot. Hope you enjoyed !

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavefanficsever

[deerspherestudios]

Quick update! ✨

I'm alive and well! Just very busy!🐰

I still have full intent on finishing Mushroom Oasis! 🎮

I guess that's the most important stuff out of the way haha. Detailed stuff below if you'd like but in general; I'm doing alright! I miss managing the blog and queueing up questions, but the finish line is close, I'll be able to get back to those soon! ❤️

I'm so close to being done with a project I'm helping a friend with (a quite important final year project) and afterwards, I'd like to take some time drawing for myself for once with some Mermay ideas for Patreon!

I'm sticking to my intended goals and it's going quite well; I can't wait to get back to working on MO though, I have so many ideas now that I've got my priorities in order! I've got a loose narrative in mind, nothing too ambitious, but definitely a natural progression to the story to fit the slow burn theme I've set myself out to do.

I'm sorry to make you all wait so long for another update, but I promise to deliver my best! Even if people lose interest in the future because I took too long, I strive for them to be pleasantly surprised by a quality update should they ever come back to the game.❤️

I need to stop before it gets cheesy but hey! If you're down here, what's a project you've got going on? Is there a project in your noggin you'd like to start? A new hobby? A new skill? I'd love to hear it!

Thank you all for the continued support and patience! I still look through the fanart tag from time to time and seeing new faces bring me so much joy 😭!! Take care and stay hydrated!!

[beforetimes]

[continuation of this post]

yuan's transition into qing jing peak is entirely headed by shen jiu and he doesn't care that it looks like favouritism when he brings yuan back months after the official disciple selection day. he brings the child to the peak lord and tells him that he found his brother, thought-dead but thankfully alive, and would he give him a chance to teach him so that they could stay together and not be separated?

which like. i'm sure shen jiu thinks he's being very sneaky for about a moment but i also know that the qing jing peak lord is absolutely aware that this is not entirely altruistic. but they nod and agree and shen jiu starts his slow process of trial by error in teaching yuan.

well, first, at the qing jing peak lord's gently worded suggestion, he gives yuan his last name (the convo went a little like "ah, if this one is your brother, surely you share the same surname?" "...yes. this is shen yuan.")

but after that, the only person who really sees shen yuan on a day-to-day, up close and personal basis is shen jiu, who's taken shen yuan's schooling to be entirely his responsibility. at first its because he needs all the practice he can get in learning to be tolerant of children but after about a year, he realizes that like. he doesn't want these awful teachers on the peak who were so snide to him to get near shen yuan. but thats jumping forward a bit.

shen yuan is a very diligent student. he tries very hard to do everything exactly to shen jiu's liking because he knows the future that is waiting for him if he fails in this endeavour and can't manage to be a cultivator worthy of qing jing peak and shen jiu's disproval is a dangerous thing. he does his best to follow the manual he's given and shadows his 'older brother' in an attempt to pick up some knowledge through osmosis.

shen jiu has barely enough patience for this. every time he sees shen yuan out of the corner of his eyes he can't help but see himself, curled in the corner of an alleyway like a nasty snarling thing. all he sees is desperation that makes him filthy, a will to live thats admirable but irritating, a problem waiting to happen. he looks at shen yuan and sees his mistakes more than anything else because its what he's the best at finding from any prospective disciple.

because he's the only one shen jiu's teaching now, shen yuan bears the brunt of his disapproval and sharp words. slowly getting worn down until everything he does feels like a mistake, he slowly stops progressing, can't get himself to do much.

shen yuan's slipped away on his own time after shen jiu's scolded him for not doing a form properly, feeling the strain on his spiritual energy. he's tired and sore but he knows that he needs to succeed at this—it would just help if he didn't have the worlds worst teacher.

then he hears footsteps behind him and meets yue qingyuan. who is looking at him with wide eyes and immediately asks who he is, what happened, etc. shen yuan answers with the story shen jiu drills him on when they were first on the way back to the sect: he was living with a frail mother who died shortly before shen jiu found him after years of no contact. upon learning the news, shen jiu decided to take him home so he wouldn't be on his own.

yue qingyuan, who knows that shen jiu has no family he has ever known long enough to visit once, let alone over the course of years, knows immediately that this is bullshit, but shen yuan doesn't know that.

either way, he takes this moment to get to know shen yuan. and learns about shen jiu's attempts to learn to teach disciples so he can eventually graduate to the role of head disciple and be next in line to become qing jing's future peak lord. shen yuan gets called away by shen jiu, who doesn't see yue qingyuan talking to the boy while yue qingyuan asks not to mention his name to shen jiu for the time being.

shen yuan agrees, a little awestruck that he's met the future sect leader who seems so kind, and resumes life as normal.

liu qingge is just. an odd outlier. he's the only one who knows the truth of where shen yuan has come from and shen jiu waits and waits and waits for the other foot to drop and nothing happens. he gets frustrated and confronts the man himself just for liu qingge to say he doesn't care where shen yuan came from; on bai zhan peak the only thing that matters is how smart you are. he's never given a fuck about it. shen jiu is—a little surprised. but doesn't show it. just narrows his eyes and threatens and bites before backing away and leaving a fuming but silent liu qingge behind him.

shen yuan and shen jiu eventually get into a rhythm where shen jiu tries to teach shen yuan something and shen yuan, with his knowledge from modern day china with enough experience as a student under much better teachers, starts slowly and slyly offering corrections to shen jiu's way of teaching. which he notices immediately, but shen jiu takes the suggestions in stride either way. shen jiu has convinced himself that shen yuan is trying to get him into the position of head disciple because he wants the protection that the role could bring him through proxy. well, jokes on him, shen jiu thinks. as soon as shen jiu is announced as head disciple he is forgetting about shen yuan entirely because all shen yuan is to him is a tool to make his way up.

shen jiu, after about three years of teaching shen yuan, is announced head disciple. and doesn't immediately abandon shen yuan the way he convinced himself he would three years ago. but he can't find a reason to stay around shen yuan without looking weak and clingy—things he refuses to be, ammo he refuses to give people to manipulate him with—so he starts distancing himself from shen yuan, slowly but surely.

shen yuan, who heard the name shen qingqiu and realized that his brother was the scum villain, feels hopelessness sink into him and concludes that this is just the plot progressing as it normally should, and now there is nothing for him to do but wait for luo binghe to come and kill his brother.

but. and he doesn't know how it happened. he's attached. he loves shen jiu—in the way a dog can love someone who feeds him, a bird loves someone who opens a cage door, a tree can love the spring for breathing new life into it.

shen jiu is mean and abrasive and ambitious. impatient and snappish and doesn't hide these things. he is a schemer and is not afraid to be ruthless to get what he wants. but when shen yuan is scared after waking up from a nightmare, he doesn't say anything when shen yuan kneels by his side late at night, watching him write reports. when shen yuan curls into the space behind shen jiu when a man from another peak comes near on a bad day, shen jiu doesn't push him aside and tell him to stop being weak. when other disciples start pushing shen yuan around, he doesn't stand up for him, but he waits until shen yuan pulls himself up to his feet and brushes dirt off his shoulder before telling him that being strong doesn't mean being kind and letting himself get walked all over for the sake of keeping peace means nothing if he wants to survive. and when shen yuan gets them back, shen jiu turns and leaves to maintain plausible deniability.

which is to say that shen jiu may still be awful, but he's not a villain. and shen yuan doesn't want to see him torn apart.

so comes his new objective, not at all system approved: keep shen jiu alive.

anyway!!! if you have any questions about this au just lmk hahaha i think this is the most i'll write about it on tumblr unless anyone has something really specific they want to know

[vandijkwrites]

sorry if you've already answered this 700 times, in which case totally feel free to ignore. but how do you lengthen your attention span? is it as simple as watching/reading progressively longer things?

First of, I am by no means an expert, but I'm happy to help as much as I can! There are a lot of great articles, books, and podcasts on the topic if you want any further info.

The most important thing to realize is why are attention spans are getting worse:

Information overload and distractions make it difficult to focus. (Ex. social media and text notification going off while you are doing other tasks)

Intentional multitasking gets your brain used to doing more than one thing at once so it becomes very difficult to make it do only one thing (Ex. having the tv on in the background while doing other tasks)

Consuming a lot of media focused on having minimal downtime and immediate gratification decreases our patience and ability to do slower tasks (Ex. watching a lot of action packed movies and short TikToks)

Getting constant small hits of dopamine from social media decreases our ability to do tasks that don't give us dopamine hits (Ex. getting likes from a post or messages from friends)

The solutions to most of these come down to two things: (1) Do only one thing at a time (2) Limit distractions from that task (3) Reduce immediate gratification

So some example of ways to do that would be:

Read a book without your phone being on hand to distract you.

Watch TV without multitasking.

Reduce time on social media, especially social media focused on short videos.

Spend a day or part of a day without technology.

Spend time with friends without looking at your phone.

Watch slow-form content like unedited lecture or panel videos where people are just speaking at their normal pace without cutting pauses.

Listen to music albums all the way through instead of shuffling and skipping.

Eat meals without multitasking (ie mindful eating)

Make yourself a cup of tea and sit on a park bench or by the window and watch some birds.

People-watch at the coffee shop.

Write long emails or letters to friends and family instead of short texts.

Call and have a conversation with a loved one without multitasking.

Meditate.

Take a walk and enjoy nature.

Don't scroll through your phone while waiting in a line.

Read long posts when you come across them on your dashboard.

Have an ebook on your phone to read whenever you would normally scroll through social media.

Don't go on your phone/online for a certain amount of time before bed.

If you are having trouble doing these things, try to do one tasks but increase the stimuli of that task. For example, read a book while listening to the audiobook at the same time. Or listen to music while watching a lyric video. These are great baby steps!

Another great baby step is (like you said in your question) doing things for progressively longer amounts of time! Set a timer for a certain number of minutes and then read without distraction for that amount of time. That way it won't feel like it is never ending and you can track your progress.

Obviously not all of these will be for everyone and some of these are too hard for people with ADHD or serious attention issues, but they are a good place to start!

I hope that helps 💕

[ssahotchnerr]

Aaron having to bring his daughter with him to work for whatever reason? She’s tiny enough to not be running around and mainly just sleep on his chest all day. It’s fall outside and she’s in a warm teddy bear outfit so it’s literally like a stuffed animal on his chest as he works. She wouldn’t remember anything she saw in files but he makes sure her head is never near anything bad. Makes his heart warm and happy when the others realize that she’s there and coo over her and the outfit. Penelope takes pictures of them to send to you too 😭🖤

soak it in

i'm going to CRY cw; fem!reader, girl dad!aaron, small foyet reference

aaron's entrance into the bullpen piqued the interest of several, as it was different from any other, usual morning. not only was his briefcase in hand, but also a carseat, and a diaper bag was slung proudly over his shoulder. there were smiles from the team, some small nudges to look amongst the other units, as today's visitor was easily welcomed.

during breakfast, you had been notified your dentist appointment had been moved up, due to the office closing earlier within the day for whatever reason. with such short notice and jessica being unavailable, aaron was the obvious solution, and your daughter came to work with him - until you were done running a few errands and could drop by to retrieve her.

for the meantime - as she was there - aaron opted to work strictly on the no-pictures-included files. while she was never in close proximity to a file regardless, and today's onesie's hood happened to shield her eyes, and her little mind wouldn't process or remember anything - aaron didn't want to take any chances. he yearned to keep his daughter as far away from that, all the horrors the world possessed, for as long as he possibly could. jack had gained the knowledge - that monsters were real, just in human form - sooner than he would have liked. sadly.

currently baby girl was tucked into his chest, her right cheek smushed against him. she dozed off not too long ago; she had gotten a bit antsy and luckily his swivel desk chair allowed him to slowly rock her as he worked, in addition to soothingly shushing her, whispering that it's okay; ultimately calming her down. her little fingers found a near death grip on his shirt, clinging onto him as she slept.

when he had felt the pull of fabric, he gazed down and couldn't help but smile. aaron also took a moment, to soak it all in. the window of time where this was possible, was limited; her against his chest, small enough to be cradled in one arm, quiet and secure in the comfort of his office. all in too fast progression would aaron blink, and she would be way more interested in exploring and bouncing off the walls.

the thought immediately snapped his heart into two. if only she could stay that tiny, forever.

as he wrote, flipped a page, switched files, aaron was extremely careful to his movements. he tried not to rustle her, despite her being comfortably laid in his not-preoccupied-by-writing arm.

the sudden creak of his door lifts his eyes, penelope entering. the quietest of aw’s leaves her as she approaches, with an extra spring in her step at the sight before her. in addition, she doesn't hesitate to whisk out her phone.

"i didn't know this cutie was here today." the words leave her in a gentle, yet high, pitched tone, giddiness laced within. her jaw fully drops as she catches sight of the cozy onesie the littlest hotchner inhabits, "oh my god look at her outfit!"

“garcia.” aaron lightly warns as her volume heightens, his eyes flicking back up to her from his paperwork, his pen slowing.

“i know sorry sorry, i just neeeed to share the cuteness with the mrs.," penelope grins, aiming her camera at baby girl, and aaron, snapping a few pictures. "this is just, too dang adorable. she needs a copy, i need a copy, and i'll make you a copy too, sir."

that tugs aaron's lips into a smile, a small chuckle leaving him. "she's cute, huh?"

"um hello? cute doesn't even begin to cover it. please tell me you're the one who dressed her today. if yes, i might have to scream. just might."

"not today." aaron admitted, dropping his pen and fixing the small hood, which had fallen a bit too much in front of baby girl's face. again, his lips couldn’t help but pull into a smile. god, he loved being a girl dad, and a dad in general. "but, i may have picked it out."

"i was right. i'm going to scream." quick to realize what she said, penelope held out her hands in defense - before aaron even had the opportunity to open his mouth - clarifying with wide eyes. "internally! i'm screaming internally."

aaron took a slight pause, before speaking. “actually, about the copies - ”

penelope’s shoulders dropped in defeat, her lips pulling to the side - an equivalent to an ‘eek’. “was i too enthusiastic?”

“on the contrary,” aaron’s expression softened, laughing gently as to again, not rouse baby girl. “would you mind bringing me two? i’ll need one for in here, and for my wallet.”

[sugawhaaa]

🥀HAN ONE-SHOT🥀

🍄•♡°[ trust me ]°♡•🍄

Warnings//genre:: SMUT! Mentions blood, Virginity loss, FLUFF, oral (f rec) fingering (f rec) handjob, body exploration, body worship, sm praise bro, protective hannie, protected sex,

Pairing:: SOFT!dom!Han x sub!virgin!fem!reader

A/N:: bro I wrote this in like...three hours but I think it's the best fanfic I have EVER written. Like he is so fucking sweet I wanna kiss him

Skz masterlist:: 💕

🎧::

Things between you and Han progressed surprisingly fast throughout your entire relationship thus far. You thought Han would like things to be slow paced but, once again, surprisingly he was the opposite. That's why you weren't overly shocked when he abruptly asked about having sex.

"I know this is kind of abrupt but we've been dating for a while so I was thinking maybe we could try..." He's very tense as he asks you, nervous to see your reaction. "Having sex? If you wanna," The way he asked made you feel so important somehow, like this wouldn't happen without your enthusatic consent.

"I mean I'd love to, but," You pause for a moment and Han looks intruiged, showing that you have all his attention. "I'm a virgin," You sigh and Han looks taken aback.

"Really?" There's a long pause as he processes what you said. "That is surprising..." He chuckles and you laugh at his comment. "I just thought, you know, you're so beautiful and attractive that some man must've approached you by this point," He explains and you shrug, not bothering to touch on the subject of other men. "I don't mind by the way! I could be your first, show you the ropes, and I'll be oh so gentle," He promises with a confident nod. "But I will wait until you are ready,"

"I never said I wasn't ready," You smile and he looks at you, wide-eyed, and his cheeks flushed.

"So...Do you wanna..?" He smirks, trying to contain his excitement. You nod and he smiles sincerely. "Okay, wow this is exciting okay," he chuckles nervously and shifts on the bed to face you. He takes your hands tenderly in his. "Are you sure?" He confirms and you nod.

"Absolutely," you smile and he blushes softly. "I can't think of another person I'd want to be my first, experiencing something like this with you has honestly been my dream, my fantasy, everything," you blush and look down as you confess your inner feelings. "I trust you," you keep eye contact with and he smiles sincerely.

"Thank you Y/N," he lifts your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly. "Let's get you nice and comfortable first," Han gets you to stand up while he fixes the bed, making sure the sheets are flat without a single crease. He then turns the lights out before turning on the fairy lights in the room, creating dim and warm lighting for an intimate and romantic night. He then turns to face you again. "Now, shall we undress?" He smiles and you can't help but blush at his care for your first time, all his efforts to make you comfortable. "I'll start," he takes off his shirt and tosses it aside in the pile of laundry. He holds your hips and guides you to sit on the bed as he finishes undressing. "Should I go all the way or just to my boxers?" He smiles down at you and you giggle.

"Mmm all the way," you smirk slightly and he laughs.

"Alright my little minx," he kisses your forehead quickly before pulling down his sweatpants. You watch as the baggy fabric falls to reveal his toned legs, his thighs muscular from lots of training, but what draws your attention the most is the bulge in his boxers.

You had seen his bulge before, whether it was intentional or not. Almost every morning it's hard to keep your eyes off his crotch. "Do you wanna do the honors?" He offers and you blush, a little flustered by the offer but you can't deny that you want to. You hook your thumbs on the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, watching his cock slip out of its confinement. Your face flushes as you see him for the first time, your lip subconsciously tucking between your teeth.

He rubs your head teasingly, ruffling your hair. "Like what you see?" He jokes and you huff at him. "I'm teasing," he caresses your cheek, rubbing his thumb over the squishy skin he loves so much. He then sits down beside you. "Would you like to...touch me a little or undress first?" He puts a hand to your back, offering comfort.

"I guess I'll undress a little," you nod and take off your shirt and pants, leaving you in your undergarments. You notice hans eyes chasing your breasts as you set your shirt aside.

"Fuck..." he mutters softly and it draws your attention. "Sorry, sorry," he puts his hands up in surrender as his cock follows suit, standing up. You chuckle softly, brushing him off.

"Don't apologize, I like it when you get flustered," you nod before your eyes flutter down to his length, standing proud and tall as it twitches against his stomach. "Is it okay if I touch you?" You bring your hand to hover over his most intimate area.

"Y-Yeah, of course, baby, I'm all yours," he leans back a little, his arms propped up behind him, exposing his cock to you. You hesitate before making contact with his cock. You can feel the throb of his heat, the silkiness of his skin, the wetness of his arousal, it's all so erotic and enticing. He moans softly, his head tossed and hair falling back, before chuckling softly. "Your hands are so soft...I've waited so long to feel you baby," he smiles blissfully as you continue to explore him.

You feel around his hardness, taking in the size and length of it, and watch it twitch in your palms. You then shift your hand into an O shape and slip his cock through the hole. He lets out a shaky breath before smiling. "That's good, yeah," he moans lowly, his voice raspy in pleasure. You felt your blood rushing at the sight of him like this, hearing his moans and praise got you so excited. He brings a hand up to your head, playing with your hair. "You're so good to me," his eyes fluttered shut in bliss. "Go a little faster, please," he chuckles in embarrassment at his request. "Fuck, yes like that," he praises as your hand moves faster, effortlessly gliding thanks to his precum.

You began to feel more bold and confident in your performance thanks to his praise and reactions. Before you know it his body is twitching and acting on its own. "Keep going," he encourages, gripping the sheets next to him hard. You weren't sure what else to do so you just kept jerking him off faster and faster until he started letting out these guttural groans. "Shit! I'm cumming baby," he cries out his head thrown all the way back as his back arches, his legs twitching slightly.

Cum spurts out onto your hands and a rush of excitement courses through you. The lewdness of feeling someone else's cum on your hands and seeing him reach such a high peak due to your ministrations was indescribably arousing.

Eventually, he calms down, his breathing evening out as he chuckles sincerely. "You did so fucking good babygirl," he holds the side of your face to kiss you deeply as a reward. At first, the kiss catches you off guard but you fall into it, bringing a cum coated hand up to his shoulder. Your tongues mingle and twist around each other as he leans in closer to you. He rubs your thigh softly with his free hand before pulling back, his hand still lingering. He looks up into your eyes and you can tell exactly what he'll ask next. "You ready?" He tilts his head, his fingers drawing closer to your panties.

"I'm ready, more than ready," you blush, the puddle of wetness in your panties now obvious. He throws your thighs around his waist and he picks you up. He sets you on the bed, laying back against the plush pillows he coordinated to support and comfort you. He gently helps you remove your undergarments, making sure you feel worshipped along the way.

"You have such perfect tits," he admires your breasts after removing your bra, gently cupping the soft flesh. "So soft," he kisses your nipple softly making you release a little squeak at the new sensation. After giving your tits a little attention he moves lower, giving tender kisses to your tummy. He peels off your panties, tugging them down your legs and tossing them aside. You reflexively cross your legs, hiding your vulnerability. "Hey, hey, don't be shy now baby," he brings his hands to your knees, prying your legs open.

"I'm embarrassed," you admit and he stops, looking up at you sincerely.

"Why babygirl? I've been waiting for this for way too long," he whines and you chuckle softly.

"I just...I didn't shave or anything because I didn't know we'd be doing this anytime soon..." you explain and Han sighs, thinking of how to respond.

"Listen...I don't really care," he explains, instantly making your expression change. "If it makes you feel more comfortable to shave you go right ahead baby, but if you're shaving on my part or if you are simply embarrassed because you haven't shaved, don't," Jisung nods determinedly and you blush, a smile creeping upon your lips. "Now, can I please see this pretty pussy?" He looks up at you with lust-filled and desperate eyes. You nod with a smile and he smiles back, proud that you are now comfortable with him.

He pulls your legs apart to reveal your dripping cunt, he doesn't even pay mind to the curly hair there, more focused on the slickness of your folds. "Fuck baby," he moans before running a finger up your folds. "Look at this," he says in awe, loving the way you respond to him. "So wet, so cute," he brings his thumb up to your clit, rubbing little circles on it. "What do you want me to do babygirl? Finger you or eat you out?" He tilts his head, resting the side of his head against your inner thigh as he continues to play with your clit.

"Maybe...both?" You smirk playfully and he chuckles.

"Should've guessed huh?" He places a gentle kiss to your clit making you gasp softly. "Don't be afraid to pull my hair baby, I know you're gonna want to," he slithers a finger down to your slit, guiding it between your tight folds. "Deep breaths baby," he encourages, his words slightly muffled by your pussy. You nod and take in long breaths. His finger trails in deep, roaming around your insides, familiarizing himself with your tender spots.

He takes a long time, taking a lot of care into finding all those spots and paces you like before actually fingering you.

He curls to fingers simultaneously against that squishy spot that makes you squirm as his tongue flicks your clit but he takes a pause to speak. "If it's too much just tell me okay?" He quickly resumes his ministrations as you whimper and sob.

"O-Okay," you tug on his hair, the silver strands lacing around your fingers. You let out a loud whimper and blush at your own sounds, sounding so pathetic and lewd.

"Keep doing that, moan for me," he groans, getting lost in lust and falling drunk to your cunt. He fingers you faster, a bit harder as well, seeking more music to his ears. You finally cave in, embracing your lust and moaning into the quiet room.

"Jisung, I-I think..." you bite your lip, unsure of how to confess such a sensation.

"You getting close?" He finishes your statement for you and you nod, your lips quivering as your brows curl up. He sucks on your clit, the room filling with slurping sounds and the sound of your pussy sucking in his fingers. You feel this warmth trickling up your body as your head goes fuzzy, your body lightly twitching from the sensation. Your hips buck up reflexively and Han pulls you through the orgasm, drawing out every last strand of pleasure, before pulling back. "How was that?" He smiles and you're left panting, your head reeling.

"Fucking...insane..." you pant out and laugh softly, the rush of hormones making you feel above the clouds. He laughs at your fucked out state before kissing your forehead.

"Such a good little minx," he pats your hip softly, a form of praise. "Do you need a break or shall we keep moving?"

"I wanna keep going, I've never felt so good," you explain and Han creeps up closer to you, hovering above you.

"I'm so glad angel," he caresses your cheek. "I'm so glad I get to see you feel like this for the first time. The way your lips part, your body twitches, your eyes squinting shut, your little cries, they're everything to me," he rests his forehead against yours as he speaks softly. As he speaks you feel his cock nudging against your lower abdomen, hinting that he's growing impatient but he will always wait for you.

"Trust me Jisung, I wouldn't change a thing in my life as long as I got to be with you," you kiss him softly and he smiles bashfully.

"Please Y/N...let me please you," he reaches over to the nightstand, searching through the bottom drawer for a condom packet. He sits back on his knees, his cock standing up and front. He holds the packet between his teeth and tears it open, tossing the wrapper somewhere in the room, before rolling the condom on with ease. "It may hurt a little at first but I promise I'll take it slow," he lines his sealed cock up to your slit. "Ready?"

"Mhm," you nod, eagerly waiting for the impending sensation to take over you. He gently pushes his hips forward and the two of you moan in sync.

"Fuck," he curses as his cock makes it only about halfway through your pussy. "How are you doing?"

"It kinda hurts but I can push through," you nod, gripping his shoulders tight. He takes one of your hands, intertwining it with his.

"Squeeze it," he nods before pushing his hips forward again. You let out a cry, squeezing his hand hard as you feel him filling you up.

"Fuck," you curse loudly. "It hurts but it feels so fucking good," you throw your head back, your hand trembling as you squeeze his hand.

"Deep breaths babygirl," he then thrusts forward, his cock filling you up. You jump, back arched, at the sudden increase in intensity. "Shh, Shh, it's all in baby," he kisses your lower jaw softly. "You're doing so good," he rubs your thigh. At first, Jisung moves slowly, allowing you plenty of time to adjust, but the condom helps lube you up a lot and soothe the muscles. As soon as he begins to slowly thrust your head spins.

"Is it supposed to feel this intense," you chuckle as sweat builds along your forehead.

"I know it's a lot at first but trust me, I'll make you feel so good," he promises softly as his hips skillfully roll against yours. You claw at his back, your nails digging in as you fall to the overwhelming pleasure. You let out cracked moans and Jisung finds it hard to hold back, craving you more and more as he thrusts into you gently, but the he hears the most reassuring words he could possibly ask for in this situation.

"Faster~"

Your voice was soft, a quiet yet desperate plea and Jisung is not one to deny a lady of her wishes. He moves his hips faster, falling to his own lust. He thrusts harder, deeper, faster, all the things to make your head spin. Your body begins to shake as you let out squeals of incoherent lust and everything just comes pouring out of the two of you.

"Oh yes fuck baby!" He groans as he unloads into the condom, hips twitching into yours. The two of you ramble incoherent lewd words at the overwhelming pleasure before slowly coming down together. "So tight," he groans.

"Fuck Jisungie," your body goes limp against the bed, your body still trembling from the intensity of the orgasm. He pets your head sincerely, feeling the softness of the locks.

"You did so good," he breathes out. "I suppose I should pull out just in case," he chuckles before pulling out, you could hear your pussy clinging to him as he eased out. He removes the condom, tossing it in the bin next to your bed. "I'll throw that out properly later, way too fucked up right now. Besides I need to take care of you," he smiles before noticing the cum dripping out of your slit, a hue of pink in it, but you were unaware. "Um this is kind of awkward but just so you know you're bleeding a bit," he says as he sits up next to you, pulling you into his lap.

"Shit really? You think it's from my hymen?" You blush, hiding in his chest.

"Don't be embarrassed, and probably," he nods and you sigh. "Let's get you in the shower, kay?" He scoops you up in his arms and you gasp at how effortlessly he lifts you. "Maybe I can please you some more in there, hm?"

[narumi-gens]

boundaries gojo satoru x f!reader

post-breakup!gojo who can't quite follow through on the breaking up. he's as present in your life after he ended things as he was when you were still dating.

he still blows up your phone at all hours with nothing important. he insists on holding your hand when you walk side-by-side. he still uses your apartment key, which you never had the heart to ask for him to return. you've ended up in more than one heated makeout session with him, although you have managed to keep them from progressing past him feeling up your tits over your bra.

and when you end up in the hospital after a mission, he shows up before even shoko can get there. you sigh when his towering form appears in the doorway of the room you've been given.

"looks worse than it is," you say and despite the way you slur your words due to the painkillers, it's true.

your concussion, while serious, isn't something that wouldn't heal on its own. your broken ribs managed to avoid puncturing any organs. even the burst blood vessel in your left eye that's colored the white of your eye a ghastly red is only really a surface-level injury.

but for once, the man who never shuts up stays silent as he pulls a chair close and sits at your bedside. he reaches for your hand but pauses when you wince at the pressure on the two fingers that are fractured and wrapped in a splint. instead, he settles for loosely holding onto your wrist.

"shoko's gonna fix it all anyways," you tell him through a yawn, your eyelids feeling heavy. "'sides, you shouldn't even be here. boundaries, satoru. 'member?"

it's a word that you've tossed in his face so many times since the breakup that it's lost all meaning. and it doesn't help that you've never managed to say it with any sort of real weight. instead, it usually comes out on the end of a resigned sigh.

you can feel his gaze on you even through his dumb sunglasses. normally, even post-breakup, you would reach out and pull them down his nose to meet those cursed eyes of his and make some joke. but with your brain working at a diminished capacity and your arm hooked up to an IV full of the best painkillers japan's doctors have to offer, all you can do is slowly blink at him in return.

"it's always boundaries this, boundaries that with you," he finally retorts with a shake of his head, but offers nothing else.

"'f you didn't want boundaries then you shouldn't've ended things, y'big dummy," you mumble, and no longer able to keep your eyes open, you finally let them close.

"I told you. I don't have room in my life for anyone else – i.e., you," he replies bluntly and you can feel the fit of giggles that you want to burst into, but all you can manage is a soft huff of laughter.

"liar," you say with a sleepy smile stretching across your lips. "can't even be honest when I'm strung out on painkillers. psh. lame."

it takes monumental effort, but you manage to crack open an eye so that you can see him sporting his own cheeky grin.

silence settles over you both and you feel yourself slowly beginning to fall into the blackness as your breathing slows. the soothing sensation of gojo's thumb rubbing circles on the skin of your wrist only aids in pushing you closer and closer to sleep.

"you were considered a suitable match." even on the edge of consciousness, the disgust in his tone at those two words reaches you. "I couldn't let them get what they wanted."

you let out a quiet hum in acknowledgment and wish you had enough strength to open your eyes, curious to see if he's surprised you weren't fully asleep yet.

"still letting 'em control you, hm? s'good we broke up. want someone who's only tied down by me," you mumble.

"baby, if you want to tie me down, all you had to do was say so," he jokingly responds, unsurprisingly choosing to sidestep the gravity of your words, no matter how slurred they were.

"boundaries, 'toru..." you trail off as you finally succumb to sleep.

[omorithedreamermod]

JUNE DEVLOG

June DEVLOG time for OMORI THE DREAMER and...some big things have happened.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION:

In even more contrast to prior optimism, it seems the entire DREAMER release timeline will be overhauled. Due to the size of the story, the assets that relies on other's to complete, and the large amount of new assets far outweighing the amount in the PRELUDE...

From now on, we will be following a "CHAPTER BY CHAPTER", or in accordance to DREAMER's naming conventions, a "BOOK BY BOOK" release schedule. So, instead of waiting for the entire game to come out and getting overloaded with way too much content, books will be released in this sequence; BOOK 1 - KEL BOOK 2 - AUBREY BOOK 3 - HERO BOOK 4 & 5 - BASIL + ???

The final release of Book 4 & 5 will be the entire game. Each new release will include the chapters before, and save files will carry over. I believe this will be better overall for development, and for you guys to experience the story without being overwhelmed. The current plan is for BOOK 1 to release in the fall, and for BOOK 2 to release before the end of the year. I want this project completed in 2026, and with the additional time, hopefully everything will be at a higher quality. The narrative was already built in this book by book format, so nothing is actually changing besides release dates!

I'm sorry if this is frustrating to hear, but I'm confident this is better overall for both players and definitely for the team. We are not in development hell–people just have actual lives and are not being paid to work on this, so it can't be a priority. Still, the goal is a timely release schedule, with each book getting its own release trailer. I hope you can still look forward to the releases ^^

PROGRESS (BOOK ONE):

Due to the time of the year and a certain game releasing, a lot of the team was busy. Progress significantly slowed, but will hopefully pick back up again. Unfortunately, I cannot help with tile-set creation as it's outside of my wheelhouse (though I'll do my best to learn in the future!) so that team has a lot of pressure on them to handle SECTION TWO tile-sets on their own. Hopefully in the future I can help carry the burden. For now, it'll take as long as it needs to to avoid stress, but hopefully the internal deadlines can still be met!

Music is coming along amazing, and once again, there is going to be a large soundtrack coming with the chapter. Lots to see and lots to hear!

As of now, I'm making as much art and surrounding assets as I can while waiting for SECTION TWO to be ready for programming and writing. Progress is steady but certainly not at the breakneck pace it used to be. I got severely burnt out after continuing to work on THE DREAMER right after PRELUDE release and churning out SECTION ONE...but I am recovering! I'll bounce back passionately soon enough! I'm learning more and more how to rely on others and be patient with myself.

Battling is in the process of being overhauled and fixed up, and that will be available for the Book 1 release still!

For SECTION THREE, progress is also steady, though similarly significantly slowed. Still, nearly all maps are actively being mad, so it's looking very promising. Bug fixing still needs to happen for SECTION ONE, though...

CONCLUSION:

Wish us luck. A lot of luck. And for more pixel artists to sign up. This mod is on the right track and will certainly be completed! Just...at a more steady pace than originally assumed. On the bright side, that means you guys don't have to wait as long for more of THE DREAMER! Yay!

[justnatoka]

When you don't say 'I love you' back

The Lost Boys headcanons

A/n: Marko gave me a hard time not gonna lie, and I'm still not 100% satisfied with his part, but I didn't want to chew on this any longer. Hope you enjoy!

Warning: nsfw themes, allusions to smut

David

He’s not really the type to shower you with phrases of love, he much rather shows his feelings to you through his actions. So on the rare occasion when he says ‘I love you’, he expects you to say it back.

You were lying in his arms one night, your body aching deliciously, his hand stroking your bare thigh in slow, lazy motions.

“When do you think the boys will be back?” you wondered.

He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re seriously thinking about them right now?”

You snorted and playfully smacked his naked chest.

“Nothing like that. I was just wondering how long the peace will last.”

As if on que, the distant sound of stomping and Marko’s hollering broke the silence of the cave. David levelled you with a flat stare, basically saying without words that this was your fault. You just shrugged your shoulders. Nothing you could do about it now.

He made a move to get up, but as he looked back at you, still tangled in the sheets, your body all soft and pliant, baring the marks of his affections from before, staring back at him with those pretty eyes, he couldn’t help himself. He leaned down, one hand keeping himself upright, the other finding the plush skin of your hips, still tender from his previously bruising grip, and giving it a gentle squeeze. His lips chased after yours, capturing them in a slow kiss. The corner of his mouth quirked up at the little sound you made as he deepened it, his tongue stroking against yours, teasing you just a bit before he pulled away. He chuckled as you let out a huff at the abrupt ending, and pressed a quick peck on your pout.

“Love you,” he murmured against your lips before he got up to find his pants.

He froze. There was no answer, nothing, just silence. Did you not hear him? Were you playing with him? You thought you could be cheeky, huh? Now this would not do.

He turned around and strode back to the bed. He towered over you, trapping you in with his gaze. Leaning down, his hand caught a firm grip on your jaw.

“Was I not clear enough, kitten? Do I have to show you again? Because I don’t care if the boys hear you this time, I’m going to make sure everyone knows how much you love me.”

Dwayne

Dwayne wasn’t as sparse with the use of those three words as David was, but he also didn’t feel the urge to shout it from the rooftops like Marko did. Instead, he reserved them to intimate moments between you two, special occasions when the mood was just right.

You were having a quiet night in with Dwayne, since the boys decided to give you some privacy. You may or may not have threatened them to make themselves scarce for a few hours. You spent it in an armchair in the cave, one the two of you specifically got for yourselves, because it was wide and comfortable, allowing both of you to snuggle in against each other.

You’ve been sitting in Dwayne’s lap for most of the night, napping against his chest, playing with his hair or reading the book he had in his hands alongside him.

He was also in an affectionate mood, one of his hands always wrapped around your waist, his fingers soothing over your skin or rubbing it absentmindedly. He even occasionally paused his reading to press kisses on your face and your lips.

Feeling a craving for some snacks, you moved to get off his lap for the first time in hours. His hand was quick to get a hold of yours, pulling you right back onto him. Marking his progress in the book he put it aside, focusing his full attention on you now.

He took in the sight of you, illuminated by the fires burning around the cave. His dark eyes shone with adoration, the corners of them creasing as a smile stretched across his handsome face. His fingers cupped your chin, bringing your face closer as his lips found yours, moving slowly, savoring each moment, his teeth nipping your lower lip playfully.

“I love you,” he sighed as you broke away from him with flushed cheeks.

You send him a warm smile, before once again moving to get up. With your back already turned, you didn’t see the frown that came over his face. You hand was still firmly in his grip, and he used that leverage to pull you back in once again, this time with a bit more persistence.

“Did you not hear what I said, sweetheart? Or do you need a reminder?” he muttered into your ear, his words a deep rumble in his chest. You felt his breath fan out on your neck just before his lips attached themselves onto your sensitive skin.

Now you were even more grateful that the boys wouldn’t be around for what was in store for you.

Paul

Paul is definitely the type of lover who shows his affection, both physically and verbally, any chance he gets. It’s well understood that he’s incredibly handsy, always touching you in some kind of way. What you didn’t count on however was how often he said ‘I love you’.

Did you just wake up? I love you. Did you just get off his bike? Love you, dollface. Did you just kill someone to feats on their blood? You’re so hot, babe, I love you!

It was a constant thing in your relationship. He didn’t necessarily expect you to say it back every single time, but he absolutely started pouting if you missed it a few times in a row. Yes, he was needy, and yes, he was keeping score.

You didn’t feel like going out tonight, so the two of you stayed in, cuddling on your bed. Paul was lying on top of you, his arms circled around your torso, his head resting on your chest. You were leaned back against the myriad pillows you accumulated over the years, your fingers running through his hair, playing with the blond strands absentmindedly.

“You would make a nice pillow, know that, babe?” he mumbled.

“Yeah? How’s that?” you asked while trying to work out a particularly stubborn knot in his hair.

“You’re soft and you smell nice,” he emphasized his words by pressing a small kiss near you collarbone, before snuggling back in, nuzzling into you, squishing his cheek against your chest and inhaling deeply.

You chuckled, gently massaging his scalp, and you could swear you heard him purring. He mumbled affectionate “I love you’s” into your skin, his arms squeezing you just a little bit tighter. When you didn’t say anything, a frown appeared on his face, and he turned to look up at you.

“Babe?” he started.

“Hm?” you met his eyes and discovered that he was pouting.

“You didn’t say it back.”

You gave him a noncommittal hum, and his eyes narrowed. You barely had time to catch on before he started attacking you with a flurry of kisses all over your face, making you burst out in giggles.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” you squealed between bouts of laughter. “I’m sorry, I love you too.”

He leaned back with a satisfied little smirk on his face.

“You better,” he replied cheekily, and the next thing you know is he moved further down, his breath tickling your neck before his lips found a particularly sensitive spot, pressing hot kisses on your skin. A moan threatened to escape your mouth when you felt the graze of his fangs.

You had no problem teasing him a bit if this is how he retaliates every time.

Marko

Just like Paul, he wasn’t shy to show his affection for you. He had a loud personality, so why not make his declarations of love just as loud?

The two of you separated from the boys as soon as you got to the Boardwalk that night, opting to spend some time together before joining them again for feasting. You were strolling between vendors’ stalls, looking at all the knick-knacks they sold, cracking jokes and just having a good time.

Your ears perked up when you walked past a shop that was blaring some cheesy popular love song, and just one glance at Marko told you he noticed it too. The corner of his mouth perked up and a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes as he looked back at you.

The next moment he was wrapping you up in his arms, and started swaying with you right then and there, not a care in the world. Thankfully, there were not many people around you, so you didn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone, not like Marko would care.

Before you could even take in what was happening, he started singing too. You had no idea how he knew the lyrics, it wasn’t quite his genre of music, but he always managed to surprise you. He was off-key, his dance moves not very smooth, but his hold on you was tight, his eyes full of warmth with a wide grin on his face. It was silly and loud and obnoxious, but you couldn’t help the giggles escaping your mouth at the ridiculousness of it all.

Looking back into his eyes you smiled warmly at him, and he leaned in to nuzzle your cheek, his hands squeezing you just a tad tighter.

“Love you, sugar,” he mumbled against your skin as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You let out a happy sigh.

He drew back for a second, eyes searching your face. You didn’t say it back. The smirk that stretched across his lips then promised nothing but trouble.

Then he started singing again, this time very loudly, drawing the attention of everyone passing by. Your boyfriend serenading you a love song would have been sweet any other time, now you just felt heat rising to your cheeks at all the attention.

He ignored your little protests, bellowing out even louder. So you did the only thing that came to your mind. You kissed him square on the mouth. That shut him up quickly, his hands sneaking dangerously low on your hips, squeezing you against him. His mouth was hungry, his kiss searing and possessive, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, his tongue caressing yours. You couldn’t help the little whimpers and sighs escaping you at his heated affection.

When he finally drew back, his eyes were hooded, and you almost melted into a puddle at the intensity of his gaze.

“Next time you better say it back, sugar.” The smirk on his face grew wider. “Unless you want me to demonstrate before all these people.”

You couldn’t deny the thrill that run through your body at the thought.

Tags: @stinkydove @pandemoniavenus @000-colby @lunarwhitewolf7 @notalwaysa @binightowl @darlingnikkisixxxx @skrimblo-blumpkgo @wpdarlingpan

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[rika-mmendmethings]

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. The series has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? For this chapter, obsession, yearning (I'm so bad at tagging send help)

Word count: 1.7k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: The schedule for this series and Against Blood & Water has been switched, so new chapter every Thursday from now! This chapter is shorter because I got hit by writing block so forgive me y'all but the next one is about to be BIG big. Keep in mind, that as cute and a total man-child Rafayel is; he can also be vengeful and undeterred from what we've seen in his anecdotes. If you feel that this is too serious for him, then you simply need a better understanding of the red-flag side of Rafayel shown in some parts of the game. This story circles partially around that side of his as well, so I don't feel it should be that much uncharacteristic. Mikayla is the name of the mc in this fic and aside from Rafayel no-one else is aware of being a video game character. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary

In a dimly lit studio, Rafayel sits at his easel, brush in hand, but his attention is far from the canvas. The strokes he makes are erratic and disconnected, as though his mind is somewhere else entirely — which it is. The woman he intends to paint — you — the one who occupies his every thought, is not physically there, but your image fills every canvas in the room. He knows your face in the details of his daydreams and in the short time he sees you — the cupid bow of your lips, the way your hair cascades like a waterfall around your face, the rounded curve of your eyes. But today, he’s not interested in accuracy.

The paint smudges onto the canvas, a blur of colors that vaguely resemble a figure, but nothing more. A quick swipe of cerulean blue for a dress, a few scattered strokes of brown for your hair, but nothing to capture the essence of who you are, only the feeling of you. His movements are slow, almost hesitant as if he’s trying to pull you out of his thoughts and into reality but struggling against the weight of his emotions.

His gaze drifts away from the painting, shifting toward the other canvases scattered across the room. Most of them are carefully hung on the walls, and when the walls can no longer accommodate the overflow, he places the remaining canvases on the floor, ensuring that each one remains visible. They all share a single, unifying theme: they are all portraits of you.

He turns his attention back to the canvas before him. It is yet another depiction of you, this time in a flowing cerulean dress, your feet gently immersed in waters that conceal his hidden sanctuary beneath. The image is a reflection of his vision—an idealized representation of the subject that has so recently overtaken his thoughts, dreams, canvases, and heart.

You look like the sparkles of the ocean on an early summer morning.

He raises his hand slowly, still lost in reverie, his fingers lightly grazing your painted figure with a tenderness that has always eluded him. He fantasizes about what it would be like to stand beside you, to kiss the radiant smiles from your lips in the hope of capturing even a fraction of your boundless joy.

There is no urgency in his movements as he attempts to translate the depth of his emotions onto the canvas. You are not meant to be confined within the boundaries of this frame; you are meant to be with him, to be by his side.

His dusky eyes shift to a vivid ultramarine blue, and glowing scales of the same hue begin to emerge along his cheekbones and neck. With deliberate slowness, he leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the canvas, as though the paint could somehow hold the essence of your lips.

He had waited all of yesterday, but not once did you "log in." In the end, he didn’t get the chance to see your face. His longing turned to frustration, which poured itself out onto the multiple canvases now scattered around him. He had painted in a frenzy, driven by a sense of hysteria, but as time wore on and the number of filled canvases grew, his heart sank deeper into an overwhelming sadness. The prolonged distance from you forced him to confront the bitter reality that you existed in a world entirely different from his own, and that he was, at best, a fleeting interest to you.

He yearned to bridge the chasm between your worlds.

Determined, he rose from his seat, deciding to visit Destiny Cafe once more, hoping that today, perhaps, you'd logged in.

He washed the dried paint from his hands and stepped out of his studio. As he opened the door, he was met with the sight of Mikayla standing on the other side, her fist raised mid-knock. He briefly searched his memory, trying to recall if they'd planned something for today, but her voice cut through his thoughts.

"I know you’re surprised, Rafayel. I wanted to surprise you since I didn’t have anything keeping me tied to my desk today, so here I am." She gestured dramatically, flashing him a grin. "Surprise!"

He frowned, replying half-heartedly, "While I appreciate the gesture, MC... I really have urgent matters to attend to right now. Can we do this another time?"

She planted her hands on her hips, her tone tinged with mockery. "What? Since when did you start getting busy?"

His fingers twitched involuntarily, a fleeting desire to draw his dagger against her rising but that’d mean going against his well-laid plans to resurrect Lemuria… He couldn’t afford that.

"Well, since now," he snapped, his words sharp as he pushed past her, his impatience evident. "So if you’ll excuse me, I really must be going." And with that, he made his way toward Destiny Cafe, the door swinging shut behind him.

You tapped impatiently at the loading screen of the game, settling deeper into the warmth of your armchair. As the screen flickered to life, you were greeted by the sight of a clearly frantic Rafayel, who seemed to instantly calm the moment his gaze fell on you. Before you could even blink, he broke the silence.

“Where were you?” His voice carried a subtle edge of barely concealed concern. You noticed that his words didn’t show up in the speech bubble again.

You exhaled a soft, amused sound, mildly impressed by the devs' decision to enhance the game's interactions with features like these to ensure players didn't miss a day. Deciding to humor the thought, you spoke aloud, as though addressing no one in particular, “My friends from college showed up yesterday and whisked me away on a spontaneous girls' trip. I didn't even get a chance to pack. Ended up buying a few clothes while we were there. The whole day was a whirlwind, and I barely had time to log in for my daily rewards or stamina. So, that’s that."

You watched him nod slowly in response, though you couldn't help but chuckle at the thought that he might actually understand what you meant.

Just then, your phone buzzed with a message from him. You quickly opened it and found yourself momentarily stunned by what you saw.

Sushi nom nom: Maybe you could let me know next time...?

You blinked once. Then twice. Your jaw practically hit the floor. Staring at the message, you couldn’t quite process what you were reading. What caught your attention next was the absence of the usual three automated replies you'd get from him. When you tapped the text box to reply, it opened with an actual cursor, something that had never happened before. You briefly wondered if this was a result of recently maxing out his affinity. It was the only logical explanation, after all.

Still dazed, you responded with a simple thumbs-up, then closed his chat window — only to be greeted by yet another unexpected surprise. None of the other characters’ chat boxes appeared in your messages. There were old, programmed messages from Twinkle Toys, Tara, and Linkon City Hall, but nothing from any of the other leads. You switched between the tabs — the calls, then the moments posts — but none of their accounts were visible.

Frustrated, you returned to Destiny Cafe and screamed aloud when you opened the memories tab. There weren’t even options for the other characters in the header. You had wasted so much money to obtain Beyond Cloudfall and rank it up, only for it all to disappear. You checked everything — Playtime, Deepspace Trials — but it was as if the other four characters had vanished into thin air. The only character left was Rafayel.

You went back to Destiny Cafe’s interface, and there he was, sitting on the armchair, inspecting his nails with an air of casual aloofness. A hundred questions flooded your mind: How? Why? Did the game glitch? You shook off the storm of thoughts, taking a deep breath before setting your phone face down on the plush fabric of your armchair. After a few seconds of holding your breath, you exhaled and picked your phone back up. You checked the memories tab again. Nothing. There was no change. The only option available was Rafayel.

Listless, you returned to the home screen, but then Rafayel’s voice sliced through the silence.

“What? You thought putting your phone down for a while would bring them back?”

You froze completely. The only sign that you were alive was the occasional fluttering of your eyelids. Rafayel stood up from the armchair and walked toward the screen, hands stuffed in his pockets. He outright smirked, leaning forward as he stated, “They’re gone for good. All that’s left of them is nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Niente.”

He didn’t even look sorry as he said it, and right now, that was the least of your concerns. You subconsciously noted the lack of his speech bubble or captions once again. 

This was it. The mod you had downloaded back in your early Love and Deep Space phase, driven by the greed of securing an unlimited supply of red dias and crystals, was finally catching up with you. The consequences were here. Your phone had been hacked.

"Shocker, hm?"

His voice broke the silence, and you instinctively dropped your phone, watching it clatter onto the table. Without thinking, you dove under your blanket, burying yourself in its soft folds, seeking some semblance of comfort, some escape from the growing dread. You stayed hidden for what felt like an eternity, ten minutes at least, before you dared to peek out, your eyes slowly lifting to glance at your phone.

Rafayel’s lips curled into a faint smile as he observed your wide eyes, the disheveled state of your hair sticking out in all directions from the static electricity. He didn’t even bother to mask the amusement in his gaze.

"Adorable," he remarked with a smirk, clearly relishing the flustered expression on your face.

You sank deeper into your armchair, burying your face in your hands in a futile attempt to shield yourself from the absurdity of it all. Here you were, trapped in a situation you couldn't even begin to comprehend, and still, you couldn't shake the fact that you were being charmed by a 2D character — a handsome, fictional man who didn’t even exist... or did he?

Maybe it was better for your brain to get fried every Friday than dealing with whatever this was. And here you thought your compensated leave time was going too good to be true…

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[kiragecko]

Do you think Cass's writers KNEW how harmful Babs' teaching methods were?

Cass and/or Babs fans who have read the first Batgirl series and/or No Man's Land, what do you think?

I'll get into the details in a moment, but my guess is they were trying to write Babs as a fallible mentor, but were ignorant about just how much damage she would realistically be causing. I'd like to get second opinions, because I've spent enough time studying communication with nonverbal people that I no longer know what people actually KNOW.

Anyways, here's the stuff I want to know if you guys think is intentional:

When we first meet Cass, Babs is trying to teach her to read. Babs is showing her the word 'stop' and getting Cass to sound out the letters. This is ... not a good idea.

Some of the errors Cass makes (starting with a 'd' sound and correcting to 't', for example) suggest that Cass is still learning HOW TO MAKE SOUNDS. She's still teaching her body how to shape her mouth and throat, when to vibrate her vocal cords - the physical aspects of speech. That's HARD, and deserves focus so it can be learned properly!

We later learn she only knows a small number of words. She's still learning to associate sounds with meaning. That's HARD, and deserves focus so it can be learned properly!

She's also still learning to match letter shapes to sounds. THAT IS ALSO HARD AND DESERVES FOCUS SO SHE CAN LEARN IT PROPERLY!

By conflating reading, speech, AND understanding, Babs is making Cass' job MUCH MUCH more difficult! Each of those, and a dozen smaller aspects of communication, all need months of prioritization, without competition from other aspects.

-

Throughout Batgirl, Babs pressures Cass to read. Cass is still learning to parse meaning from the words downloaded into her head. She struggles to organize them into sentences. She struggles to understand the nuances of what other people are saying. Once again, these are all important things that she should be encouraged to focus on! Reading is nice, but at this point it shouldn't be the priority. By ignoring the skills Cass IS building, and pushing Cass towards competing skills she doesn't have the prerequisites for, Babs is slowing down Cass' progress and providing negative feedback loops.

-

Babs seems to equate reading with communicating. Possibly because of her past as a librarian and the obvious value she gets from reading. Possibly because her current job is as an information broker and hacker. Possibly because her own disability limits her physically, and reading and writing has become necessary for interacting with the outside world. Possibly because she is living vicariously through the new Batgirl. And possibly because her eidetic memory suggests she thinks in words and can't actually imagine thought in other ways.

Cass is probably never going to use reading as a primary communication method, and would have benefited froma learning regimen that works with her skills, rather than pushing through her weaknesses.

-

Here's the stuff I'm pretty sure was intentional:

Babs calls Cass stupid for not being able to read during a high pressure situation that is triggering Babs. This is obviously wrong, and she feels awful about it.

Babs is frequently impatient with Cass' progress, and sometimes accuses her of not trying, or not caring enough. She makes comments in front of other people without thinking. These are all shown as problematic and hurtful.

-

Here's the things I think Babs did right:

Babs sets up a computer system that can be navigated by voice, and can interpret vague instructions. It provides visual, as well as verbal, information for everything Cass asks about. Cass is never pressured to use a different system.

Babs mostly allows Cass to explore, and builds lessons around Cass' interests. She integrates life skills into her lessons, and actually does a REALLY good job at helping Cass build enough of a foundation to start getting curious about the world.

She usually backs off when Cass gets stubborn, which lets Cass recover, and keep some agency.

She MOSTLY doesn't co-opt Cass' growing friendship with Steph. She supports them, and doesn't try to use Steph to push Cass in the directions Babs wants her to go.

Other than stuff around speech and literacy, I actually think the writers did a good job of writing a flawed but caring mentor who actually helped more than she harmed.

-

What do you guys think?