#certain mechanics are barely or never explained

[antlereed]

played it for like. three hours and i will say this:

it sure is a bethesda game

im playing starfield wish me luck

[em1i2a3]

Supersonic

Pairing: CollegeAU!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Reader is an Engineering Major who is just trying to take a required elective that doesn’t tank their average, Bob is a Physics Major who is an overachiever and is top of his class. We love a good tutor trope y’all, and technically it’s friends to lovers hehehehe

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all, wrap it up), Bob’s a certified munch…What Can I Say? It’s in the holy scripture lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Hair Pulling, Face Grinding, Bob’s got a bit of performance anxiety (and loves praise, but the man also likes worshipping hehehe), Breast Play, Bob’s giving sub vibes in this, Handjob (I don’t think I’m missing anything)

Author’s Note: Alright. Alright. I heard the crowd lol. I heard the masses, and I finally got around to writing for THE Bob Floyd....And I came out guns blazing on this one. I hope it’s not a let down, I know y’all have been waiting for something from me regarding this cutie patootie, so I’m glad I can please the masses 😂Enjoy!!! (Side note: I’m not a physics major but I took a few courses here and there, don’t strike me down if I don’t get certain things right about the questions please! lol) This was also a request by @shewhocallstothestars but I did modify it a bit (hopefully that's okay.) 😏

P.S: Evil stuff dropping this so casually on a Wednesday afternoon! Lol Surprise tho!

Word Count: 19,626 (HA!)

The first time Bob Floyd saw you, you were late for Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Not embarrassingly late–but just enough for the heavy lecture hall door to groan open and click shut behind you with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Just enough to make the professor falter mid-sentence, his marker hovering above the whiteboard as heads turned in your direction like a wave.

Your chin stayed tucked, gaze low as you moved up the steps with a quick, purposeful stride that practically whispered “please for the love of god don’t look at me.” Still, it was a walk that carried weight. Not flustered or apologetic–just sharp. Like you were used to showing up in the middle of things and moving through rooms without needing to explain why.

But even if you didn’t owe anyone an apology, you didn’t want the attention.

Especially not in the outfit you were wearing.

You didn’t mean to put on anything eye-catching, but laundry day had come and gone without mercy. Between leading three straight days of exhausting freshman orientation–clipboard, whistle, and all–and trying to get your textbooks, syllabi, and housing situation in order before classes began, your options had run out. So you’d thrown on a slightly-too-tight zip-up hoodie, your college’s emblem half-hidden under the worn zipper, and the only clean bottom you had left: a black skirt you hadn’t touched since the first day of summer.

It rode a little higher than you remembered, and paired with your bare legs and sneakers, it was far from inappropriate, but in a room where everyone else was in jeans and sweats, it made you feel seen. And not in a way you liked.

You spotted a half-empty row about midway up the lecture hall, three seats in from the aisle, and made a beeline for it, holding your skirt down as you made quick strides towards the spot that had your name written all over it. The weight of dozens of eyes prickled against your skin, but you kept moving, zeroed in on that opening like it might swallow you whole and hide you from the ogling stares.

Bob was seated near the end of that row.

His notebook was open, half a page of densely packed notes already filled in with that small, impossibly neat handwriting of his. A mechanical pencil twitched in his right hand as you approached–still mid-spin from the distraction you had caused. He looked like someone who took school seriously, but not obnoxiously so. His light brown hair was cropped short and a little mussed on the top, as though he hadn’t quite decided whether to tame it or not–or the wind got to it and messed it up on the way to class.

He was wearing a white t-shirt–simple, fitted just enough to hint at the softness of muscle underneath, but crisp in that way cotton gets when it’s been folded with care. Not stiff, but starched just slightly from the wash, like maybe he had just done his laundry the night before. His jeans were a classic blue–not faded or overly worn, but comfortably lived-in. No rips or frays.

His glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, the thin metal frames glinting faintly beneath the harsh overhead lights–almost silver against the warm tones of his skin. They sat just crooked enough to suggest he’d pushed them up one-handed without really thinking about it. Lenses wide and clear, catching reflections of the whiteboard, but not enough to shield the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment your footsteps slowed beside him.

He looked sun-kissed from the dying summer–like August had clung to him a little longer than it should have. His skin was a shade deeper than it would be in a few weeks’ time, golden along his forearms and the high points of his face, like he’d spent the end of break outside–on rooftops, maybe, or walking alone down sidewalks still radiating heat. His lips were a touch dry, his knuckles faintly rough. But he looked steady. Bright-eyed and well-rested. Like he wanted to start the semester with good intentions and achievable goals.

You stopped just beside him–hovering for half a second, your bag shifting on your shoulder as you nodded toward the empty seat a few spots in.

”Sorry, just gotta get by,” You murmured, voice low and unassuming.

Bob looked up fully then and immediately shifted forward, pulling his legs in without hesitation. His knee brushed the underside of the desk as he tucked himself close to make room for you, the motion smooth but stiff like he hadn’t quite expected you to speak to him. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to sound like that–soft, a little breathless from the walk up the gauntlet of steps, but still sharp.

You moved past him in one fluid step whispering a thanks, then your scent hit him.

It wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t the cloying kind of perfume that lingered too long in a hallway. It was just…You. Soft and sweet, but grounded–like vanilla left to steep in warm skin, the subtle warmth of almond or cream trailing just behind it. Lotion maybe. Something gentle. Something worn, not sprayed on. Like it had been absorbed into your hoodie, your neck, the backs of your knees in the early September heat.

But then there was something brighter, just beneath it–like sugar and citrus had melted into the mix. Not sharp. Not tart. Just the idea of lemon. A barely-there twist of brightness that reminded him of the first sip of a drink on a hot day. Cool. Balanced. Memorable.

It made Bob lose all his grip on the pencil in his hand, and made him straighten slightly, as his eyes glanced over to you slipping into the seat three down from his, holding your skirt against yourself so it didn’t ride up when you settled. When you shifted–once, just enough to adjust your bag or maybe smooth your hoodie–his eyes dropped quickly to your legs.

Bare and warm-looking in the stale lecture hall light. The skin smooth, catching little glints of reflection in a way that made him stare too long before he realized what he was doing.

His gaze jerked back up, and his pencil fell out of his hands. He fumbled to catch it before it rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor, and somehow he barely managed to do it. He cleared his throat so quietly that it didn’t even echo under the dome of the lecture hall. And then he exhaled once, trying to shake off the heat that creeped up his neck, fingers curling tight around the side of his notebook.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

Not even when you pulled out your pen and your fresh, untouched notebook and started scribbling quick, efficient notes in handwriting he couldn’t quite see. Not even when your fingers fidgeted once at the hem of your hoodie like you weren’t sure if it was covering enough. Not even when you tilted your head slightly to the left, exposing the faint shape of your jaw and that one stubborn wisp of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t look back.

But he couldn’t stop glancing.

Every time there was a lull in the lecture–every time the professor turned toward the whiteboard or paused to answer a question from across the room–Bob’s eyes slid sideways. Just for a second. Just to check.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he hadn’t seen you around before, and that this class wasn’t usually the kind that brought in new faces. Not Advanced Theoretical Physics. Not on day one. And especially not someone like you.

You didn’t fit the mold–not in the way you moved, not in the way you sat. There was a presence to you, even when you were quiet. Like you weren’t just taking space–you owned it. It made him curious. It made him distracted.

It made the last half of his notes nearly unreadable.

He’d rewrite them later. He always did.

But he’d still remember the scent you left behind when you passed him. The subtle trace of sweetness and skin-warmed citrus that had settled in the air like something meant to haunt him.

And he’d remember that you never once looked back.

—————————

You didn’t speak to Bob until the third week of classes, when you got your first ‘mini’ test back and got hit with the harsh realities of the choice you had made in picking Advanced Theoretical Physics for your upper elective.

You got a 68. You had never got a 68 in your life.

Not in high school, not in your other college courses, not in anything that involved formulas or numbers or mental gymnastics you were usually proud to be good at. Being an engineering student was supposed to make classes like this feel natural. Calculation, logic, technical problem solving���it was your bread and butter.

But this? This was humbling.

You stared down at the note the professor had written in red just beneath the grade:

”Revisit your derivations–conceptual understanding needs tightening.” You didn’t even know what the hell that meant. You had studied everything possible to prepare yourself, you knew you had been on the right track, there was no possible way this was the right grade. Your jaw flexed, and you tapped your pen once against the corner of your desk before you forced yourself to still.

You tried to breathe through the sting crawling up the back of your neck, the tightness that formed just under your ribs. This wasn’t even a midterm–it wasn’t supposed to matter. But to you, it did. You prided yourself on being able to handle anything. Being the kind of student professors leaned on. A leader. Someone who could run orientation like a sergeant and still ace quantum mechanics in the same week.

And here you were. With a 68 circled at the top of your page like a slap.

You let the paper fall face-down across your notebook and sighed hard through your nose.

Then you glanced over.

Three seats down, Bob was sitting quietly, glasses low on his nose again, flipping his test booklet over to the back like he wanted to get one more long look at it before class officially started.

You caught a glimpse of the front page as he did–and there it was. Written in the same red your grade was given in, unmistakable in the overhead light.

97.

Clean, confident. Circled big enough to make a statement.

He didn’t look smug about it. Not exactly. But there was something in the way he stared at that number, his brows lifting faintly as if confirming to himself, Yeah, that sounds right. His lips were pressed together in a close-lipped smile, the kind people wear when they’ve worked hard and know it paid off. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the bottom of the page once. Then again.

Pleased as punch.

You didn’t mean to keep staring–but it was hard to look away.

His black t-shirt was tucked just barely into the waistband of his jeans today, like he’d rushed to get dressed but still managed to look clean and composed. His hair looked softer, freshly washed maybe, curling a little more than normal without any product in his hair. The sun-kissed flush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded just yet, but it was slowly revealing little patches of paleness beneath it. The silver frames of his glasses caught the light again as he leaned slightly forward, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook to take pre-class notes even though nothing had started yet.

He was…Prepared. Calm, and clearly good at this.

And you were not evidently.

You sat back slowly in your seat, gaze flicking toward the whiteboard, but your mind was still racing. Not with formulas. Not with panic. But with something slower, more deliberate.

You needed help. That much was obvious.

And unfortunately–or maybe fortunately–the only person who hadn’t fumbled through the last three weeks with shaky handwriting and unsure eyes was sitting just three seats away.

Then…You made a decision you never thought you would be making in a class you expected to be good in.

You were going to ask him for help.

It went against every fibre in your being–the pride you carried like a shield, the belief that if you just studied harder, dug deeper, figured it out on your own, you’d make it through. That’s how it had always worked before. You didn’t need tutors. You didn’t ask for things.

But your test score was still burning a hole through your notebook, and Bob Floyd was still sitting three seats down, calmly annotating equations while half the class looked like they were on the verge of weeping. He definitely had the highest mark and there was no denying that, and you had to pick his brain to see if you could emulate the same genius level thinking. Maybe there was a secret to it all, and he would somehow share it with you so you could make a quick recovery and still grasp honours at the end of the semester…At this point you’d take even the craziest solutions to save yourself from another embarrassing mark.

So…You waited until the end of the lecture.

It took everything in you not to bolt out the second the professor dismissed the room. You always left quickly–efficiently–avoiding the post-class shuffle of students with questions or headphones already in. But today you stayed seated, even as the sound of backpacks zipping and notebooks slamming shut rose around you like thunder. You didn’t move, just flicked your pen closed and kept your eyes on the spiral binding of your notes until most of the room had emptied.

You packed up faster than usual, sweeping your things into your bag in quiet, practiced movements–but you left your test out, folded once, red ink still just barely visible beneath the crease. Your hands felt warm. A little clammy. The kind of nervous energy you hadn’t felt since your very first midterm in undergrad. But you stood anyway.

Bob was still at his desk, leaning forward, transcribing the last few formulas the professor had scribbled across the bottom corner of the board. His notebook looked the same as always–clean lines, small print, mechanical pencil pressed tight to the paper like he didn’t know how to be imprecise.

You made your way down the row, test in hand, and stopped just short of his space. The words were already forming in your mouth, even before he noticed you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… Sorry to bother you. You’re Bob, right?”

His head snapped up fast, and his eyes locked onto yours like he hadn’t expected you to actually exist this close.

“Uh–yeah,” He replied, “Yeah. Bob Floyd.”

You’d caught him off guard. You could tell by the way he blinked, like he had to reset. His mouth parted slightly, lips soft and chapped in the middle, and then–almost as if he remembered he was supposed to be someone in this moment–he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

“You’re…Y/N? Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He held out his hand, a little unsure. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitated for a beat–because it wasn’t every day someone in a physics class offered a handshake–but you took it. His palm was warm and dry, his grip a little firm at first, like he hadn’t meant for it to feel that strong.

His fingers were long. His nails clean, almost manicured in a way that surprised you. His thumb brushed yours briefly, and for a second, the contact lingered just a little too long.

You let go, and Bob rubbed his hand on the knee of his jeans as you both sat in the pause that followed, air slightly charged.

You weren’t wearing anything special today–just an old cropped t-shirt that rode up when you lifted your arms and a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had long since given up trying to cling to your hips. A hoodie hung open over it all, soft with wear. It wasn’t much. Just lazy comfort. But something in the way Bob’s eyes dropped for half a second–just below the hem to a flicker of skin at your waist–told you it wasn’t invisible either.

He gulped again, trying to recover from being caught.

You cleared your throat. “So, uh… I was wondering if you offer tutoring or something. I kinda bombed that first mini quiz.” His brows lifted over the rim of his glasses–an expression halfway between surprise and amusement.

“I…I don’t offer it or anything,” He said, already fumbling a little, “But I can help, if that’s what you’re looking for…How bad did you do?” He asked, trying not to assume the worst, but knowing there was a possibility he was going to see a fairly bad mark, judging by the conversations that happened behind him when the tests were handed out at the beginning of class. You flipped the test open toward him, and he stared at the 68, a smirk drawing up on his lips. He let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, more of a warm exhale than anything mean.

”I mean…It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.” You raised your eyebrows at him and smirked faintly.

”How comforting.” You mumbled. He shifted in his seat, thumb rubbing across the corner of his notebook like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His gaze didn’t meet yours directly; it just hovered somewhere around your shoulder, your mouth, and your hair. He was still absorbing the fact you were in front of him asking to be tutored.

“I can definitely help you bring your grade up. It’s early enough in the semester to get it back on track.” He explained. Something in his voice steadied–like the gears in his brain had finally clicked into place. Like this was territory he knew how to navigate. Structure. Process. Solutions. A small smile tugged at your lips. A breath of relief rushed through you before you could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” You replied. And then, already leaning in with eagerness, “When can we get started?” Bob paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked slightly upward–thinking, scanning the mental file cabinet of his day.

“We could do today…You could meet me at the library,” He suggested, after a second, “I'm free after four.” You wrinkled your nose a little, already shaking your head.

“The library’s kind of a distraction for me,” You admitted. “It’s always too loud–someone’s always coughing or typing like they’re in a race. Even the reserved study rooms…I don’t know, it never really works for me.”

Bob tilted his head a little, listening closely, waiting for you to present a different option.

You hesitated for just a second before offering, more carefully now, “If you feel okay with it…We could study at my dorm? It’s definitely quieter. And there’s not much to get distracted by.”

You didn’t say it with any kind of tone. No flirt, no implication. Just facts. Just a space.

But Bob’s throat tightened anyway.

His mind, helpful as ever, immediately conjured the image–your dorm. What it looked like. What it might smell like. You curled up in your desk chair, with your hair pushed out of your face, sleeves rolled, and a half-empty mug of tea or coffee next to an open binder. Maybe your bed was still unmade. Maybe there was a bottle of lotion on your nightstand in the same scent that clung to you now, soft and sweet and skin-warmed.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Not because he had any ulterior motives. Not because he thought anything would happen. But because it had been a long time since he’d been invited into someone’s space like that. A woman’s space. A woman like you–all sharp eyes and soft smiles, casual comfort and effortless pull.

“Yeah,” He agreed, clearing his throat and nodding. “Yeah, that’s totally fine. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t,” You said easily, and the way you said it–so certain, so casual–made something tighten low in his stomach again.

“Okay,” He replied, and he finally looked at you. His blue eyes were steady behind his glasses, a little glassy from the fluorescents, but locked on yours. “Just email me your dorm number. I’ll bring the notes, you bring the test, and we’ll make a plan.”

You grinned, and god, it hit him like a sucker punch. Like something he hadn’t braced for.

“Deal.”

And then you turned, backpack swinging over one shoulder, hoodie hem swaying against your hips as you made your way back up the aisle.

Bob sat still for a moment. Longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t even packed up yet.

It took him another ten seconds before he finally exhaled, shoved his pencil into the spiral of his notebook, and muttered to himself under his breath–

“…Way to make this hard for yourself…You dummy.”

————————

Your dorm wasn’t anything glamorous–but it was yours, and that made all the difference.

When you unlocked the door and pushed it open after class, you were immediately met with the familiar scent of fabric softener and the faint citrus-vanilla from the reed diffuser you kept on the dresser. The room was small, technically a single dorm, but it was just enough space for you to carve out your version of comfort. Still, as you stood in the doorway, backpack slipping off one shoulder, you looked around and immediately thought that there was no way in hell it was going to stay like this, especially with a guest coming over.

You dropped your bag near the door, and got to work immediately.

The bed was first. You hadn’t made it this morning–just rolled out with your alarm still going, one arm flung across your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone, groggy and unwilling to admit the day had started. The sheets were still tangled, your navy-blue comforter half-slid to the floor, the corner twisted around your foot in your sleep. You tugged it all back with quick, practiced tugs, smoothing the fitted sheet until the last of the sleep wrinkles vanished under your palm.

Your comforter had a faint rip in the seam on the left side near your hip–stitched up once, badly, with mismatched thread. You’d done it the second week of your freshman year, the night you’d fallen asleep sobbing after a brutal call with your high school boyfriend, and woken up the next morning tangled so tightly in the blanket that it tore when you got up. You never fixed it properly. You kind of liked the scar.

You fluffed the single throw pillow you used for your head–an old one, pillowcase faded with soft clouds printed across pale blue fabric. Not the prettiest, but it felt like home. And the long body pillow you always fell asleep hugging–cream-colored, with one end slightly more smushed than the other–went right in its usual spot against the wall. A comfort thing. You didn’t sleep well without it.

Then you moved to your desk.

It was more shelf than desk, sure–but it held your brain in neat, tiny pieces. Notes, sticky tabs, a single battered wire basket for loose paper, and a coffee mug you never drank out of that just held highlighters, lip balm, and the same pair of scissors you’d had since high school. You stacked your textbooks neatly–physics, mechanics, one painfully dry thermodynamics manual–and slid your notebook on top, flipping it to the most recent page so Bob wouldn’t see your chaotic post-lab scrawl from earlier in the week.

There was a Polaroid pinned to the corkboard just above the workspace–one of you and your best friend from home, taken in your kitchen during winter break. You were both in pajamas, mid-laugh, a sliver of frosting from a baking experiment smeared across your nose. You paused for a moment, fixing the pin to straighten it, and sighed.

Your reed diffuser sat on the corner of the dresser–three pale wooden sticks soaked in a warm citrus-vanilla scent that reminded you of summer mornings and freshly folded laundry. The bottle was nearly empty now. You should’ve replaced it weeks ago, but you kept putting it off. There was something comforting about the familiar scent, even as it faded.

Near it sat a tiny glass tray shaped like a shell, where you kept rings you barely wore and two hair ties you always reached for. One had stretched out completely, the elastic barely holding together–but you refused to throw it away. It had survived too many late-night study sessions, too many chaotic mornings before class. It had history.

You lit your desk lamp–the one with the soft yellow bulb, not the bright blue-white you hated. It cast a glow across the room that made it look gentler, less like a dorm and more like a nook carved from a novel. Cozy. Private. You turned off the overhead light and stood there for a second, letting yourself just look. The soft shadows, the freshly made bed, the diffuser’s scent hanging lightly in the air.

You sigh, satisfied with your work, eyes scanning over the room once more. Everything was in its place. Not perfect, maybe–but it looked lived in, cared for, warm. It looked like you.

With that final breath of approval, you turned toward the door tucked just beside your dresser–the greatest stroke of luck you’d had all year.

An attached bathroom.

Single dorms were hard enough to land as a second-year, but a single with a private bathroom? That was near mythic. Your RA had called it the “housing lottery jackpot,” and you hadn’t argued. No communal showers meant no mildew smell clinging to your towel, no forgotten flip-flops, and–best of all–no awkward small talk with girls brushing their teeth beside you at midnight.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, and reached for your phone on the counter. 3:30 PM. Forty-five minutes, give or take.

Bob said “after four,” but something told you he wasn’t the type to be late. You weren’t sure if that meant he’d be early–but either way, you weren’t risking being caught in your towel when he showed up at your door.

Without much thought, you tugged your clothes off in a few quick motions and tossed them into the hamper tucked beside the sink. The hoodie fell in a heap, the fabric heavy with the day’s wear. Your cropped t-shirt was damp at the neckline, your waistband creased from sitting through the afternoon lecture. It all smelled faintly of the campus and the late-summer air–sun-warmed concrete, paper, and the barest hint of classroom chalk.

You flicked on the fan and twisted the shower knob until the water reached the right balance of hot–just shy of scalding.

Steam bloomed in the narrow space like it had been waiting, curling along the top of the curtain and fogging the mirror in soft, slow layers. You stepped in, letting the heat rush over your shoulders in a way that made your muscles go slack and your eyelids flutter briefly closed. You weren’t indulging, not really. You just needed to rinse the day away–strip it off like a second skin, let the tension from your shoulders drain down the tiles and vanish with the suds.

While the water beat down over the back of your neck, your thoughts began to drift.

Even though this was just a tutoring session–just notes, formulas, and a second chance at a first impression–it felt bigger than that.

You hadn’t brought a guy into your room in months.

Not since you’d drawn that invisible line in the sand–the one that said: this space is mine and mine only. Not since you started guarding your time, your energy, and your peace. You weren’t a prude–far from it. You weren’t closed off either. You just…Stopped inviting chaos into your life. And sometimes, chaos looked like someone else’s backpack thrown on your floor, someone else’s hand on your thigh or under the waistband of your sweatpants, or someone else’s voice asking, “Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

You didn’t miss it.

But still–when you looked Bob Floyd in the eyes and suggested your dorm like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything–something in your chest had fluttered. Not panic. Not excitement. Just a shift.

A crack in the routine.

Now, standing under the steaming pulse of your shower, with the scent of citrus shampoo rising like vapor and the water cascading down your spine, you realized you hadn’t really prepared yourself for that part.

Bob Floyd. In your dorm. Sitting on your bed, or at your desk…Breathing in your space.

You didn’t think it would be weird. He didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d knock twice even after you told him the door was open. He was polite. Mild-mannered. A little tightly wound in a way that made you think he probably alphabetized his class folders.

But you didn’t know him.

And it was dawning on you, as you tilted your face into the stream and let it blur your vision with heat, that this was only the second conversation you’d had with him. Two conversations, and now you were inviting him into the most intimate space a student could have–your dorm. Your bedroom. Your sanctuary. A place where your throw blanket still held the scent of last week’s laundry, and where your pillowcase had that faint stretch of mascara from the night you fell asleep before washing your face.

What if he thought it was messy?

What if he thought you were messy?

What if he saw the tangled cords beside your bed or the half-finished cup of coffee on your nightstand and assumed you were the kind of person who couldn’t get it together–even when your whole reputation said otherwise?

What if he looked at your 68 again, and thought you were dumb suddenly?

You hated that thought most of all.

You weren’t dumb. You knew you weren’t. You were sharp, resilient, calculated when it mattered–and still, you wondered if he’d already made up his mind about you. Academic ego like his–97s without breaking a sweat–probably came with an equally inflated sense of who could keep up. Maybe he was too polite to say it, but what if he thought you were just another pretty girl in a hard class, grasping for help she hadn’t earned?

You scrubbed your hands over your scalp trying to shake the thought loose, because it didn’t matter what he thought.

Right?

You’d asked for help. That was the whole point. And he’d agreed. He’d said yes without hesitation–well, after a small nervous stammer, but still. He’d seemed open. Kind, even. And if you were being honest with yourself–and not just stewing in self-preservation–you didn’t think he saw you that way. Not as dense. Not as helpless. If anything, he seemed genuinely surprised that you’d asked him at all. Like he hadn’t expected someone like you to even talk to someone like him.

You rinsed the last remnants of soap and shampoo off your body, letting the moment pass.

You weren’t going to overthink this.

He was coming over, he was going to sit down. You were going to go through your test and try and work through the incorrect answers, maybe laugh once or twice, and you’d be one step closer to not failing this class.

That was it.

You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening in the tiny bathroom.

Steam clung to every surface. You wiped your hand across the mirror, catching your own reflection looking back at you–a few beads of water dripping from your hair, over your collarbones, down over your breasts, the light reflecting off of them like little glowing orbs.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, padded out onto the tile, and toweled your hair dry with slow, deliberate motions. You’d keep things light. Professional. You’d study. You’d ask questions. You’d nod along when he explained something that made sense. And then–

You paused.

Then maybe…Maybe you’d ask what his secret was. The 97. The sharp notes. The calm in his hands. The look in his eyes when he first saw you walking up those lecture hall stairs. Not because you wanted anything from it.

But because part of you was just…Curious.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the last traces of damp heat, the steam still clinging faintly to your skin like a second breath. The scent of your shampoo followed you into the room–light citrus, clean warmth, a kind of quiet comfort–and you padded barefoot across the tile, leaving soft marks on the floor that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your nightstand.

3:55 PM.

Of course it was. Right on the edge of too early, which meant Bob would probably be here right on time–maybe even five minutes ahead, just to be polite. Just to prove he meant it when he said he took this seriously.

You crossed the room in quick, practiced steps, flipping through your clothes without ceremony. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t overthink it. You were still a little warm from the shower, your skin flushed and hair damp, and the last thing you needed was to feel sweat pooling under a too-thick hoodie while trying to understand whatever theoretical mind game was about to come your way.

So you grabbed a soft t-shirt–a light heather grey, already worn thin in spots from too many washes–and a pair of black workout shorts that hit mid-thigh. Functional. Comfortable. No-nonsense. You pulled them on in a few quick motions, not bothering with makeup or overthinking how the shorts made your legs look in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the slits of your blinds. It wasn’t about that.

You hung up your towels quickly on the hook by the door, turned to your desk, and yanked open the middle drawer with a quiet clatter. Your whiteboard markers were all crammed into a cup at the back–caps loose, labels fading. You pulled out four of them–blue, green, red, and black–and lined them up on your desk next to your notebook like you’d planned it that way all along. Some kind of subconscious need for control, maybe. Or maybe you just didn’t want Bob to see you fumbling for supplies mid-conversation.

Then you reached for the test. The test. The damn 68, still folded and creased and red-inked like a bruise on paper. You slapped it onto the desk with a sigh, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room. Your hands slid to your hips. You stared at it for a long second.

This was where it would start. Hopefully where it would turn around.

And then–just as your breath settled and you were about to pull your chair out–

Knock knock.

Two firm taps.

Not tentative. Not obnoxious. Just…Precisely delivered. Like he’d rehearsed it.

You sighed. Not from dread–but from inevitability. From the knowledge that this, right here, was the moment it would all shift. You rolled your shoulders once, exhaled through your nose, and crossed the room in five brisk steps.

You pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Bob Floyd stood just outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, a black three-ring binder hugged awkwardly to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He had changed. He was wearing a navy t-shirt that clung just enough to his chest to remind you that he was broader than he looked seated in a lecture hall. His jeans were dark again–clean, cuffed slightly at the ankle because they were a little too long for his legs–and his sneakers looked freshly wiped down, as if he’d paused just outside the dorm building to rub them clean against the concrete.

His glasses were perched on his nose again, slightly fogged at the corners from the outside humidity. His hair was still a little mussed, like the wind had gotten to him–or maybe he’d run his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes met yours instantly, wide and a little unsure, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“Hey,” He said, and it came out just a little too soft.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still resting lightly on your hip. You didn’t mean to look casual–but you did. Warm skin. Damp hair. Legs bare in your shorts. You were dressed like comfort, like late afternoon, like a version of home he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Hey,” You returned. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Right on time.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Bob adjusted the strap on his backpack like it gave him something to do. “Didn’t wanna be early. Or, you know, too early. But also didn’t wanna be late.”

You stepped aside. “You’re good. Come on in.”

He hesitated just slightly before crossing the threshold, like he was stepping into a space that demanded a kind of reverence. And maybe, in a way, he was. His eyes swept the room instinctively, slow and deliberate–not nosey, just observant. His gaze skimmed over the bed, the desk, the glow of the warm lamp light, the closed bathroom door. Then back to you.

You watched him take it all in. The details. The neatness. The quiet hum of your diffuser still at work in the corner.

“This is…Nice,” He said finally. And he meant it. “Like, really nice. Kinda cozy.”

You smirked like you hadn’t been panic cleaning for the past hour or two, “I try.”He nodded once, still a little awestruck, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here.

“Smells good too…Like you baked something.” You raised an eyebrow at him and gave a small laugh, motioning behind him.

”It’s just my diffuser.” Bob’s gaze drifted toward the thin plume of steam rising from your dresser, his face going slightly blush.

“Oh…” He blinked. “Didn’t notice that.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a sheepish little smile, soft and crooked. He ran his palm over the front of his jeans like it might smooth over the awkward pause that followed.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brow arched.

“Well,” You started, already moving toward your desk, “You can sit anywhere you’d like. I’m just gonna pull my whiteboard out so we have somewhere to work.”

He opened his mouth–maybe to respond, maybe to stall–but you cut in before the silence could return. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water, Sprite, or…” you paused with a shrug, “an emergency stash of energy drinks if you’re into heart palpitations.”

Bob let out a short laugh, ducking his head as his fingers scratched the back of his neck. “Water’s good, thank you. Do you… need any help with anything?”

You shook your head with a quiet chuckle, already crouching to slide the whiteboard from behind your desk. “It’s all good, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you replied with a grin. “Just get comfortable.”

Bob hesitated for a beat–then nodded once and toed off his shoes with quiet care, tucking them neatly beside the frame of your bed. The soft creak of your mattress followed as he eased himself up onto it, adjusting his binder across his lap. He settled back against your pillows like someone trying not to disturb a shrine. His back met the wall in a slow, deliberate lean, shoulders squaring before his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent just slightly.

You were still crouched in front of your desk, tugging the whiteboard forward and flipping the eraser out of the marker tray with practiced ease. When you stood and propped the board upright against the far wall–angled so you could sit beside the bed and still reach it–Bob’s gaze caught on you again.

He wasn’t proud of it. But he couldn’t help it.

The soft sheen on your legs caught the warm light from your desk lamp, the moisture from your shower still clinging in subtle streaks across your skin. Your shorts were tight–they were the kind that followed the natural dip of your thighs when you bent forward, holding you in all the right places. Every angle pulled his attention. The curve where your hip met your waist, the shadow along the back of your knee when you adjusted your weight. You were only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, nothing scandalous, nothing remotely calculated–but Bob felt like he was seeing something private.

Like you’d invited him into something sacred and forgot to mention just how much of you lived here.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window beside your bed, the blinds slatted just enough to let in the softest touch of late afternoon sun. The light was golden. Low. Hazy in the kind of way that made everything look suspended in time.

He told himself to focus. On the equations. On the test in your hand. On the notes in his binder.

Not on the way your legs moved when you crossed the room again, not on the lotion-sweet smell of you that lingered now even stronger than it had that first day in class, and not on the sight of you–relaxed and warm and totally unguarded–in a way he hadn’t seen before.

You crossed the room with a bottle of water and handed it to him without fuss, and when your fingers brushed, he felt the jolt of it deep in his chest.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, cradling the bottle like a peace offering.

You gave him a smile. Not teasing, not knowing. Just kind. Grounded. Unbothered.

And that made it worse somehow. Made it harder not to stare. Harder not to wonder what this was becoming, and how much trouble he was in already.

Because he could memorize equations. He could build models, ace problem sets, and calculate theoretical orbital mechanics in his sleep.

But none of that had prepared him for you.

You didn’t sit right away.

Instead, you hovered just beside the whiteboard for a moment longer, the test clutched in your hand, thumb brushing over the red mark like maybe you could fade it out with friction alone. But Bob waited patiently–quiet, composed, the bottle of water still nestled in his lap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

You held the test out toward him. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

Bob offered a faint, crooked smile as he took the folded packet, careful not to smudge the corners with condensation from the bottle. He flipped it open to the first page, eyes scanning the first problem set. His gaze moved quickly–but not dismissively. He was reading, really reading, lips parting slightly as he traced your work with his eyes.

Then his brows lifted, just a touch–not surprise, but curiosity.

“Can you…” He glanced up at you, the glint of his glasses catching the light again, “show me how you got this answer? Go through it with me…I just want to pick your brain first. See your logic a bit.”

You hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because you didn’t remember how you got the answer. You did. You remembered every painful minute of trying to pull it out of thin air, piecing together old lecture notes and half-remembered formulas from late-night readings. But the thought of speaking it out loud? Of saying it in front of him?

That part felt…Vulnerable.

You bit the inside of your lip for a second, eyes flicking from the board to his face, then back again. Then, without a word, you bent down and picked up the black marker.

Bob leaned forward just slightly, shifting the binder onto the mattress beside him as you uncapped it with your teeth and started writing on the board. The soft squeak of dry erase on the surface filled the room.

“Okay,” You said finally, your voice steadier than you expected, “So the question was asking about particle behavior in a non-inertial reference frame, right? So I assumed we were supposed to use the rotating frame model the prof showed us last week. The one with the centrifugal and Coriolis corrections?” Bob nodded slowly, eyes locked on the board, on your hand.

You started to draw–carefully, neatly, the way you always did when trying to make sense of something. A circle. A line to represent the radius. Arrows for velocity, angular acceleration. You wrote out the base equation next to it, then began working through your substitutions.

“I plugged in the knowns here,” you continued, underlining as you spoke, “and then tried to isolate the pseudo-forces…but I think I misapplied the coordinate system. I used polar, but I think the solution assumed Cartesian.”

Bob made a small hum in the back of his throat–soft, thoughtful. You glanced back at him.

He was watching you. Focused, engaged. Almost the look a professor would give when they saw potential flickering just beneath a student’s mistake, and that made your throat tighten from the nerves that began to bubble over in your stomach.

Bob shifted again, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed beside his binder. “No, that’s good,” He murmured. “That’s actually really good. You weren’t wrong to try it that way. I think the issue’s just here–”He reached for the red marker from your stack, uncapping it with a soft click.

“See how you treated this term?” He pointed gently toward a partial derivative in your equation, careful not to touch the board. “You factored it like it was independent, but because it’s nested in the rotating frame, it still has angular dependence. That’s what threw the rest off.”

You blinked at the board, then at him.

“Wait…So if I’d just accounted for the cross-product instead of canceling it…”

“You would’ve landed within the margin of error,” He finished, smiling softly. “Easily a B. Maybe even B+ depending on how much partial credit he gave.” You stared at your own math like it had betrayed you and then slowly dropped your hand to your side, still holding the marker.

“That…Makes so much more sense,” You said, voice a little quieter now. Not embarrassed. Just a little humbled.

Bob stood up slowly, the mattress giving a soft groan beneath him as he rose. His steps were quiet but sure as he moved to stand beside you at the whiteboard, marker still poised in his hand like a baton he didn’t quite realize he’d taken control of. You stepped slightly to the side to give him space, though your shoulders still nearly brushed.

His voice came low, steady, as he started to rewrite the middle portion of your equation. His handwriting was sharp and balanced–blocky print with just a hint of slant, the kind of penmanship that spoke of hours spent copying down formula after formula with care.

“Your approach wasn’t bad,” He started, glancing at you just briefly before continuing, “Seriously. You just went too fast on the middle step, that’s all…And honestly?” He let out a breathy, half-laugh. “That’s the part that gets everyone.” You let out a quiet, half-aware chuckle–more breath than voice.

“Well…Evidently it doesn’t get you. You’re the one that got a 97.”

Bob flushed immediately. The back of his neck went pink first, then the tips of his ears. He ducked his head as he kept writing, though his next words carried a little laugh of their own.

“I’m a physics major,” He said. “So I better be getting that mark or else I’d be needing a refund from the school.”

You let out a real laugh at that–light, short, amused–and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, watching him scribble through the rest of the correction with a kind of practiced rhythm.

“No wonder you’re so good at this…” You muttered, more to yourself than him, but loud enough for him to catch.

Bob’s head tilted slightly toward you. “What’re you majoring in?”

You scratched the back of your neck, mildly self-conscious. “Engineering.”

He paused–just long enough to let the silence feel deliberate–and then let out a short, knowing laugh. “Ahh. Now it makes sense.”

You raised a brow, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You guys are chronic overthinkers,” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. “And you guys aren’t? Please. Look at all the work you need to do just to get a simple solution. Two extra diagrams and four substitutions just to prove a particle moves left.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that had barely any edge–just enough sass to keep the playfulness alive. “Least if I took an engineering course, I’d still hit an 80 on the tests.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. Bold of you to assume you’d survive statics.”

Bob turned toward you a little more, raising an eyebrow, eyes glittering behind the faint reflection on his glasses. “I’d thrive in statics.”

“Oh, really?” you said, grinning now. “You think you would have a handle on it?” He cleared his throat lightly and gave you a soft smirk, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Maybe if I had the right tutor.” You blinked once. And then…Smiled.

He turned back to the board and finished the last line of the solution with a soft swipe of the marker.

“There,” He said, voice quieter again. “That’s how I did it.”

You stared at the board, then at him. The space between your shoulders eased a little. The knot in your chest began to loosen.

”Well…That’s one question down…At least I know where I went wrong…” Bob nodded, tapping the cap of the red marker softly against his palm.

“Let’s go to the next one.”

You reached over to flip the test packet to the next problem set, fingers skimming over the thin paper before tugging the top page aside. The math was already crowding your vision–variables stacked in tight lines, subscripts nestled between integrals and force vectors–and you let out a breath as you raised the black marker again.

He stepped back slightly to give you room, standing just behind and to your left. You could feel the warmth of him, the quiet energy he held so close to his chest, just skimming your shoulder. You swiped the board clean with the eraser in a few broad, practiced strokes until nothing remained but the faint sheen of leftover marker ghosting the surface.

“I’m gonna admit,” You started, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I winged this one. So I’m definitely not gonna have an explanation for it.”

Bob shrugged, unbothered. “Then solve it,” He said casually. “Or attempt to. I’ll guide if you need it.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone–something a little less guarded, a little more drawled than usual. A slight southern cadence that lilted through the last few words, soft but present, like a warm hush pulled from somewhere deeper than lecture hall confidence. You felt your cheeks heat slightly at the sound.

Still, you nodded. “Alright.”

You started from scratch–no notes, no copying, just your best attempt. The marker glided smoothly under your hand as you worked through the logic piece by piece, pausing every few steps to reassess. You murmured quietly to yourself as you went, instinctively talking through the math aloud, and Bob said nothing–just watched. You could feel his eyes trace the path your gaze took, from the top of your diagram down through the first few steps of your math. Then–

“Nope. Wrong,” He interrupted, it came gently but firmly.

You blinked at the board, your hand frozen mid-step, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why?”

He stepped forward again, lifting the red marker. He didn’t correct it for you–just circled one specific term, the ink smooth and patient.

“This,” He pointed out, “You forgot to convert the mass into angular components. You treated it like a point mass.”

Your stomach sank just slightly. Not out of shame, but frustration. You dipped your head and started erasing that line.

“Sorry,” You murmured, almost under your breath.

“No need to apologize,” Bob said immediately, softer now. “Though I’m hopin’ this stuff sinks in…”

Your eyebrows knit, and you turned your head a little toward him. “Do you think it won’t?”

He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders. “It takes a while to apply the theory. Knowing it in your head’s one thing…Applying it to a random question is something else…But being able to fix your own mistakes is the first step to understanding things a little better to apply things properly.” You nodded once, pressing your lips together. Then you went back to work, quieter now, more deliberate. He watched you fall into the rhythm of the solution again, only stepping back when you didn’t seem to need his guidance. You could feel his eyes flicking down toward the test for a second before he moved behind you.

You heard the soft scrape of his hand over the textbook as he grabbed it from your desk, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Pages whispered past each other as he navigated straight to the chapter you’d been tested on–like he’d memorized the structure without even meaning to. His eyes scanned the problems, fingers tapping the margin of the page as he skimmed.

By the time he turned back around, you were capping the black marker with a little sigh of effort. “I think I got it?”

Bob came closer again and tilted his head to read your work. His gaze moved from line to line, his mouth twitching just slightly before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” You caught the smile as it crept over his face–unfiltered this time, soft and a little proud. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before holding out the textbook toward you, with his thumb slipped between the pages.

“Try number twelve,” He said, the corner of his mouth still lifted. “New problem. Same concept. Let’s see what you remember.” Your eyes scanned the paragraph of setup–classic physics problem: rotating frame, non-uniform mass distribution, some sly attempt to catch overconfident students slipping past the conversion factor. You clicked your tongue once and let your focus shift back to the whiteboard, grabbing the green marker this time.

He watched you move–quiet, efficient, no hesitation as you picked apart the language of the question, breaking it into manageable parts. You leaned your hip against the desk just slightly, skin catching the late-afternoon light in the softest gleam. Your fingers danced over your phone screen, pulling up the calculator, thumb tapping with precise rhythm as your eyes flicked between the numbers and the formulas.

Bob didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring anymore.

There was a faint shimmer along your shoulder from where the light met your skin, a dewy glow from the shower that hadn’t fully faded. You were chewing softly on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed in concentration, and he thought–briefly, helplessly–that he could watch you solve problems forever if it meant watching you like this.

You didn’t say anything. Not for the full ten minutes it took you to work it through.

You just calculated, and wrote, and thought. You whispered a few fragments to yourself as you filled in a diagram at the top right corner of the board, then traced your logic through in smooth, deliberate steps. You stepped back finally, the marker hanging loosely from your fingers, your other hand planted lightly on your hip.

You turned slightly toward him.

“Well?” You asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Bob blinked–once, hard. Then blinked again.

“Right,” He replied quickly, moving forward, the textbook now tucked under one arm. He studied your work for a moment, leaning in just enough to squint at one portion of your substitutions. His lips pressed together.

“You did most of it right,” He murmured, pointing to a midsection of your math. “This part’s good…But you forgot to apply the correction here–” He tapped gently on a bracketed term near the top. “That throws the coefficient off. Still–partial credit would be earned. It’s not like you’d lose all the points.”

You let out a breath and nodded. “Got it.”

Bob uncapped the red marker again and leaned forward, elbow bent as he carefully scribbled a correction in the margin beside your step. His handwriting was still annoyingly neat, even in red, even when rushed. He talked you through it slowly, the pace gentle but firm, breaking down the terms like a translation instead of a reprimand.

Your arms crossed as you leaned against the edge of the desk, chin tilted toward him slightly. He didn’t rush, didn’t sound superior–he just…Taught. Like he wanted you to understand it, not just memorize it.

You smirked.

“You should become a professor with the way you teach.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder at you, an amused little tilt to his head. “Why? Am I boring you?”

You let out a real laugh this time, low and warm and amused. “No. Not yet, at least.”

He turned a little more to face you, one hand still holding the red marker.

“Don’t speak too soon,” He warned, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, boyish grin. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot more opportunities to do that.”

And even though the whiteboard still glowed behind him, filled with formulas and diagrams and half-solved questions, all you could see was the quiet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way his voice–soft, sincere–almost sounded like a promise.

————————

Bob’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced, binder long forgotten beside him on the bed.

You were pacing.

Again.

Back and forth in front of your desk, your physics textbook open in your hands like it might suddenly say something different if you glared hard enough at the chapter title.

“I don’t understand,” You huffed, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “We’ve been working through these questions almost every night for the past two weeks. I’m getting them very close to right when I do them here. I know what I’m doing on the whiteboard, I’m getting partial credit in class–but then I sit down during the quiz and it’s like…Like my brain just decides to take a smoke break.”

Bob watched you quietly from the bed, his gaze flicking down briefly as your shirt lifted with your movements. The hem rose just enough to show the waistband of the boxer shorts you’d thrown on after your shower, the edge of soft cotton skimming the top of your thighs as you turned in another sharp step.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just watched. Like he always did when you got worked up–like his stillness might balance out your storm.

You dropped the book onto your desk with a soft thud, dragging both hands through your hair before planting them on your hips in frustration.

“I mean, it’s ridiculous,” You muttered. “I can do it here. I’ve done it. You’ve seen me do it. What the hell happens between here and the classroom?” Bob leaned back slightly, hands now braced behind him against the bedspread, one leg bent, the other stretched long.

“Do you feel anxious when you’re writing the test?” He asked, tilting his head just a little.

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“It’s a normal amount of anxiety,” You said flatly. “What, are you about to tell me that’s why I’m still not doing well on quizzes? A little test stress?”

He shrugged, his lips quirking upward like he knew he was about to toe the line. “Could be,” He replied simply. “Or…Maybe you just need some kind of…Positive reinforcement.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Positive reinforcement?” You repeated slowly, curious and suspicious of how he was bringing up the topic.

He nodded, straight-faced. “Affirmations. Encouragement. Rewards. You know. Psychology stuff.” You crossed your arms, the motion slow and deliberate, as you turned fully to face him. Your hips settled just to one side, weight shifting into that slightly challenging posture–the kind that said you weren’t going to let this slide, but not in the way he should be afraid of. Your head tilted a little, eyes narrowed like you were sizing him up. Watching.

Noticing.

And God, was he blushing.

Not a violent flush, but that creeping kind–the kind that started at the tips of his ears and crawled slowly down the sides of his neck like embarrassment blooming from the inside out. He wasn’t meeting your gaze now. Just staring down at the binder on his lap, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the plastic like it had something important to say.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Took him in.

The soft slope of his shoulders where they leaned back into the pillow. The subtle indent his jaw made when he clenched it without meaning to. The flush of red creeping into his cheeks, all while trying to keep that composed, helpful tone–like he was still just your tutor and not someone who thought about kissing you when you leaned too close during derivatives.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then you spoke.

“So you’re trying to condition me?”

Bob’s head snapped up, and his eyes met yours–wide, startled, and already bracing for the tease he knew was coming. But then, to your surprise, he laughed. A real laugh. Short and soft and so genuine that it made the tips of his ears go even redder.

“N-No!” he said quickly, shaking his head, that lopsided smile overtaking his face. “Jesus–no, I wasn’t–conditioning you?”

You smirked, keeping your arms crossed like a challenge. “It kinda sounds like you’re conditioning me.”

He laughed again–this time accompanied by a quiet snort he couldn’t quite swallow down fast enough. It made your grin widen.

“I’m not trying to train you like a dog,” He commented, wiping a hand down his face with mock-exhaustion. “I just meant…If you associate physics with something good, maybe your brain will stop freaking out every time you’re handed a test.”

You blinked at him once. Raised an eyebrow.

“So…” You started, slowly, carefully, “You’re trying to open my third eye for physics?”

Bob looked at you. Deadpan. “That’s not what I said.”

You stepped closer, a teasing lilt curling into your voice now as you gestured with one hand. “No, no, I think that’s exactly what you said. You want me to transcend. Find academic Nirvana through external praise.” He rolled his eyes.

”Okay. Now you’re just twisting my words.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Am I?” You grinned. He gave you a look. A very Bob look. One part fond, one part I walked into this with my eyes wide open and it’s too late to leave now. But the pink still hadn’t faded from his cheeks.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk again, bare thighs catching the warm glow of your desk lamp, watching the way Bob’s eyes flicked toward your legs and then immediately back up again.

“Alright, Professor Floyd,” You said lightly, “I’ll bite. What kind of positive reinforcement are we talking about here? You handing out gold stars? Stickers? Should I bring a report card for you to sign?” Bob cleared his throat. It was soft but unmistakable. A nervous reflex that made him sit up a little straighter on your bed, one hand rising to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they hadn’t really slipped.

“I mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on some distant point above your shoulder. “I was thinking more like…A kiss.” Your entire body stilled, hands still loosely clasped in front of you from your teasing posture, your weight half-shifted against the desk. A beat passed–just long enough to wonder if you’d misheard him. But then his eyes flicked back to yours, just for a second, and the heat in his gaze made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t said exactly what you thought he did.

You could feel your cheeks warm–instantly, helplessly–heat blooming beneath your skin like it had been waiting for the right moment to spill forward. But you masked it with a slow raise of your eyebrows and a smirk, playful but laced with that sharp new curiosity curling low in your gut.

“Yeah?” You said, voice softer now. You shifted your weight and tilted your head. “A kiss? That’s what you had in mind?”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the space beside your head before dropping to the floor–then back up to you, like he was trying not to look too long but couldn’t help it. He shifted on the mattress, fingers brushing over the edge of the binder like he needed something to hold onto. “I-I mean…It was just an idea. One of…Several.”

You stepped closer.

“Is that what you’ve had in mind this entire time?” You questioned, voice low, the smile on your lips laced with something sweeter now–teasing, but sincere. “Kissing me?”

Bob let out a nervous little laugh, breath catching as he tried to string together a reply. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the binder now, eyes flicking toward your legs again before jerking back up to your face.

“I–no, I mean, not… I never really got that idea till today,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought—I don’t know. It might help.”

You took another step forward.

“You sure about that?” you asked, the words curling in your throat like heat, low and just a little amused. Now you were standing directly in front of him, and the change in height made it impossible not to notice how he looked up at you–head tilted back slightly, wide blue eyes tracking your every move. His glasses slid a fraction down his nose, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to fix them.

His mouth opened and closed once before he found his voice. “I personally…Think it might work,” He murmured.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips–soft, parted slightly, flushed–and then back to his eyes. He was blinking slow now, like your presence this close was physically slowing his thoughts.

You bit your lip. Slowly. Purposefully.

“So you’re telling me,” You said, almost whispering now, “That you want to reward me with kisses…Whenever I get a question right?”

Bob exhaled through his nose. His legs had parted slightly where he sat, not intentionally–but enough to suggest his body was reacting faster than his brain. He nodded once, tentative but clear. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

“I could…Do a whole lot more than kisses,” He said.

The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Like he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the binder, his spine curving slightly forward as if he could fold himself up to hide from the boldness that had just escaped him.

Your breath caught–just barely–and something about the way he said it, almost reverent, almost pleading, sent a shiver down your spine. You watched his throat work, his chest rising and falling in subtle, shaky breaths.

He wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing you back with confidence.

He wanted you.

Desperately.

You leaned in, closing that last bit of space between your knees and the edge of the bed until your thighs brushed his. The binder slid from his lap onto the comforter with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice warm, velvety, almost indulgent. “You think you could do more?” Bob nodded, slowly–eyes wide, lips parted, breath coming a little uneven now, fanning over your face.

“If you’d let me,” He said quietly, “I’d do anything.”

The words landed between you like a weight, heavy with longing, trembling with truth.

And you believed him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t flirt to win. He offered, quietly, completely–like giving a piece of himself to someone felt holy.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up, instinct carrying you as you lifted them slowly–deliberately–and rested them against the sides of his neck.

He was warm.

The kind of warmth that radiated from beneath the skin, the kind that felt like it could seep into your palms and settle somewhere inside your chest if you let it. His skin was soft under your thumbs, his pulse fluttering just beneath one, and when your fingers brushed lightly over the edge of his jaw, you felt the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Bob stilled.

Completely.

The kind of stillness that only came when something sacred was happening–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the moment by breathing too loud.

And then you leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow–measured. Confident in the space he’d given you. Confident in the way his knees shifted to make room for you between them, in the way his lips had parted already, waiting, hoping.

Your nose brushed his cheek softly. His glasses tilted just slightly from the nudge, slipping down the bridge of his nose in a slow, unbothered drift. You felt the ghost of his breath over your mouth, shaky and warm, and then–

You kissed him.

Gently. Just once. Lips pressed to his like the start of a sentence that would take its time to finish.

Bob breathed into it–exhaled a soft, shuddering hum from the back of his throat that vibrated against your mouth. His hands came up slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to assume. But then they settled–one sliding to your lower back, warm and careful, the other ghosting over your hip before stilling there.

And then he kissed you back.

Really kissed you.

Slow at first. So slow it made your knees weak.

He lingered on your upper lip, plush and steady, then pulled back half an inch and tilted–just enough to brush your bottom lip between his with soft, seeking pressure. His lips moved with purpose, not urgency. Thoughtful. Intent. Like he wanted to memorize you in pieces, to map the shape of your mouth one breath at a time.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into him–a quiet, pleased little “mmm”–and he kissed you again like he needed to drink it in. His thumb pressed lightly against the small of your back, grounding him, grounding you. Every motion of his mouth was reverent, restrained, and dripping with a kind of intimacy that made your skin burn.

You pulled back just an inch–lips brushing his, breath warm between you.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. His pupils were blown wide behind his fogged glasses, lips pink and slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with careful, controlled breaths. He looked dazed. Unmoored.

You smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile, and let your thumbs brush the sides of his jaw.

“Better go get the next question right, huh?” You whispered, teasing but breathless. “Gotta meet my end of the bargain.”

And just as you started to pull back, maybe to reach for the marker again, maybe to hide the way your heart was slamming against your ribs like a drum–

Bob’s hand on your lower back pressed just slightly.

“Wait,” He murmured, voice low and husky now. “How about we suspend the studying for now?”

The words came quiet. Careful. But you could hear the edge beneath them–that hunger he’d tried so hard to suppress now curling softly around the syllables.

You arched an eyebrow at him, still close enough that your noses brushed.

“Hmm…” You started, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Now you’re just going to end up distracting me.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth. Then back up.

You ran a finger gently down the side of his neck, your voice warm and teasing.

“Let’s stick to the plan…” Bob exhaled slowly. Like it took everything in him not to pull you back in.

His hands didn’t move. But he nodded.

Barely.

And when you stepped away and turned toward the whiteboard again, you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing after you–like he was trying to sear every inch of the moment into memory.

———————

By the second correct answer, you were setting a timer for yourselves.

Ten minutes. That was the new rule.

Ten minutes per problem, per kiss. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Because the last time you’d leaned in for one–intended to be short, controlled, just enough to make good on the deal–you’d ended up in his lap. His hands had slipped under your shirt almost instinctively, like they knew where to go before he consciously gave them permission. And when his palms flattened against the small of your back, warm and strong and bare, your breath had hitched in a way that surprised you.

Not because it was too much.

But because it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been needing.

His fingers pressed into your skin–not harshly, not possessively, just enough to ground you. Like he couldn’t believe he was touching you and needed to memorize the shape of your body with his hands before you slipped away again. You’d gasped into his mouth, not even meaning to, and felt him inhale like the sound had gone straight to his chest.

And then you kissed him harder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wrecking the neatness of it with the kind of carelessness that only came when heat outweighed hesitation. You pulled, just a little–testing, exploring–and he moaned softly against your lips like it cracked him open. His glasses were crooked by then, fogged from your shared breaths, and neither of you bothered fixing them. The world could stay blurry if it meant this stayed sharp.

Somewhere in the haze, Bob’s shirt had come off. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate. It had just…Happened. One minute your hands were sliding beneath the hem, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that lined his stomach, and the next, the shirt was gone. Flung off to the side without a single graceful motion. You hadn’t even looked where it landed.

He was solid beneath you. Not chiseled in a gym-rat kind of way, but strong in that natural, everyday way. Like he was built for work. His skin was sun-warmed with just a pinch of colour, a faint line of tan cutting across the middle of his arms where T-shirts always stopped. You touched him like he might disappear. He held you like he never wanted you to.

And God…He was good.

Surprisingly good.

Not in the way of someone who practiced, but someone who paid attention. Someone who kissed with focus. With reverence. Like your mouth was an answer he’d been solving toward for weeks. He kissed like he studied–slow, thorough, intentional. His tongue was gentle at first, coaxing. His teeth grazed your lip once, barely, and you swore you could feel it in your spine. When he kissed you the second time–after the next problem, when your timer dinged again–you already knew it wasn’t going to stay brief.

And it didn’t.

He pulled you in with hands that were just slightly rough from calluses and pencil grooves, fingers curling tight around your waist, your ribs, like he needed to feel you under his hands. And when he slipped those same fingers under the hem of your shirt again—this time slower, surer–you let him. You wanted him to. His touch wasn’t greedy. It was searching. Savoring. Like he was learning every inch of you the way he learned his formulas.

And you didn’t realize how touch-starved you’d been until then.

Until the heat of his hand met the curve of your spine, and you arched into him like your body had been waiting for permission. Until he kissed down the side of your jaw, slowly, reverently, and you felt the hum of it in your chest. Until your own hand traced the broad slope of his shoulder, down over the rise and fall of his ribs, and found nothing but steady strength and gentle restraint.

You didn’t say it out loud–but he could feel it.

The hunger in the way you kissed him. The gratitude in the way your hands explored him. The desperate edge that slipped into your breath every time you whispered his name between kisses like it wasn’t something you’d meant to do.

And maybe it wasn’t about physics anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

Because as Bob pulled back, breathless and flushed, his glasses still askew and hair mussed into soft waves from your fingers pulling and tightening, he looked at you like you’d changed something fundamental inside him. Like you’d opened a door he didn’t know was locked. Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Your timer buzzed again in the background. Neither of you moved.

“…You got that one right,” He whispered, lips brushing your cheek “Think you deserve…A break.” You let out a breathless little laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the aftermath of the last kiss. Your hair was a bit mussed from his hands, your lips slightly swollen from the soft, reverent press of his mouth–and you were dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the way he looked at you.

“Bob…” You murmured, voice playful, warm, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got some sort of ulterior motive.” Bob, still slightly breathless, hand still planted firm and reverent on your thigh, sat back just a little. Enough to give you a look. One of those boyish, guilty-but-not-really guilty grins that curled slow at the edges and made your heart skip.

He pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

“Me?” He said, lips twitching. “No…Definitely no ulterior motives here. I’m just…” He leaned in again, close enough for his breath to dance against your jaw, “Trying to do something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Your brows lifted, pulse tripping.

“Oh?” You murmured, teasing but curious. “And what’s that?” He pressed a kiss to your jaw–so gentle it nearly didn’t register as a kiss at all. Just warmth. Just intent. Then another, lower, slower, right beneath the curve of your ear. And then:

“Going down on you,” He whispered.

The words landed hot, like they’d been spoken directly into your bloodstream.

Your breath hitched audibly. You swore you could feel your pulse flutter in places you didn’t think could react to words alone. Heat pooled low in your stomach like syrup spilling into something hollow. Still, you managed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, voice tightening as you tilted your head to look at him again.

“Now I need to know,” You said, fingers threading back into his hair, “How long you’ve been thinking about that.” Bob let out a soft laugh, one hand splaying open against your hip, the other bracing himself still, like he needed to keep steady before he admitted anything to you. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time–each inch of skin passed over with the kind of devotion that said this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment confession.

And when he reached the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hung loose from earlier tugging, he nosed at it gently. Not greedy. Just wanting more.

You tugged lightly on his hair, not to stop him, but to coax him to pause–just enough to get him to look up.

“Hey,” You said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours–blue and wide and already glassy with the weight of how badly he wanted you. And then his face turned a shade deeper, that telltale blush painting up his cheeks and crawling behind his ears.

“Since…” He paused, like the words were too embarrassing to say. “Since the first day of class. When you came in late…Dressed in that skirt.”

You blinked, lips parting slowly.

“The black one?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your mouth like it might give him the courage to keep talking.

“It rode up just a little when you walked past. And you sat a few seats down and didn’t look at me once. And I–” He broke off for a second, laughing nervously. “I dropped my pencil because of how you smelled and how your legs looked and because you didn’t even notice me looking.”

You stared at him.

Then grinned, slow and wicked.

“Well,” You murmured, leaning in again until your lips were just barely brushing his, “Guess it’s a good thing you’re getting your chance now.” Bob exhaled a shaky breath–one of awe, of disbelief, of absolutely overwhelmed want.

And then he kissed you again.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Your lips opened beneath his without hesitation this time, and he drank in the permission like it was oxygen–his hands curling tighter around the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You gasped softly against his mouth as your knees bent around him, your weight settling against the solid warmth of his thighs, your hands sliding up the broad slope of his bare shoulders.

He kissed you like he’d waited for this.

Like every moment you’d spent leaning over equations, brushing fingertips, trading teasing words had led to this exact point–and now he had you here, soft and open in his lap, your legs bare and warm against denim, your breath stuttering into his mouth every time he tugged you closer.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt again, palms hot against your back, and this time he didn’t hesitate. The fabric peeled upward in one smooth motion–up, over your ribs, brushing your chest–until you lifted your arms and let him tug it off completely. He tossed it somewhere behind you, neither of you looking to see where it landed.

His eyes dropped.

The moment he saw what you were wearing underneath, his breath hitched—and for a second, he didn’t move. A soft cotton sports bra in a worn, dusky pink–simple, comfortable, a little faded from wash after wash–but the way it hugged you? The way it molded to the curve of your breasts, straps digging gently into your warm skin?

Bob Floyd looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

He swallowed once. Then again. His glasses had slipped slightly lower on his nose, giving him that boyish, dazed expression he got whenever something completely wrecked his train of thought. You watched his eyes trail over you, caught between reverence and want, and then–

He hummed. A soft, breathy sound from deep in his chest. Something unfiltered. Something warm.

Then he looked back up at you.

And kissed you again.

His hands gripped your hips now, anchoring you down in his lap like he didn’t want you to shift an inch. He kissed you harder–open-mouthed, deep, letting out a quiet groan as your hips rocked forward ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just let the noise fall between you, ragged and raw, swallowing your gasp as he shifted his grip and guided you until your back hit the mattress.

The room spun gently with the motion, soft yellow light from the lamp catching in the lenses of his glasses as he leaned over you. His body followed—broad shoulders, warm bare chest pressing down as he settled between your legs. He braced his hands on either side of your ribcage, framing you like a question he couldn’t stop asking. His eyes searched your face for just a second, but you nodded–softly, wordlessly–already reaching for him again.

He dipped his head.

Kissed your throat.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He took his time.

Every press of his lips trailed down the line of your collarbone, across the top swell of your breasts where the fabric cut gently across your skin. His glasses slipped again, nearly falling off–but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even lift a hand to adjust them. He kissed you through the blur, lips brushing the tops of your breasts like they were something sacred.

You let out a quiet sound–half gasp, half moan–and threaded your fingers into his hair again. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin as he groaned softly against you.

“Are you always this sensual?” you whispered, voice thick, dazed, breathless.

Bob let out a quiet sigh, like your question made something in him ease and deepen at the same time.

“Let’s just say I love giving…” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest. “…A lot.”

The way he said it–low, quiet, honest–made your legs clench involuntarily around his waist. Your mind flooded with images far too filthy for someone as sweet as Bob Floyd to inspire.

But then again, the way he looked right now–glasses fogging, lips red and glistening, his chest moving in slow, hungry waves with every breath–maybe he wasn’t that sweet after all.

His fingers reached for the thin straps of your bra.

“Hope you don’t mind,” He whispered against your skin, lips still pressing hot kisses between every word.

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t mind at all…”

With a reverent kind of care, he slipped the straps off your shoulders. One. Then the other. His fingers brushed your arms on the way down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your skin like he was memorizing it. Then–slowly, carefully–he tugged the fabric down, baring you to him inch by inch.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts, soft and flushed from heat and touch, rose with every breath you took. Bob didn’t reach for you right away. He just…Looked. Let himself take it in. His hands slid up your sides again–rougher now, purposeful–and when they cupped the curve beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushed upward, stroking slowly until your nipples tightened under the attention.

His glasses fogged completely.

Still, he didn’t take them off.

He leaned in and kissed the soft mound of your left breast, then your right, each kiss dragging slower than the last. His lips were gentle, his hands firm, and when he finally brushed the tip of his tongue over your nipple, your hips bucked without warning.

“God,” You whispered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. Bob just smiled. Quietly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, lips hovering just over your nipple again, breath warm and teasing.

You shook your head slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. “I call it anticipation.”

His low laugh rumbled against your skin. “Didn’t know we were calling it that now… but okay.”

Then he kissed you again–this time firmer, lips wrapping around your nipple with a slow, aching pull that made your hips twitch beneath him. His tongue was wet and warm, lapping slow circles around the soft peak before closing over it again, sucking just a little deeper now–just enough to make you moan quietly, enough to send a thrum straight between your thighs.

His hands didn’t stop, either–broad palms sliding up and down the sides of your ribcage, thumbs sweeping in careful, reverent passes. He alternated between breasts with the same kind of concentration you’d seen in study sessions: deliberate, measured, like he was solving you.

And when he finally pulled away, lips red and glistening from worship, he blew a soft, chilled stream of air across your saliva-slick nipple–then the other.

Your entire body arched. He watched it happen with wide eyes, completely entranced.

Then–without a word–you sat up.

He blinked in surprise, hands still resting on your sides as you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra the rest of the way, slipping the fabric down your arms and flinging it off the bed. The second it landed somewhere behind you, you laid back down–bare, flushed, and completely open.

Bob’s breath hitched hard. His glasses had slipped lower again, fogged beyond all reason now, and he still hadn’t touched them. He didn’t even seem aware of the state he was in–just that you were laid out beneath him, chest rising in unsteady waves, eyes soft but daring.

He exhaled shakily.

And then he moved lower.

He kissed the center of your sternum once, then again, trailing down past your navel with slow, reverent care. When he reached the waistband of your boxer shorts, he paused. His hands came to rest just above your hips, fingers curling slightly under the band.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark behind the silver frames.

You nodded–slow, sure.

That was all he needed.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch. Then another. Just enough to reveal the top of your hips, the soft line of your lower stomach. His lips followed–kissing each inch as it was exposed, trailing warmth into places that had never felt this kind of attention before. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air made your thighs twitch, and he hummed softly against your skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” He whispered. “You don’t even know, do you…”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Your fingers were tangled in the sheets again, breath catching every time his lips brushed lower, every time he said something in that breathless, reverent voice that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time.

When he reached the base of your hips, he gave the waistband a firmer tug, and you lifted your hips to help him–knees bending slightly, thighs parting as he pulled the shorts down your legs. He slid them off with practiced care, and you watched as he tossed them aside with the same nonchalance he’d flung his shirt–like every barrier between you was one more step toward something sacred.

He paused there.

Just knelt between your legs for a second, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needed to anchor himself before continuing. Then–without saying anything–he pushed your thighs up gently, spreading you open just enough.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee.

You gasped.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. A promise. His lips lingered there for a second, and then they moved–trailing up the inside of your thigh in slow, wet presses, each one firmer than the last.

“You’ve got no idea,” He murmured against your skin. “How long I’ve wanted to do this… How many times I’ve imagined being between your thighs just like this…”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your inner thigh, and your hips jerked slightly at the contact. He didn’t move away. Just kissed the spot he’d grazed. Then again. Higher this time.

“Wanted to take my time with you,” He whispered, voice low, breath hot. “Make sure you know what it feels like when someone actually wants to do this…” Your hands gripped the comforter.

“I want to hear the way you sound when it’s good. When it’s real. When it’s slow…”

He kissed the top of your inner thigh–right at the edge of where you needed him most.

Then, finally, he glanced up–his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth slick with his saliva and swollen.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” He said softly. “You’ll never forget it.”

His tongue moved with devastating precision–slow, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He started with a kiss-low, just at the edge of your folds, then dragged his tongue up in one long, warm stripe that made your legs twitch. You gasped, hands flying instinctively to his hair as he groaned into you, deep and low, like he’d been starving for this.

“Jesus–Bob–” You whispered, voice cracking on the edge of a moan.

He didn’t answer. Just licked you again, slower this time, tongue flattening against you with such gentleness it made your stomach tighten. Then he did it again. And again. Until the room dissolved into heat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of him eating you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

He used his mouth like a worshipper—like this wasn’t about getting you off, but about tasting everything he’d been dreaming of for weeks. He kissed your clit softly at first, then circled it with his tongue—just enough pressure to make you cry out, just enough to leave you chasing more. Your hips rocked against his mouth before you could stop them, and instead of pulling back, he moaned again, deeper this time, and grabbed your thighs—holding you open like a man possessed.

His fingers dug gently into your hips as he sucked on you now, lips wrapped around your clit with wet, deliberate pulls. His glasses were fogged beyond saving, the lenses glinting in the dorm light as they slipped further down his nose. He didn’t stop. Didn’t lift his head once. Just kept tasting and kissing and groaning like your body was the only thing he needed to study for the rest of his life.

You whimpered.

“F-Fuck, Bob–too good–”

That finally earned a reaction. He groaned again, louder, like your words were gasoline, and then–God–he slipped two fingers between your thighs, slick with your arousal, and pushed them in with a slow, practiced ease.

Your back arched.

The stretch was perfect. His fingers curled immediately, searching for that spot–and finding it like he’d mapped it out ahead of time. His mouth never left your clit, tongue flicking faster now, suction intensifying just slightly, just enough to send a full-body tremor through you.

“C’mon,” He murmured between strokes, voice ragged, lips brushing against you with every syllable. “That’s it… Just like that. Let me hear you.”

You did.

You let go of any remaining shred of restraint and moaned–loud, broken, lost to the rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth. Your thighs shook, your body tightening, unraveling. The dorm room felt like it might dissolve around you.

“G-Gonna–”

“I know,” he whispered, breath hot, eyes glassy as he looked up at you from between your thighs. “Go ahead. I got you.”

And then he did something devastating.

He sucked harder.

Curled his fingers deeper.

And moaned into you like your orgasm was his reward.

You shattered.

Your hands clutched his hair, your legs tensed around his head, and your breath broke into a stuttering cry as he licked you through it–never stopping, never letting up. He worshipped you all the way through your high, his mouth messy, eager, lips slick with you as he kept kissing, kept groaning, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, panting, spent–he didn’t move right away.

He kissed your inner thigh.

Then again. And again.

Then trailed up your body with soft, slow presses of his mouth, leaving a trail of your own taste on his lips as he made his way back up. His chest hovered over yours, his weight warm and solid, and when he finally kissed your mouth again–full and deep–you could taste yourself on his tongue.

And he let you.

Let you feel it.

Let you know exactly what he’d just done to you.

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering above you, mouth swollen from all the work he had done, lips slightly parted. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way–hair mussed from your fingers, flushed cheeks, chest rising with the weight of restraint.

Then, like a flicker of light through the haze, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

You laughed too–soft, breathless, dazed–your palm dragging slowly down his bare chest before reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose. The lenses had slipped almost entirely off his face, smudged and misted at the edges. You caught the little fingerprints and streaks near the bottom and smiled, chest still heaving slightly as you murmured:

“Where…The hell did you learn that?”

Bob’s laugh deepened this time, short and warm, his entire face flushing deeper crimson. He covered his face with one hand for a second, then dropped it to your waist, eyes shining with both amusement and bashfulness.

“From…My past partners?” He said, half like a question, half like a confession. “I told you I’m a giver. I may look timid but…As you can tell, I know my stuff.”

You grinned, your heart skipping at how proud–but still modest–he sounded. You leaned up, catching his mouth in another kiss, slower now, languid. He hummed against your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands pulled you just a little closer.

“Bit surprising,” you whispered against his mouth.

He nodded, kissing you again, hands smoothing down your sides. “I know.”

And it would’ve stayed gentle, dreamy, lazy like that–until your hand drifted between your bodies.

You hadn’t been trying to tease. Not really. But when your palm brushed over the thick bulge in his jeans, the way his breath hitched immediately had you curling your fingers lightly around him, just enough to feel the weight of him. The heat. The hardness pressing insistently behind the denim.

You smiled, eyes soft but mischievous. “Your turn?”

But to your surprise, Bob flinched—barely, but it was there. His hand caught your wrist gently, not to push you away, but to pause.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You blinked, your palm still resting against him. “What?” You tilted your head. “You don’t… even want to have sex?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, eyes darting to yours before lowering again. “I just…It’s really okay. You don’t have to.”

You sat up slightly, just enough to bring your faces closer again, concern slipping behind your smile.

“Are you���” Your voice gentle. “Are you nervous?”

His lashes fluttered. A breath stalled in his throat. And that was all the answer you needed.

You reached for his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. His skin was hot, his jaw tight, but he leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“Bob,” You said softly, a smile curling into your voice. “How can you be nervous after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life?”

That made his eyes shoot open–just a little. You watched his expression shift. Like he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Like praise landed harder than touch ever could.

“Seriously,” you continued, your voice warm and slow, “That was unreal. No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like they wanted to. Not like they were…Memorizing it.”

His mouth parted. You didn’t miss the way his breath trembled now. His hips shifted slightly against yours, and when you glanced down, you could see he was getting harder from your words alone.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “You’re incredible, Bob.”

A sound left him–barely a sound, more of a low exhale, like it physically knocked something loose in him. His hand tightened slightly on your waist.

“You made me feel so good,” You whispered. “Safe. Wanted. Perfect.”

His eyes closed, lips parting with a shaky breath, and his hips rolled the tiniest bit into your palm. You could feel how much he wanted it now. How much he wanted you. He just hadn’t known if he was allowed.

And God, the way he responded to praise–it made something ache inside you.

Your foreheads rested together, breath shared in the quiet space between words, between heartbeats.

“Let’s do it together, hm?” You murmured, your voice warm and coaxing–softened with affection, laced with intent.

Bob let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, and his lips brushed yours as he smiled. “Okay.”

The word was nearly a whisper, but it carried weight–an unspoken trust folding itself into the syllables.

You leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the button of his jeans. He inhaled, shaky and quiet, watching you as you popped it open, then tugged the zipper down. The sound broke the hush of the room, loud in the stillness.

Bob shifted, lifting himself up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband. He wriggled out of his jeans with a little bit of awkwardness, and when the denim bunched at his ankles, he kicked them off with a grunt.

You both laughed. Low and breathless, the kind of laughter that came when something was too intimate not to be a little bit funny.

His glasses slid further down his nose.

“Sexy,” You teased, bumping your knee gently against his side.

He rolled his eyes–blushing, flustered, but grinning–and settled back between your thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of your hips now. The closeness allowed you a better view of him, and you didn’t waste the opportunity.

Your gaze drifted downward. His boxer briefs were tented–straining. You could see the thick outline of him pressed against the fabric, the darkened patch of wetness at the tip where he was already leaking.

Your hand slid slowly down the middle of his torso–over the soft rise and fall of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle, the trail of hair beneath his navel. Bob held perfectly still, his breath shallow, watching you.

When your fingers ghosted along the inside of his waistband, just above the swell of him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Tease,” He muttered, voice tight.

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you slid your fingers a little deeper. Tugged the fabric down just enough to expose him.

He sprang free with a soft, needy sound escaping his throat.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He was…Big. Thick, flushed, already glistening with precum. The head was ruddy and swollen, shiny with need, and your stomach fluttered at the realization that he’d gotten like this just from pleasuring you.

He looked desperate.

You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, your palm sliding up his length with soft pressure. His breath hitched immediately, head tilting back slightly. His glasses slid another fraction down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them–just closed his eyes for a moment, his chest lifting in a shallow, shivering inhale.

You stroked him again–long, slow, deliberate. Your grip was just firm enough to make him twitch, your thumb swiping over the slick bead at his tip.

His hips bucked. He gasped, and then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sensitive?” you murmured, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

Bob’s head dropped forward a bit, cheeks flushed to hell. His voice cracked slightly.

“N-no…Anticipation.” He corrected jokingly, using your own words against you.

You laughed softly. So did he.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept stroking him, slow and sensual, your hand gliding up and down the length of him, savoring every tremble in his thighs, every shift in his breath, every twitch of his fingers against the mattress beside you. He was fully braced now, arms trembling slightly as he rocked into your touch.

His voice came out thin, frayed at the edges.

“I’m really…Really not gonna last if you keep doing that, and…” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper, “And I really do want to have sex with you…”

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

You leaned up slowly, hand still wrapped around him, lips brushing his ear.

“No need to beg…” You whispered, voice thick with heat. “But if you want to come inside me, Bob…Then you better hurry up and get these off.”

His whole body jolted.

A groan–low, raw, helpless–escaped him.

His boxer briefs were gone a second later. Pushed down and kicked away without a single thought, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance.

He came back over you with reverent slowness–climbing the length of your body like he was rediscovering it inch by inch.

His bare chest skimmed yours, warm and solid. His hips dipped low, the hard length of him brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“God,” he whispered, voice raw as his lips brushed against your neck. “You feel so good already.”

You arched into him just slightly, your hands finding his shoulders–broad and warm beneath your palms, still trembling faintly from restraint. His glasses were fogging again, slipping lower, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t care.

He kissed the side of your neck.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek–lingering there with a kind of gentleness that made your stomach twist.

And then he kissed your mouth again. Slow. Sweet. Deep.

You moaned softly into him.

The tops of his thighs pressed flush to the backs of yours now, his cock resting heavily between your legs–leaking precum that smeared slightly against your inner thigh as he shifted to fit himself against you perfectly.

His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it, thumb stroking lightly against your skin as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You sure?” He asked softly, voice shaking with the weight of everything he was holding in. His eyes searched yours, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

You nodded. Slow. Certain.

“I’m sure,” You whispered. He let out a shaky breath, then he reached down between the both of you, eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the warm glide of his knuckles against your folds first, then the soft, slick drag of his cock as he slowly ran the tip of himself through your arousal.

Your breath caught.

He swirled it over your clit once, twice–just enough to make your thighs twitch.

And God, the way he looked at you while he did it.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Worship written into every line of his face, made you feel dizzy.

“You’re so wet,” He murmured. “You feel…Unreal.” You whimpered, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your other hand wrapped tighter around his bicep.

“Bob…” You whispered, voice already trembling. “Please.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips–soft and slow and steady.

Then–finally–he began to push in.

You both moaned.

The stretch hit immediately, slow and burning, a delicious ache that made your spine arch and your mouth fall open.

“F-fuck,” Bob gasped, his forehead dropping briefly to yours as he sank in inch by inch. “God, you’re–you’re so tight. So warm. You feel so good…Wow…” Your hips shifted, trying to take more, and his hands immediately gripped your thighs, grounding you.

“Easy,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I got you. Just breathe.”

You nodded, your head swimming.

He pushed deeper.

You could feel every inch–every throb of him, every shudder in his breath as your walls stretched around him.

“Just like that,” He murmured. “Doing so good. Taking me so well.” You whimpered, and the sound cracked open something in him.

“You like that?” He whispered, kissing your cheek again, his hips rolling just the slightest bit deeper. “You like hearing how perfect you feel around me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes, Bob–keep talking–please–”

“Fuck,” He breathed, his voice breaking again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He rocked forward the last inch with a soft, helpless moan. Your body trembled beneath his as you adjusted, your thighs hugging his hips, your hands gripping him tightly. Bob groaned into your neck, voice ragged.

“God…You’re perfect. I swear, you’re–Jesus, I don’t even know how to describe this–” You turned your head, catching his mouth again in a deep, desperate kiss. You could feel him trembling above you, his muscles taut, breath stuttering with the effort of staying still.

“You feel so fucking good, Bob–so full–so deep–” His breath hitched.

“Say that again,” He whimpered, “Please.”

You kissed his neck, your voice thick with heat.

“You fill me up so good…God it feels amazing.” Bob let out a deep moan.

Then he began to move.

Just a tiny thrust at first–barely pulling out before pressing back in, the friction slow and hot and devastating.

Your mouth fell open.

His lips ghosted over your cheek as he whispered, “Gonna make you come on me just like this…” Your back arched at the words, your cheek bumping against his glasses. “You like the sound of that?” He added. Your fingers curled into his shoulder blades, nails dragging softly over warm skin as you nodded, breath catching on a moan.

“Yes…Yes, please.”

The quiet plea cracked something open in him.

He kissed you again–mouth hot, searching, needier this time–and his hips began to move.

Slow at first.

A deep roll forward, dragging his length out almost completely before easing back in, the friction molten, smooth, aching. You gasped into his mouth, your body lifting slightly to meet the next thrust. Bob groaned–low and husky–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, glasses fogging up again from your breath. Still, he didn’t take them off. He looked wrecked. Gorgeous. Reverent.

“God, you feel…” He whispered, voice thick and ruined as he rocked into you again, a little harder this time, “So good…So tight around me, baby–oh god.” Your breath stuttered. The nickname, unintentional or not, hit low and warm and made you clench involuntarily around him.

He felt it.

He swore softly–“Jesus”–and dropped his head to your shoulder, the next thrust coming sharper, more instinctual.

Your hands roamed—up his back, over the rise of his shoulders, down to his hips where your fingers dug in just slightly. He kissed your neck between thrusts, then bit gently just beneath your ear, and the second his teeth grazed your skin, you gasped.

Your body clenched again.

Bob moaned, full and broken.

“Fuck, that–You like that?” He murmured, voice hot and desperate against your ear. “You like when I do that?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered, trembling, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so good, Bob…You’re hitting every part of me.”

He groaned–long, low, filthy in how soft it sounded. His hips began to move faster now, deeper, each thrust dragging a moan from your throat, and his hands slid beneath your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist so he could sink in even further.

“God, you’re perfect,” He praised. “You’re so perfect for me. Every inch of you–I swear–fuck–”

Your head fell back against the pillow. You were gasping now, barely able to respond, but you tried. You wanted him to hear it. You wanted him to know.

“You’re so good at this,” You panted, voice trembling. “So good at making me feel good–God, you’re incredible, Bob–”

His whole body stilled for half a second, as if praise struck something too deep.

Then he moved faster.

A rougher thrust–still controlled, still measured, but heavier now, thicker with want. He let out a moan against your neck, raw and hot, and your back arched at the sound.

You could feel him everywhere–his chest brushing yours, his lips at your throat, his hands gripping you tight like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

You cried out, hips lifting into his, clenching around him with every thick, slick stroke. He felt it. Groaned again. Slid one hand up your body to cradle the side of your face.

“Look at me,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You did.

And the second your eyes locked, his pace stuttered–just for a heartbeat–like the sight of you, soft and dazed and open beneath him, was enough to make him lose rhythm.

Then he started thrusting again. Deep. Steady. Hot.

“I want you to come on me,” He whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “I want to feel you come again–want to hear how good it feels.”

Your lips parted. Your thighs trembled.

“Bob,” You gasped, desperate now. “You’re so good–please don’t stop–please–”

He kissed you again. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and breath and heat. His thrusts got heavier, faster, until you could feel your climax curling up your spine like a fuse.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He murmured, hips stuttering with restraint. “I can feel it, baby… You’re so tight–so fucking wet–come for me–please–“

You shattered.

With a cry that broke in the middle, your walls clenched around him, waves of heat and release rolling through you so hard your vision blurred. Bob moaned your name–ragged, reverent–thrusting into you a few more times before he groaned loud against your shoulder and came with a shuddering, broken gasp. Bob’s entire body tensed as he came–his cock pulsing deep inside you, hips stuttering against yours in involuntary thrusts as thick, hot ropes of cum filled you.

You felt everything.

The way his muscles tensed above you, taut and trembling. The low, broken sound he made as he buried his face in your neck. The way his arms curled tighter around your waist like he needed to hold onto something to stay connected to consciousness

“F-Fuck,” He choked out, hips giving one more weak, slow push. His release was hot and endless, spreading warmth low in your belly as his body finally started to give in. His breathing was ragged, the heat of it ghosting over your skin. He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t move at all for a long moment.

Just slumped forward, his bare chest sticky against yours, the last tremors of orgasm still rolling through him. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, and you felt him exhale with all the weight of a man undone.

Even the frames of his glasses were warm.

You let your arms slide around his back, hands splayed wide across the muscles there, sticky with sweat, anchoring you both. The only sounds in the room were your shallow, echoing breaths, and the soft hum of a distant hallway light buzzing just outside your dorm door.

Bob’s weight against you felt right. Heavy in the best way. Settled. Natural.

Your fingertips traced slow, thoughtless patterns over his back as you both lay tangled together, letting the afterglow settle around your limbs like warm syrup. Your heartbeats synced slowly–yours still fluttering, his gradually calming.

And then–

He shifted.

Lifted himself slightly on one trembling arm, the other brushing your hair back from your forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pink, and his glasses crooked beyond saving. His smile was dazed. Soft. Glowing.

He leaned in and kissed you again. A soft kiss. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and also more, and also stay.

When he pulled back, still breathless, still inside you, he murmured:

“We’re gonna have to start going to the library to study.”

You blinked. Confused. Flushed and blinking at him through the haze, your breath still catching a little in your throat.

“…Why?” You asked, voice hoarse but amused, one hand reaching up to gently smooth the short, light brown strands of his hair that were now sticking out in every direction.

His smile widened–lopsided and boyish, just a little cocky.

“Because we’re never going to get any studying done if we’re near a bed…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “The temptation will be too strong.”

You laughed–light, breathless, your chest shaking under his with the sound.

“Well,” You teased, trailing your fingertips down the curve of his back, “There goes that positive reinforcement idea, then.”

Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“I’m sure we can figure out a replacement,” He replied, “Something that can be done in public spaces.”

You burst out laughing.

He did too.

And you stayed like that–wrapped up in each other, laughter echoing soft and breathless into the quiet room.

[jellyfishsthings]

The Things You Say

navigation , dc navigation

Summary: Jason yearning for a nerdy girl who constantly talks about her new books or new science inventions, he doesn't understand shit and they have to look stuff up constantly trying to keep up with her

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason knew pain. He knew the taste of blood and the sound of a heart flatlining. He knew what it was like to dig his way out of a grave with his bare hands, lungs full of dirt and rage. He knew war. Loss. Fire.

But none of that prepared him for the experience of falling for someone like you.

He also knew two things for certain:

One: he was not, and never would be, a science guy.

Two: he was completely, helplessly in love with the weird girl who never stopped talking about subatomic particles like they were fairy tales.

He met her in a bookstore, because of course he did. Gotham’s oldest secondhand shop, tucked between a closed-down deli and a tattoo parlor. She was in the nonfiction aisle, holding a hardcover titled Quantum Entanglement and the Fabric of the Cosmos, murmuring to herself while frowning at the margins.

Jason should’ve walked away. Should’ve grabbed his Hemingway and gone.

But instead he found himself saying, “Is that English?”

She looked up.

Big glasses. Hair half-up, half-falling. A tiny scowl, like he’d just insulted her childhood dog. “It’s physics.”

He blinked. “I gathered. Still looks like math’s evil cousin.”

That got a laugh. Or something like it. A half-smile, crooked and unsure, like she didn’t laugh often and wasn’t sure she should now.

Jason tilted his head. “You work with this stuff?”

“I study it.” She pushed the book against her chest. “I’m trying to understand quantum coherence in biological systems. Mostly theoretical. I bore people.”

“I don’t mind theory,” Jason said, which was a lie, but a nice one.

She stared at him for a long second. “You’re trying to flirt with me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “How am I doing?”

“Terribly.”

He grinned. “You want coffee?”

She hesitated.

“Not a date,” he added quickly. “Just... if you want someone to listen while you explain quantum thingies.”

“Quantum thingies,” she repeated. “Tempting.”

It was supposed to be one coffee. It turned into four. Then dinner. Then late-night texts, where she sent him screenshots of new studies and he replied with bad memes and pictures of books she’d made him read.

Jason wasn’t used to this—whatever this was. There was no game here. No dramatics. Just this girl with a constellation of freckles and a mouth that moved too fast when she got excited.

She’d sit cross-legged on his couch, hair up, socks mismatched, spouting things like:

“Did you know cephalopods can edit their own RNA in real time?”

Jason, who was halfway through re-reading The Count of Monte Cristo, would look up and go, “Cepha-what?”

“Octopus brains. They’re insane.”

He had a notes app. No joke. It read:

Quarks (ask which one is the cute one)

Octopus RNA = science magic

Don’t say atoms are tiny planets—she hates that

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to understand. He did. Desperately. Because her eyes lit up like stars when she talked, and Jason wanted to know what it was like to hold a universe like that in his head.

Because you talked about neutrinos over coffee. Neutrinos. Subatomic particles. And you said it with a smile like it was common small talk, like most people spent Sunday mornings curled up reading quantum mechanics papers instead of the funnies.

Jason pretended to get it. He even nodded sagely.

He did not get it.

"They're fascinating," you said once, feet tucked under you on his old beat-up couch, eyes lit like they held galaxies. "Like these ghosts of matter. They pass through everything, almost impossible to catch. It's like trying to bottle a secret."

"Uh-huh," Jason said, staring at your lips. Not because he was being disrespectful. But because they moved when you talked, and sometimes he understood those more than your words.

He googled them later. Spent two hours falling down a scientific rabbit hole so steep he got a headache, just so he could maybe ask the right question next time. So he could deserve to be in the same room as your mind.

You never made him feel stupid.

You never made him feel like he had to prove himself. But Jason was built of sharp edges and pride. He came from alleys, from blood-streaked streets and textbooks that were ten years too late. You were made of stardust and curiosity, of words that leapt like fire from your tongue.

He wanted to meet you there.

So he read. And re-read. Fell asleep listening to science podcasts he barely understood. Texted Tim questions like, “What the hell is a muon?” and got responses like, “Why are you asking me this at 2AM?”

You were working on something new. Something about microfluidics, which sounded made-up but wasn't. Your whiteboard was filled with squiggles and Greek letters, and Jason stood behind you one afternoon just... watching.

"You know," he said finally, leaning a shoulder against your wall, "I'm starting to think you might be the smart one in this relationship."

You turned, brow quirked. "Only just starting?"

Jason laughed. It cracked something open in him. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you said, crossing to him. You had ink on your fingers. Pen behind your ear. Your shirt was inside out. Jason thought you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "But I'm not in love with me. You are."

He blinked.

You kissed his cheek, then went back to your board, humming. As if you hadn't just sent his soul straight out of his body.

Jason spent that night learning about laminar flow.

Sometimes, you talked so fast you forgot to breathe. You’d get this wild look in your eyes, like the whole universe was cracking open and only you could see it.

Jason lived for that look.

You told him about CRISPR once, gesturing wildly with a fork in a shitty diner, eggs going cold.

"It’s gene editing," you said. "Like molecular scissors! You can cut DNA—literally edit life. Isn’t that insane?"

Jason chewed his toast. Nodded. Took a mental note to google "molecular scissors" the second you hit the bathroom.

He didn’t get it. Not really.

But he loved how your face lit up. Like discovering was your religion and you were halfway to ascension.

He wanted to believe in something like that.

The problem, of course, was that he kept falling harder.

It hit him slow at first—like rain soaking into the collar of your coat. He’d look up in the middle of a lecture she didn’t know she was giving and realize he hadn’t heard a word.

Because she was smiling. Because she was alive in that moment in a way that made the world blur.

And then one night it hit him all at once.

They were on his fire escape, watching the sky turn blue-black over Gotham. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, talking about something called CRISPR and how gene editing could eventually reverse certain degenerative conditions.

Jason lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Just let it sit in his hand.

“You ever wonder,” he said, “how you ended up where you are?”

She blinked. “All the time.”

“I used to think I was supposed to be something. Like... some big cosmic screw-up happened and I got turned into this.” He gestured vaguely. “A walking wreckage.”

“You’re not a wreck.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just watched her through the smoke.

“You read the books I send,” she whispered. “You ask questions. You try. That’s more than most.”

He looked away. “You make me want to try.”

She leaned into his shoulder, quiet.

That night he dreamed she was stardust and he was gravity. Always falling toward her.

Jason didn’t call it love. He didn’t know if he deserved to.

But he was the one who brought her soup when she got sick, even if he burned the rice.

He was the one who asked her to explain particle spin six times and still got it wrong.

He was the one who, during one of her meltdowns about failing a grant application, cupped her face and said, “You’re brilliant. If the world can’t see it, that’s not your fault.”

She cried into his shoulder for an hour.

One night, you fell asleep with your notes scattered across his bed. Jason gathered them carefully, reading snatches as he did.

"Theoretical modeling of fluid behavior in low-gravity environments..."

He smiled.

You’d joked once that you were building something for NASA. He wasn’t sure if you were actually joking.

He sat beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. You sighed in your sleep.

Jason Todd, child of Gotham's gutters, held your research like it was sacred.

He didn’t understand the math. But he understood what it meant to love something so fiercely you stayed up nights chasing it.

He understood what it meant to chase you.

It wasn’t easy.

You didn’t always get his silences. His scars. The way he sometimes drifted mid-conversation, haunted by a past he couldn’t shut up.

But you waited.

You asked.

You never made him feel like a puzzle to be solved. Just a story worth reading slowly.

One day he caught you reading War and Peace. Not for class. Not for work. Just... because.

"You know that’s, like, a thousand pages, right?"

"Only 1,225," you replied without looking up. "You should try it."

Jason chuckled. "You trying to turn me into a nerd, sweetheart?"

You looked at him then, all sharp eyes and soft affection. "You already are. You just don’t know it yet."

When you said "I love you," it was after explaining something about black holes.

Jason had no idea how you got from "gravitational collapse" to "I love you," but he wasn’t complaining.

He’d spent so long being angry. Being alone. Being something sharp and armored.

You cracked through it all with equations and post-it notes, with quiet mornings and whispered facts about tardigrades.

You made him laugh. Think. Google shit.

You made him feel.

He didn’t always understand what you said. He never fully grasped string theory.

But he learned her favorite coffee order, and the way she curled her toes when she was focused, and how to tell when her anxiety was starting to spiral.

He learned how to love her without needing to understand every atom.

Because she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a cosmic mistake after all.

He was just a man. With a girl. And a heart that beat a little faster every time she said, “Hey Jay, guess what I learned today?”

And that?

That he understood perfectly.

And that was enough.

[slasherslittlesimp]

Cursed (Avengers X Reader)

Part One

PART TWO

Natasha's hands skillfully fly across the keyboard at one of the computers as she types in code after code, likely bypassing any security and downloading the files to her drive. Her eyes flicker around the screen, taking in whatever information she sees. Cap remains by the door, keeping watch for anyone who might try to sneak up on all of you.

"I believe I've found her file but it's quite large Cap." She doesn't take her gaze from the screen as she reads through the first page. "We'll have to wait until we get back to the compound to read through it more thoroughly but I can at least figure out the basics now."

"The basics are all we really need right now." He responds, glancing at you before returning most of his attention to the doorway.

Your nerves grow slightly knowing that they'll be reading through everything that you've been through at some point. Your life up to this point hasn't been the prettiest and it's not exactly something you want anyone else knowing. You know you don't have much of a choice though.

"Let's see..." Natasha squints slightly as she reads over the small writing on the screen. "Says here that her name is (Y/N) (L/N) and that she's roughly twenty-five years old." She pauses, clicking a few times as she likely searches for the more important information. "Ah, here we go. Her ability is called 'Cursed Speech'. Apparently whatever she says pretty much happens. That explains the muzzle."

The man seems intrigued with this as he finally moves away from the door to come read over her shoulder. They both remain silent, not giving you any clue as to what they're reading. Your eyes flicker between them and the door, nervous that someone can come through now that they're not keeping watch.

Thankfully, once the files are completely downloaded they both step away, Natasha grabbing the drive before turning towards you. "Let's go." She jerks her head in a motion to signal that you need to follow them once again.

The three of you exit the server room- Cap leading followed by you and then Natasha taking up the rear. You're pretty certain the formation is both to keep you from bolting and to also keep you protected should anyone show up. You're not complaining either way since you're not being left behind this way.

They lead you down many different hallways without ever once second guessing if they're going the right way. The man must have one hell of a memory if he's able to remember his exact route that he had taken. It's even more impressive knowing that everything's backwards since he's going the opposite way. If it was you, you would've already gotten lost. If the two abandoned you, you'd never find your way to an exit or even back to your room.

Cap goes around one last corner before finally reaching a large metal door at the end of a corridor. It must be the door they entered through since the locking mechanism appears broken allowing him to swing the door open effortlessly. Your eyes squeeze shut at the sudden brightness before slowly opening into a squint. You've forgotten how bright and intense the sun can be after spending so long in barely lit rooms. While the light is a bit much, the warmth from it spreads pleasantly over what little skin you have showing.

You don't get much of a chance to bask in it as Natasha grabs your upper arm, tugging you along until you're boarding a jet that has a few others on it. You have no idea who any of them are but they all seem wary and confused at your presence. You probably look insane with how you're dressed but there's not much you can do about it.

Natasha pushes you down into a seat before clasping a buckle over your lap and moving towards the cockpit. You watch her go before turning to take a better look at the other people around you. The first one to draw your attention is a rather nervous looking gentleman with dark hair that has speckles of gray in it and glasses. His hands rub together as he likely tries to push his nerves away but you can tell from the way he keeps glancing at you that your presence isn't helping.

The next person you examine is a man with sandy colored hair who seems to be looking over his quiver of arrows. Every now and then his gaze will move from what he's doing to you yet his face remains neutral, not letting you know how he feels or what he's thinking at all. Next to him is a young female with long dark hair and a pretty red jacket. Her gaze hasn't left you a single time since you've gotten in the jet though it looks more like she's looking through you rather than at you.

Cap is the next person you look towards, finding him standing tall with his muscular arms crossed over his chest as he has a hushed conversation with the last person in the group- a man sporting red and gold armor. Caps brows are furrowed as he talks, showing that he's thinking quite hard about something. The man in armor seems a bit more nonchalant as he nods along to whatever is being said while at the same time scrolling through a tablet. Their voices are too quiet for you to hear what they're saying so you turn your attention away.

The man with the arrows sends one last glance your way before putting his things away and moving towards the cockpit. Shortly after he disappears from sight the jet whirs to life as it lifts from the ground. Your stomach flips as you close your eyes, trying to ignore the fact that you're no longer on solid ground. The idea of traveling extremely fast while hovering thousands of miles away from the ground is unnerving, especially when the last time you experienced it was long ago. Nobody else seems to be bothered by it except maybe the guy with glasses but he just seems anxious in general.

"Why's the chick dressed like Hannibal Lecter?" Someone finally speaks up, breaking the tense silence. You keep your eyes closed as you listen but you're able to tell who asked based off of the direction the voice came from. Only two people were standing off to your right and you already know what the one sounds like which narrows it down to the man in armor.

"That's what I'd like to know." Cap sighs as he glances over to you. "Nat and I managed to get her files so we can go over them all together once we return to the compound."

"Let's just hope she's not a cannibal." Armor man mumbles which earns him a slight scolding from Cap. The rest of the ride is silent after that which you're somewhat thankful for. You hate listening to people talk about you. You'd much rather sit in complete silence regardless of how tense or awkward it is.

After an unknown amount of time, the jet finally lands at what you're assuming is the compound. You're led off of the flying death trap as soon as the back of it is open by Cap who has a firm grip on your shoulder. Despite your curiosity, you keep your gaze locked to the ground, not wanting to show interest in your new prison. The entire walk is quiet as Cap takes you into a building and down many hallways before finally stopping at a room.

Entering, you're met with a single metal table and chair sitting right in the middle of the room. The two way mirror on the wall confirms that it's an interrogation room. Cap releases his grip from your shoulder as he orders you to sit down. Doing as you're told, you watch him exit without another word. He's probably going to check your files before bothering with questioning you. It's the smart thing to do, after all.

Taglist: @desiree-lee @seventeen-x

[midnight-bay-if]

NSFW

How would the ROs react to MC accidentally walking in on them while they’re changing?

(Sorry for the wait on asks everybody. Life has been... interesting.)

S: They have stripped down to their underwear, thumbs tucked into the waistbands, ready to bare all for a quick change before a mission. Nothing seems out of the ordinary... until the familiar sound of the old-fashioned door handle twisting with the usual struggle disrupts the silence, as the mechanism sticks at an odd angle. They sigh, anticipating Rain or Taj bursting in, their manners entirely disregarded. It's a routine they have come to expect, and they have had to set aside certain notions of decorum after working with them.

The self-conscious ideas of propriety seem to belong entirely to humans in their experience.

What they do not anticipate, with their hand half outstretched to still the turning of the handle, is coming face to face with your wide eyes when the door swings open.

A stunned silence hangs in the air... until both of you scramble for a way to salvage this greeting—you by covering your eyes with a hand, and they by hurriedly grabbing any material to cover themselves.

“I’m sorry!” you call, your eyes still firmly covered. “I think Rain just tricked me. They said you were waiting for me and that I should come straight in.”

They exhale sharply. Of course, they did. “It is quite all right; if you could give me a moment, I shall be with you shortly.” All the while ignoring their fluttering pulse and the fact that you are mere feet away from their bare skin. Would you dare look? Do they wish you would? When you don’t immediately leave, they cannot help but push. “Were you hoping for an invitation?”

“Right! Sorry!” The door slams shut behind you, and they already deeply regret your absence.

Rain: They hum a familiar tune of home as they pull off bright items of clothing, the door left ajar. They notice it, their leg half out of their trousers, and begin hopping over to close it properly. However, they only get partway before the door swings open, your voice trailing in soon after.

“Rain, there was something I meant to disc— Rain!”

Your shout startles them, their feet getting tangled in the legs of their trousers as they trip and fall to the ground. “Ouch!” they exclaim, landing elbow first. “What? What is it?” The note of surprise in your voice sends them into a panic.

“Y-You’re not dressed.”

Oh. Right. Yes, S did warn them about this. “Sorry! I forgot to close the door! I didn’t startle you too much?” they ask, slipping their pants back up their legs, feeling no real achievement since their chest remains bare. They finally notice how demurely you stare down at your feet, a hint of shyness that seems to emerge only when you are alone together, and their heart skips a beat. “Be out in a minute?”

You nod, darting out much quicker than you entered, and they smile. “Perhaps leaving the door open wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.”

Taj: They were meant to be alone. Rain informed them that everyone else had already left on their way out the door. It was quiet; there was no reason to doubt this. So, when Taj began shedding their clothes on the way to the bathroom, they thought little of it. The heating had been left on, and the place was sweltering due to the humidity. They leant forward, reaching to turn on the shower when they heard a voice.

“Taj, is that you leaving your clothes all over the floor?”

Your voice.

They swivel their heads towards the door, and there you stand, arms laden with various items of clothing, mouth agape, staring at their bare backside... until your eyes begin to trail of every scar.

“I didn’t know—”

Taj never gives you the chance to explain, slamming the door in your face with a resounding bang. They press their forehead against the wood, breathing harshly, their heart thundering in their chest as all the blood rushes to their… “Fuck.”

“Taj, are you alright?” They hear you through the door, and their breath shudders. Stop it. Stop talking. They need to calm down, and your voice… “I swear I didn’t realise you were, um, naked. Are you angry?”

Angry. It isn’t the first word that comes to mind; it would be easier if they were.

N: They are admiring every detail of their guise in the mirror. “The skin is so smooth,” they whisper, trailing their fingertips over the unblemished surface of their torso. So perfectly immaculate. That isn’t to say they are not also taken with their usual body; all the prongs and bumpy skin feel exquisite when in the throes of passion if you know how to use them, and they know. Well, they have never heard any complaints.

But there’s something about being human that is endlessly fascinating to them. The weightlessness of their head without their horns, the ease with which clothing can be slipped on and torn off without a tail… and the skin. So delicate, like the most exquisite silk. N would be lying if they claimed not to have thought about exploring each and every inch of yours.

As if summoned by fate, the bedroom door swings open, revealing you standing there, mouth agape, taking in the scene. “Now, which one of us is the mind reader, my dear?”

You shake off your surprise and swiftly squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m sorry! I d-didn’t know. I promise!”

“It’s quite all right. You can take a peek if you like.”

“N-No! Thank you!” you squeak, backing out the door, pulling the door with you.

“Are you sure? I certainly don’t mind—”

“Goodbye!”

They sigh, a little wistful. “Oh, well… maybe next time.”

Umbra: They never liked taking their clothes off. Each layer gets peeled back like they are being forced to peel off their own skin, grimacing as if in pain. They at least have the good sense to do it in complete darkness, with curtains shut and mirrors covered by whatever dark material they can get their hands on, so they don’t accidentally catch their reflection in the mirror.

It isn’t the scars or stitches that denote their marred limbs, nor their ghostly paleness that causes them pain, but the fact that, even stripped bare, they feel no colder. All of this is repulsive, and each inch of exposed skin serves as a reminder of the monster that lies within.

Most of their skin is bare when the door handle turns, and in you walk, nonchalant, without fear despite the wretch that they are. It is they who show fear. “MC! I-I’m not… I was getting changed—”

Only now do you realise what you have walked into. “Oh, Umbra! I’m sorry!” You squeeze your eyes shut, and Umbra feels as though they can breathe again. That’s right, MC. Close your eyes. Save your stomach from churning. They anticipate you heaving with disgust or running away as you retch… but you do none of those things. Instead, you turn, lashes fluttering demurely. Not ashamed, but embarrassed. Your fingers flex against your thigh before tugging at the hem of your shirt, as if shy.

You like what you see.

An impossible sensation seizes their chest, a tingling and heat they thought themselves incapable of feeling. They can live with being a monster if they are not monstrous to you.

[nicotachi]

my clumsy review aka my unorganized thoughts on Hit New Yuri Game "Love Curse: Find Your Soulmate"! you can buy it on steam here

cyn and i spent the past week or so playing through all 10 endings and i just wanted a place to write down all my thoughts. i feel like i have a Lot to say and barely anyone else to tell so i'm going to attempt to rein it in

under the cut is nothing but spoilers so tread at your own risk! also: i do not hate any ship, but if you are averse to ship hate you may not want to read any of my criticisms!

PLOT SUMMARY

you play as a 20 year-old lesbian (named selene yan by default) navigating her transition from college into the workforce. however, you are suddenly informed of a curse that will kill you in one year's time—the only way to lift this curse is to find your true soulmate (yay a girl) before then.

there are currently 4 romanceable options: your cute childhood-friend-turned-girl-next-door, your classmate's mysterious twin sister, your reliable upperclassman, and your intimidating boss at your internship. who will you choose??? 😳

OVERALL

wow. what a game!!! i have limited experience with visual novels as most of them have been linear. all the otome games i've played were written for straight female audiences (with the exception of kang jaehee of mystic messenger) and designed for mobile. this was my first foray into an honest to goodness Sit In Front Of Computer And Pick Your Girlfriend game, and this time for actual lesbians! and i liked it a lot! what stuck out to me with this game—and keep in mind my limited experience here—is that ALL the endings felt like legitimate endings, even the bad ones. for some characters, the bad endings even felt preferable! this made me feel respected as a reader/player, and gave me a sense of agency in that i was able to choose whatever ending i liked without feeling like other endings were more 'correct'. and boy, did i enjoy some endings much more than others.

there are two curious things about the game.

the first one is a unique mechanic. each character has two meters: an affection meter, and a ??? meter. i thought the affection meter seemed pretty straightforward: get the affection up and get the happy ending. however, this was not so simple for 3 out of the 4 romanceable characters with the second meter in question. if the ??? value reaches a certain number, this may trigger the bad ending for that character. while the ??? value is never outright explained, it seems to represent something different for each character.

the second thing that stuck out to me was that half of the characters' routes directly relate to the lore behind the curse. honestly, it took me a while to even remember the title of the game because the 'curse' part seemed irrelevant to me with my preferred route. while two of the romanceable characters' routes explain the origins of the curse and why you have it, the other two are completely independent stories that could live in a vacuum.

this is likely not the first time this has happened as this was a feature in mystic messenger as well; zen/jaehee/yoosung were labeled 'casual story' while jumin and 707 were labeled 'deep story'. however, it's still an interesting choice as i believe overarching plot relevance influenced the characters which influenced how much i liked each character and/or their route.

which brings me to the main reason i even started this review: RANKINGS. yes, i wanted to rank each ending, explain why i liked them, why i disliked them, and what i think they could have done differently. this is where my opinions will become Opinions so dread carefully (not a typo).

very conveniently, i saw this post which brought me this chart, which i will use to grade each ending:

and now...the rankings!!!

first, i will start with ranking much i liked each character. this is based on writing/design/overall vibes and enjoyment:

iris (by a fuckin MILE omg)

nyx

victoria

eleanor

next, here is the order in which i played so you can have some more context with each route's review:

Iris BE

Iris HE

Victoria HE

Victoria BE

Nyx BE

Nyx HE

Eleanor BE

Eleanor HE

True End

now, here is how i rank each route. this is mainly based on writing and enjoyment:

9. Eleanor HE

Score: ⭐

i'm so sorry eleanor fans. personally i think eleanor was done dirty. tragically, her pre-awakening chemistry with selene is very cute. she's the closest to a classmate that selene has out of all of her love interests, and therefore the closest in maturity level. their banter reminds me of like idk. rory and jess from gilmore girls. basically two people who feel comfortable riffing off of the other. and this is no coincidence; they mention several times how they feel they have known each other for years.

which is a shame, because the route starts going downhill after eleanor's memories are reawakened, which is pretty early on. her personality shifts and it no longer becomes selene x eleanor, but selene x someone who thinks she's jianghe. everything we know about eleanor is thrown out the window in favor of her becoming 'jianghe', whom we barely know anything about.

and i think that's one of the major issues: we never do learn much about jianghe. not in her HE, BE, or even the true end. we don't even get a sprite! how are we supposed to care about jianghe if we barely know her relationship with fuguang? was jianghe also a confident perfectionist like eleanor? was she just as playful? why do we so easily accept that jianghe = eleanor, when in other routes we make it a point that chimei =/= nyx and fuguang =/= selene?

sure, there are hints that eleanor has been controlling since before her memories awakened, but that's still related to jianghe as it's a result of the spirits she pissed off. maybe it would have felt better if being controlling were a core part of her personality, the way iris and nyx's flaws feel more baked into their characters (which is why i thought iris' house arrest was way more interesting but anyways).

what would i do differently? i honestly would have emphasized an internal struggle in which eleanor doesn't know if she wants to continue being jianghe—someone paralyzed by paranoia, fear, and regret—and instead live as eleanor, who respects selene as a fellow intellectual. the house arrest arc dragged on for wayyyy too long. it honestly made me root for nyx to come break us free. instead, what happens is we get a rather bland fairytale ending of us overcoming nyx and living happily ever after.

also, i find it a little unsettling that we never find out eleanor has been tracking us, especially since i read someone on twitter suggest she has been tracking us THROUGH THE SMART WATCH SHE GAVE US IN THE COMMON ROUTE!!! which honestly is a crazy cool detail

8. Victoria HE

Score: ⭐

(WARNING: i do not hate this ship but i can see how you might interpret this as ship hate, so beware)

i like selene and i think i like victoria (even though i wasn't a fan of her routes), but i think selene and victoria have negative chemistry. not a single unit of rizz together. 1+1=0. watching their mutual attraction unfold felt like watching one of those slow trash compactor videos. two cars backing into each other in a parking lot. just something very unpleasant that i didn't want to keep seeing, yet kept reading in hopes of being swayed—and it never happened.

TO BE CLEAR!!! this is NOT because i hate either character and not because of their age gap or boss/employee dynamic. my number one ship rn is gan/qing for god's sake which is both of those. and i think it's BECAUSE i love gan/qing and office romance that i was so put off by their development.

victoria is presented as this cold and intimidating boss who scares selene during her internship interview. and she just...becomes very soft and caring after that? she just starts hanging out with selene like she's on her level and texting her like a friend? to me, it felt like the writers wanted to ignore their power imbalance until they couldn't ignore it anymore, which felt worse imho. what's the point in even making them boss and employee if you can't lean into the forbidden love territory!!!

not to mention, the conflict in both routes is just...i feel like it doesn't do her character justice? victoria is this cold woman who has her own young subsidiary under the qi group, treats rosalie like an annoying cousin, but is powerless to go against them at the same time?

and when she does finally go against them, it feels...idk, too easy. selene barely even does anything honestly, victoria solves it herself. and she just sells all her shares for a cute intern she just met??? even her affection for us feels too 'easy'. i wanted it to come with more strings i think...the writing and reasoning just felt way too disjointed for me.

what would i do differently? for one, i think i would lean into the 'problematic' aspect more. this is the toxic yuri game for a reason!!

i would have preferred if victoria were engaged from DAY ONE. chapter 0 baby. it would have made her 'innocent' flirting with us all the more scandalous in hindsight and made us rethink her green flag status.

i also would have amped up their boss/employee dynamic with them both knowing it's a line they shouldn't cross (and do). for example, more subtle gestures from victoria under the guise of Work. hands brushing over paperwork, a hesitant pat on the shoulder, idk ANYTHING!!! GIVE ME SOME PRIDE & PREJUDICE!!! IN FACT JUST REBRAND GAN/QING AND HAND IT TO ME ON A SILVER PLATTER. it was a mistake to have so much of their flirting over text because it feels both out of character and kinda just? ick? idek. it would have been funnier if victoria were a super dry texter but gave mixed signals in person.

7. Eleanor BE

Score: ⭐

i gave this one more points because eleanor actually dies. NOT because i hate eleanor, but because actions have consequences and her death is the consequence of her and phoenix keeping selene in the dark and not respecting her agency.

however, it still has the flaw of the incredibly long house arrest arc, as well as something that bothered me: this eleanor feels incredibly vindicated by her actions, even in death. first it was the flower pot incident, then it was tracking selene and being able to die for her in the forest.

what would i do differently? well for one, i think eleanor should have had regrets in her dying moments. it would have been better if she had that final realization that hey, maybe controlling every aspect of selene's life, memorizing her schedule, and viewing her movements 24/7 IS bad and the reason she's dead. unfortunately, she's still too stuck on fulfilling jianghe's wishes and basically dies as jianghe.

6. Victoria BE

Score: ⭐⭐

i share the same gripes with her HE. however, i rate her BE higher because the ending is actually very interesting to me. i liked the line about selene realizing victoria and rosalie are still cut from the same cloth, that at the end of the day victoria will lean on materialism and privilege to keep selene at her side. the symbolism of selene kissing the ring instead of victoria herself is RAW AF. especially when contrasted with her HE cg (kissing the ring that belongs to another woman vs holding the hand wearing selene's ring, the drawn curtains vs open window, etc). really cool of the writers and artists to do that.

what would i do differently? same as her HE criticisms, but especially the bit where i think victoria should have been cheating from the start. i don't think it's unfair as there is evidence to support eleanor has been tracking us since the common route. i do appreciate that all the characters' flaws do show up in the common route/happy endings

5. Nyx BE

Score: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

before this route: oh nyx is just that childhood friend who is a littleeee bit clingy and unsettling but i'm sure she means no harm. i saw her kissing cg in the trailer it's very romantic she's just doing her best

during this route: holy shit she's an evil demon from our past and the reason why we're even cursed to die to begin with?

no real notes. banger story that gave me my first peek into the lore, more music tracks that were great and stellar voice acting from nyx. the backstory reveal and how they met bell was sooo cute. the final scene was raw af with selene being like "no. i'm not going to die with you because i don't want to 💃💃💃" and wanting to bid her ACTUAL LOVED ONES a proper goodbye. metal affff

also, the common cg with chimei lying with fuguang is gorgeous af chimei is literally channeling hu tao there

what would i do differently? well this one's a bit shallow but.....can they redraw fuguang and chimei's sprites please. the cg is so good just make it match

4. Iris HE

Score: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

i LOVE iris but i felt like the outcome of this route felt less deserved when compared to her BE. iris is such a compelling character whose cruel breakup with us was the result of her strong feelings of resentment (and let's be real depression). i NEEDED her to GET INTO her resentment!!! but what happens is that she is literally about to tell us wtf is her problem with her family when she gets interrupted by a phone call. and disappears from work. and we don't see her until a few days later by coincidence. and she begs for us to take her back and we do.

to be honest, i had played her HE second and initially rated it way lower than it is here, but i recently replayed it after the true end and enjoyed it a lot more than i did the first time. while their reconciliation was a little ? to me (see: next entry), their redo date was super cute. i love a good breakup and grovel and reconciliation, and iris giving the date her best was really nice to watch. she had spent all that time in the common route/beginning of her route flirting with us meaninglessly, so it was nice to see her doing it with the actual intent to charm us.

while i had initially disliked the scene in which she spills her feelings and asks us to to take her back when compared with the cafe scene in the BE (peak), i do like it for what it is, and i especially like the part where she politely asks us to not reject her as she doesn't think she can take it at the moment. 😭

the final section with the business trip was kinda meh (victoria, why are you asking iris who is supposedly on a different team and also a newbie to substitute for selene's senior coworker lmao), i do love the implied sex the night before. WE LOVE YOU FADE TO BLACK WE LOVE YOU DISCRETIONARY SHOTS!!! iris said it may take her a while to become intimate with someone (maybe someone who knows chinese can tell me what exactly she meant by 'intimate') but girl it only took you several months to eat her cookie huh?

what would i do differently? see the next entry mostly. but honestly, i would have revealed more about her family and resentment and hate here rather than leaving it up to the BE.

3. Iris BE

Score: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (Spicy🌶️🌶️🌶️🥵)

if you haven't guessed by now, iris is my favorite character in the whole damn game. her bad ending was actually my first route as i totally fell into the xuejie trap and did everything i could to please her. consequently and to my surprise, i overindulged her and activated her dormant yandere state.

i had some suspicions about her as selene continued to rebuff her attempts to get back together, but i too was caught off-guard when iris decides to ROOFIE AND CHLOROFORM US. OMG. they even get into the weeds with the details of the kidnapping to show how scary the situation is e.g. iris feeding us literal crumbs and water in the dark. girl when can we pee?

but oh my god. that cg. that iconic cg that apparently made the rounds on twitter that i had thankfully avoided getting spoiled by but you know what? if i saw that cg first i'd have bought the game too. the game seems to sell at least part of itself on the idea that everyone has a dark side, but iris' ending takes it up a notch with "everyone has a dark side, and sometimes their dark sides are also sexy." because goddamn iris!!! her whole schtick is being miss perfect who is tired of being perceived as perfect and wants to bare her ugly side too, but sorry xuejie your ugly side is kind of sexy too soooo idk...

this is becoming a hornypost for iris i'm sorry. anyways um what would i do differently? my main gripe is while i commend selene for being much stronger than me, her reasons for continuing to deny iris in the BE vs her reasons for accepting iris in her HE make no sense to me.

the divergence in iris' route happens after the bathroom scene, in which you can either choose to walk in on her phone conversation/cry session (increasing her ??? meter) or try to give her some privacy (increasing her affection meter). interestingly, if you walk in, she will lie and claim she was trying to create a situation in which you two would bump into each other.

in the bad ending, you take her to the cafe where you had your first date and where she also dumped you and she pours her heart out about her family, her insecurities, why she broke up with you.

and you still decide to treat her coldly after that.

i can see how this would make sense, sure. selene is incredibly hurt. iris doesn't get to just hit the undo button because she's feeling regretful one month later. but this also doesn't make sense, because in the happy ending where you DO take her back such a conversation doesn't happen!

what happens in the HE after the divergence is: she stalks you at your social gathering (ironically she doesn't kidnap you in this one), is interrupted by a phone call before she can tell you more about her family, you find out about her family by very nicely asking victoria (simp) to disclose confidential info from iris' personal file, and you randomly bump into iris at school (iris has long since graduated), where she cries and asks you to take her back.

what??

not to mention iris' sudden slip into crazy. hotness aside, when and why does she decide to kidnap us? does she go out and buy some chloroform after eavesdropping on our resignation convo? i'm not opposed to the yandere thing at all, i just needed a little more believable buildup. she goes from completely cold and resentful of being needed to "i want to make you need only me" in the blink of an eye. maybe the writers could have connected it a bit more—maybe her doubling down into the dependable breadwinner role is her rejecting her most honest and imperfect self, realizing her true feelings were what pushed selene, her only love, away.

but anyways. still good tho.

2. Nyx HE

Score: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

being a 'deep route', nyx's route does a good job of being a satisfyingly complete story that fleshes out her character while delving into the lore. the payoff feels good, and i like that the writers don't try to downplay nyx's red flags even after they officially get together. nyx being jealous of their cat that SHE originally took in herself is just as amusing as it is a concern.

what would i do differently? well, my main thing with selene/nyx is that while i do find them cute (as well as fuguang/chimei), i sort of get the sense that selene is partly with nyx because she sees her as her responsibility, much like the way fuguang saw chimei. while i was very impressed by selene's development from being the least interested in nyx (IMHO) in the common route to seeing her as a lover, i think part of me isn't fully convinced that she fully reciprocates nyx's intense feelings. their final cg is soooo romantic though it invokes the shoujo doki doki fr

1. True End

Score: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

holy shit. no notes. the true end appropriately ties everything together. i loved the extra insight into fuguang's personality, the extent of nyx's crimes, as well as more tragic bell moments.

there is NO WAY the writers weren't teasing a lil selene selfcest, because holy shit that cg? with the cheek touch? and selene admiring fuguang's calloused hands which were so unlike her own? and becoming hyperaware of the fact that they are different people who happen to share a soul? there is nooooo fuckin way that she didn't feel a lil something for fuguang. my god.

the idea that selene travels into the past to save her own soul and ends up staying behind to save FUGUANG'S soul is heart-wrenchingly beautiful. and she becomes this wandering traveler who makes sure to protect herself/fuguang's reincarnation for eternity WHILE legitimizing every single route is just. wow!!!

if her curse weren't already broken by the paradox, it would have been broken by her true soulmate literally being the one person who shares her soul. time travel ALWAYS equals yuri. so so good. perhaps an unintentional aesop about loving yourself lmao

what would i do differently? i know the moments after fuguang passes away are supposed to blur, but some actual onscreen interaction with jianghe would have been nice. we literally know the bare minimum about her!!

ok let's wrap it up

you know what it's way past my bedtime so i should just end it here. in closing love curse was such a fun read/play and i enjoyed all the ways in which it wrinkled my brain and made me think about what i liked and what i wanted. i highly recommend you go buy it and support the devs so we can show how much the world wants yuri!!!!!

EDIT: cyn had to remind me of the actual order in which i played the routes so i edited it accordingly LOL. i think it’s actually because i disliked victoria’s happy ending so much that i started playing the bad endings first again

also, i mention 10 endings but only rank 9. this is because the 10th ending is the one in which you die due to not establishing a meaningful soulmate connection in time. currently, we’ve only read through iris and victoria’s versions of it. i do like iris’ a lot (shocker) because she sees you as a blip in her radar, something that could have been. i’m ngl i laughed out loud at victoria’s because why is my boss situationship organizing my funeral and not my own PARENTS LMAO

[alphabetboyluvr]

once the thrill expires | jjk

title credit: cardigan - taylor swift

pairing: college!jungkook x female reader

synopsis:

your housemate-turned-fwb takes another girl home after a night out

warnings: angsty, smutty turmoil. it's not that bad, but it definitely isn't a happy lil number. fingering, oral sex (f receiving), rimming (f receiving), vaginal sex, doggy, protected (!!) sex, lil spanks, jaykay sorta makes out with her ear???, jaykay is a fawk boy who needs to learn self-control, oc is holding out for something that'll never happen, multiple partners in one night (jk), jk calls the reader diz (dizzy)

wordcount: 5.8K

note from holly: virgo boy trauma for you in the form of a jk one shot lmao. it's rare you get virgo boy shit laid this bare but he he i love oversharing on the internet! there's an old paragraph from yet another virgo boy fic hidden in here, too so if you think it looks familiar, that'll be why!!

minors dni // cross posted to wattpad

The knock on your en-suite bathroom door comes as a surprise. 

The subsequent twist of the lock mechanism from a coin wedged in the bolt on the other side does not. 

There’s only one person it would be.

And so you don’t yell. Don’t tell him to go away, even if you do hug your legs into your chest a little tighter. 

Sitting on the floor of your shower, dignity is preserved - but with skin as red as the flags that Jungkook freely hands you, and mascara staining your cheeks from the onslaught of piping hot water showering down on you, how dignified can you really be?

No words are spoken as the steam billows from the room, Jungkook not caring to shut the door behind himself. He takes a perch on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows to his knees, tattooed hands clasped beneath his chin. Refuses to look anywhere other than you.

There’s perplexion to his taut jaw - a frown embedded in his brows - but more than anything, there’s an overwhelming sense of confusion in his soft eyes. You’re unaware of the way he’s mirroring your expression back at you; how defeated you look, wet hair sticking to the side of your face, an emptiness in your gaze that is pale in comparison to the void in your chest.

With nothing but the pitter-patter of your shower to fill the space, you’re thankful that he can’t hear the way your heart is beating, or how you’re sniffing back the tears you were freely crying before he arrived.

“Jem messaged me,” he eventually says, quiet beneath the sound of the water. Leaning back, he wipes a palm over his face, then pushes it back into his dishevelled hair. Lets his hand fall between his legs, then shrugs as he looks at you as if to say, 'Don’t look at me like that' or 'It’s not my fault.'

And realistically, you know that it isn’t. Whatever he’s done is within the parameters of what was agreed upon. The way you feel - like Jungkook has stolen the moon and stopped the tides from turning - is not.

It’s not like either of you had ever expected to let things get this far, and definitely not for this long.

What had started as quiet kisses in the corners of clubs when your friends weren’t looking, had catapulted into drunken hook-ups after those aforementioned nights out. 

He’d call you Dizzy, ‘cause he was convinced you looked at him like you’d been spinning in circles, all awe-struck and smiley. Pretty. Like a giggle was on the tip of your tongue at all times.

Was easy, back then. Convenient. He was newly single. Not looking for anything. 

You’d been quietly harbouring an illicit crush on him from the day you moved into your shared university accommodation. Had been waiting for the stars to align - and once they had, you were certain that soulmates had to exist.

It’s the only way you can explain the small earthquake that happened half the world away at the very time you first met, the tectonic plates shifting to make sure you were perfectly presented to one another. 

You didn’t feel the tremors - would have been impossible - but your heart certainly felt something. Adrenaline? Limerence? You’re not sure.

Whatever it was only became more and more prevalent with every tipsy hold of his hand on the way to clubs, or moments stolen in secrecy in the house you now share with six of your friends. 

Now in your final year of university, if you spent as much time studying, as you do fretting over Jungkook - what he’s up to, who he’s with - maybe you’d get a first-class degree.

You’re on track for a 2:1.

He’s on track for a first, though. 

You choose to believe it’s because he’s naturally more academically inclined (as if you didn’t write an entire paper for him last semester), and not because he spends significantly less time thinking about you.

There’s no need for endless thoughts, though. 

The arrangement is simple: You’re friends. 

Best friends. Spend all your time together. Are plus ones to events. Fill the void that a partner should fill; at the winter balls, cinema screenings you don't want to see alone, and in the hushed privacy of midnight intimacy. He gets you off when you need it, and you him. 

Kisses are never shared between lips - apart from that one summer when he accidentally said he was in love with you, then took it back a week later under the guise of not wanting to ‘ruin’ the friendship. 

You don’t speak about that summer.

Hook-ups are in your room, always, ‘cause you’ve only got Jem in the room next door. Jungkook’s room is up on the middle floor, surrounded by all the boys. They’d realise what’s going on far too quickly.

It’s simple - yet excruciatingly complicated when there’s a lack of commitment, and Jungkook looks at you in the way that he does. 

His lips are a little deeper than their usual pink this evening, but you put it down to alcohol. 

Denial is a wonderful thing, and delusion even greater.

Still, he leans forward to push the shower door open. Leans further still, then knocks the tap off. Lets the water trickle down the drain, the hum of the pipes murmuring like your unspoken grievances. 

Rivulets of water chase down your skin. Jungkook watches one race from your knee to your ankle, running straight over the bruises from messy nights out and the small cut at the bottom of your calf from the fountain you’d both traipsed through when you were a little too merry a few nights prior. 

He’d given you a piggyback the entire way home, blood staining the white of his shirt; the very essence of you embedded now in the fabric of him. 

He’d patched you up after you got home. Showered with you, right here, then carried you the measly five or six steps to your bed. Had told you that you’d definitely get sepsis and die. Kissed it better, then decided he didn’t know any better, and trailed his lips up your leg. Took pity on your impending death and gave you a little, lovely death just to soften the blow. 

Funny, how you think sepsis would be preferable over whatever the fuck it is that you’re feeling now.

“Jem messaged me,” he repeats. Presses his lips together, the ring in the corner of his mouth glistening under the white lights of the bathroom.  “Said I should check on you. Been in the shower for an hour, apparently.”

Well, you think to yourself, bitterness wrapping around your words like poison ivy. You’ve checked. You can go now.

The words don’t manifest in your throat. Nothing does. Not even the echo of a sob you’ve been holding in since he first stepped foot within your sanctuary.

Instead you’re silent as you get to your feet, not caring for your nakedness. It’s nothing Jungkook hasn’t seen before. Probably knows your body better than his own at this point. Can look at the faded bruise on your chest and know that it was left there by his lips last week. Can pick out which ones of your dainty linework tattoos were there before he met you, and which ones have been acquired since.

It’s a quiet intimacy, the way Jungkook looks at you. There’s no towel in the bathroom - an oversight by your tipsy brain when deciding you needed to wash yourself clean of the man in front of you after arriving home from the club - and Jungkook doesn’t care to offer you one. 

Insanity is the product of looking at your body, he thinks. Can’t remember a time he’s ever seen you like this and hasn’t wanted to be inside you. He’s a simple man in pursuit of simple pleasures, and the way you fit him like a glove is the simplest pleasure of them all. 

“Hm?” He questions your lack of a response. 

His deep black eyes are just like the depths of the ocean floor, and it feels like he’s dragging you right down every single time he looks at you like this. Softly. Tenderly. Sweetly. As if he actually gives a shit.

There’s no room for two in this bathroom. It’s not a space designed to be shared, no matter how many times you’ve both squeezed into the shower under far different circumstances - though now you come to think of it, perhaps they weren’t so dissimilar. 

It was always Jungkook’s pursuit of pleasure that put you in that position, just like it put you there tonight.

“Hey,” he says quietly, as you turn to leave, his grip on your waist pulling you between his legs. You don’t look at him. Just keep your head turned to face out of the room - but you make no attempt to leave. Especially when his nose brushes up against the bottom of your ribs right between your breasts, and he husks, “Why are you being like this?”

The softness of his lips as he presses them against your sternum, long lashes splayed across the top of his cheeks, has you spiralling. Kind of feels like he’s twisting a corkscrew through your heart. You know he’ll rip it right out - but maybe you’ll let him, if it means he’ll kiss the wound better.

“Hmm?” He hums. One of your hands rests on his shoulder, the other in his hair, and that’s how Jungkook knows he’s rectified the damage done for a short while. It’s like putting washi tape over holes punched in the walls - useless, and bound to fall off eventually, but ever so pretty in the meantime. Another washi-tape kiss is pressed to your skin, a little higher this time. “We had a good night, didn’t we?”

The tenderness of his voice rewrites the events of the evening. A good night. 

Not one with tears, and jealousy, and arguments that people who claim to be just friends have no business having. A night shared together, perhaps, with no one else to intrude.

Didn’t we?

You so prefer this false chain of events - the one where he left the bar with you, and held your hand in the cab ride back just like he’d done in the cab ride there.

“Is she still here?”

He’s surprised that you’re mentioning it. Half-expected you to act like it never happened. Like she never happened. Is what you usually do, whenever he goes home with someone that isn’t you. 

Still, he just continues to gently stroke your sides. Doesn’t present you with any sort of weakness.

“No.”

“Did you fuck her?”

There’s a little venom to your tone; the poison ivy around your thoughts sprouting now from your throat. 

Her. Some inconsequential girl that neither of you will likely ever see again. Looked nothing like you, but a hell of a lot like his ex. 

“No, Diz,” he softens the sternness of his tone with a name only he calls you. “I didn’t fuck her.”

You’ve no idea if this is a lie or not. 

It’ll be accepted as truth for an hour. Maybe two. Just enough time for you to convince yourself that you’re the one he wants. That he couldn’t bear to fuck anyone else. That he sent her on her way after a kiss or awkward fumble, because he realised no one else could feel as good as you.

You’ll ignore the fact you know he’s here because Jem messaged him. 

You’ll ignore the fact he thinks you’ve been in the shower for over an hour, and has no actual knowledge of the events of it all. 

You’ll ignore the scratch mark on his back, and in the morning you’ll believe it was you who left there even though your nails are bitten right down.

The lies you’ll tell yourself will be far more grand than the ones Jungkook ever tells you. Nobody can ever hurt you quite like you hurt yourself.

And so, against your better judgement, you let him follow you to your bed. 

There's a clang as he tosses his rings down into the ceramic dish beside your bed. It's white, and speckled in tiny black dots, and matches the one Jungkook has in his own bedroom. Not really a surprise. He was the one who bought it for you. Before then, he used to just tuck his rings beneath your pillows - but he kept losing them, and he found it annoying having to rummage around for them whenever he was trying to make a silent exit so as to not wake you.

You tell yourself that small things like this are Jungkook's way of integrating himself into your life; creating permanence. In reality, it's just something that makes it easier for him to leave.

Leaving is the last thing on your mind right now, though, and it will be until he comes.

It used to be different. He used to stay. You convince yourself each and every time that he’ll do what he used to do before things got so confusing. That he’ll stay, and that things will be okay.

You let him kiss your skin, but he’ll never kiss your lips. Let him lay claim to your body, even though you know he’ll never lay claim to your soul. 

It’s nice to pretend.

Nice, when he lays you down and rids himself of his shirt. Nice, when he presses your legs apart, and looks at you like you’re the first woman he’s ever laid eyes upon. Nice, when he says shit like, “Such a nice cunt,” and “Let me make you feel good.”

So nice, when he strokes up and down your inner thigh, eyes trained on your pussy. 

So, so nice when he slowly drips a little spit between his pursed lips and watches as it trails down your folds. 

So fucking nice, when he spreads you with his index and middle finger, groaning at the sight of you.

See, Jungkook can be nice. Can be honest. Can tell you how much he wants you, and you can believe him without having to do mental gymnastics over it all.

As he sinks his middle finger into you - “Shit. So wet for me, aren’t you?” - Jungkook is on his best behaviour. He’ll make you feel so good that you’ll forget he ever made you feel bad, cause he needs this. Needs you. 

Not in the life-debilitating, earth-shattering, universe-bending way that you need him, but in a way that isn’t too dissimilar. 

You’re his best friend. He loves you in his own, curious way. Would lay his life on the line for you. Just can’t seem to keep his dick in his pants for no other reason than selfish gluttony. 

It’s his fatal flaw, but he just thinks everyone has them. That most people are like this.

Of the seven deadly sins, Jungkook wields them all. Too proud to admit his wrongdoings. Greedy in his need to have everything life can offer, and how he refuses to limit himself to just you. His lust and gluttony go hand in hand - yet whenever any one else with similar predispositions look in your direction, he turns green with envy. Green, until he’s red, wrath taking hold. 

But he’s lazy, too. Far too settled in how easy it is to have his way with you. Why would he try harder when you never make him?

That’s your cardinal sin: desperation. 

It reeks. Spiced vanilla and black cherry. Tarnishes your skin, until Jungkook licks it from you.

And so as his lips press down your legs, wet and wanting, you don’t object. In fact, you don’t really do anything. You just allow it to happen.

Because you are desperate - for him, his approval, his desire. His heart.

You’ll never get it, mind you, for his heart is hollow. 

Saw every example of what he considered to be true love crackle and crumble until it fell apart. Parents divorced. High-school sweetheart cheated. Love, as you know it, doesn’t exist in Jungkook’s understanding of life. 

You never stood a chance. Not really.

The only times his heart is full is when he steals enough adoration from yours, and cosplays it as his own. Shines it back at you, and tricks you into thinking that maybe he did mean it when he mumbled false declarations into your lips.

But that was three summers ago, now, and Jungkook is a creature of habit. Too stuck in his ways to ever change. Comfortable in this chaos with you.

‘Cause while the other girls are fleeting, and fun, and always very nice, they’re never comfortable. Not like you are. 

“I liked your dress tonight,” he whispers, as he pushes a second finger into you. Pumps them gently, palm skywards, coaxing soft little moans from your lips. Curls them just right, just like he always does.

The affection of such a compliment rids you of the haunting way he’d looked at you earlier that evening. 

Up, down. No smile. Turned away to change the song coming through the aux at pre-drinks. Didn’t look at you again until he was passing out shots for everyone to take. Just nodded towards your necklace - the one his hobbyist silversmith mother made you for Christmas - and asked, “You like it?”

The pendant is small. Embossed with the letters DJ - the name his mother collectively calls you whenever you spend the summer together at his place. The hammered edge of the pendant matches the ring that wraps around your thumb. Another one of her creations, gifted to you by him for your birthday.

“Of course I do,” you’d said. Seemed silly for him to ask. You wear it most days. 

“Good,” he’d nodded, then took his shot and pretended as if he wasn't all too aware that your dress would be attracting good-for-nothing men all night.

See, Jungkook knows you like the necklace. Had just been reminding you of it, and the fact it’s his initial on there with the initial only he calls you. Well, him and his mother. Goes with the territory. 

She’s seen you through your formative years. Only ever sees the good parts, because Jungkook orchestrates it that way.

She doesn’t see the moments like these, when he’s crushed your self esteem and tries to fix it in the most idiotic of ways. 

The necklace pools around the base of your throat as your head tips back into the pillows, his thumb coming to toy with your clit, gently pressing down.

“Shush, Diz,” he smiles, so pleased to see your body responding in the way that it always does. “You’ll get us in trouble.”

God forbid the people you live with - who’ve all heard the arguments after his illicit encounters with randomers, and seen his face of thunder whenever you’re getting ready for first dates - ever figure out you’re fucking. Not like it’s obvious in the slightest. Not why Jem texted Jungkook, instead of checking on you herself.

Biting onto your wrist, you try and stifle the impact of his touch - ‘cause if they do hear, it will be your fault. You’ll be the reason everyone knows your dirty little secrets. You’ll be the one who ruins it all. Not him. Just you. 

He doesn’t mean to condition you in such a way. Doesn’t even really realise he’s doing it.

Nor do you - but your self esteem is shot to shit. You’re good enough to fuck, but not good enough to love, even if Jungkook insists that there’s no one he adores more. It always comes with an add-on of ‘you’re my best friend’, or ‘you wouldn’t wanna date me anyways’.

Maybe he’s right.

But maybe it would have been nice to try.

Shame.

The pace of Jungkook’s fingers pumping into you begins to slow. Leaking around the base of his knuckles, you’re just as wet as you always are with him. Even when the emotional labour of letting him have his way with you feels like a ten tonne weight on your chest, crushing down on your ribs and spoiling you forevermore, your body still wants him. Only him. Always him.

Withdrawing his fingers, Jungkook taps the outer side of your thigh. “On your front for me, Diz. Face down, ass up.”

With anyone else, Jungkook is far more often on the receiving end. It’s a shame, ‘cause his talents go to waste, it’s just what he’s found to be typical of random hook-ups.

He loves pussy. Loves eating it. Loves that you love it, too.

Slow as he spreads your ass with his hands, Jungkook really doesn’t fuck around with wasting time. He dives in without hesitation, burying his tongue between your folds. Cares not for accuracy, nor carefulness. Just wants his tongue all over you.

Your body lurches forward, hands clutching onto the duvet beneath you. He’s always been like this. Hungry. Just as desperate as you so often feel, but better at hiding it than you are.

His tongue laps against you. Sinks into your soaked hole as deep as he can get it. Uses one of his hands to reach around and toy with your clit while he continues to explore somewhere he knows like the back of his hand.

Pulling back a little, Jungkook’s breathing is heavy. You can hear it. Groan, as he grips your ass again. Spanks it softly, then get back to his previous position. Licks a stripe from your clit up to your leaking cunt, then continues. Flicks up against the tight muscle you rarely let him fuck around with.

But you want him to want you. Want him to have you in whichever capacity he so desires. 

You reach back. Tangle a hand in his hair, and encourage him to massage your tight hole with his tongue, like you know he loves to do. 

It’s kinda cute, in a way. He likes doing it, ‘cause he loves the way it feels whenever your tongue toys with his ass. Assumes other people must love it too. Just wants you to feel good. Wants to right his earlier wrongs.

He continues to trace up and down both your holes, stimulating your entire body in the process. Rubs your clit with his fingers, till you're writhing against the sheets, body pressed flat to the cotton as Jungkook begins to fuck his fingers into your again. 

“You gonna cum for me?” He husks, a smile on his wet lips as he watches the tell-tale sign of an orgasm rush over you. Soon, you’ll be looking at him with dizzy eyes once more, and your namesake will make Jungkook feel things he pretends he can’t feel. “That’s it, Diz. All over my fingers. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

There’s a relief that comes with your orgasm for Jungkook. Hope that you’ll stop being mardy with him. He doesn’t like it when you don’t like him. These days, he keeps making choices that make it hard for you to like him. 

But you always like him - like him so much - in the comedown of a climax.

He doesn’t give you much time to recover. Wants to coax a second orgasm from you while he still can. Pulls you back into position - face down, ass up - and pushes down his sweats. Cock hard, there’s a small damp patch in his boxers from the precum he’s leaked for you. Lines himself up. 

“Let me fuck you,” he begs before he pushes into you.

“Uh-uh,” you full forward a little, preventing him from doing what he so desperately wants to do. Turning to look over your shoulder, you shake your head. “Condom.”

He furrows his brows. Has the audacity to look fucking offended, as if he didn’t bring another girl back to the house you share.

You’re stupid, and you’re desperate, and you make all the wrong choices, but you aren’t naive. Not really. Your delusions and denial are always elevated away from reality, of which you like to think you have a firm grip on.

And so you simply say, “Don’t believe you didn’t fuck her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Shakes his head, not that you can see it. Just reaches to the shelf above your bed, and gets one from the pot you keep them tucked away in. Rarely ever use them. It’s a novelty, more than not, when you use them. Something to make him last a little longer.

It’s different today.

Today, it’s because you don’t know if his cock is fucking clean or not.

It should crush you, but it doesn’t. 

Just a fact of life. Jungkook fucked someone else less than three hours ago. Came, probably. For someone else. Over someone else. Inside someone else. 

But that desperation of yours is back once more. You want to be the reason why Jungkook loses his mind in temporary bliss. To be better. To be his last memory of the evening.

And so as Jungkook rolls the condom down his thick shaft, you position yourself perfectly for him. Whimper as the tip of his cock kisses your entrance. Whine, as he pushes inside you. 

“That’s it,” he husks, gripping your ass cheeks to spread them nice and wide. Looking down to where your bodies meet, Jungkook is reminded of why he enjoys you so much. No one takes him so well. No one. He knows this. Doesn’t know why the fuck he ever feels the need to seek out anyone else. They’re never as good as this. “Fuck. That’s it, baby.”

Your hips roll back, ass bouncing in that hypnotic way he always swears will ruin him. His grip loosens to let you do the hard work, one of his hands stroking up your spine until it’s resting around the base of your throat. 

Taking back a little control, he keeps your head pushed into the pillows. Grunts. “Take this cock so fuckin’ well, don’t you?”

The mumble you moan into the sheets isn’t enough for him. He always does this. Asserts control and then realises he actually kinda fuckin’ hates it. Fingers still wrapped around the base of your neck, Jungkook pulls you up.

Chest pressed to your back, Jungkook wastes no time locking you in place with an arm around the front of your waist. His cock continues to pump upwards into you, the movements a little subdued but by no means lacking. 

The ridge of his thick head rubs up against your sweet spot. Gets you so fucking needy. Has your hand dipping to your clit to match the pressure.

And when you do? Oh, it’s heaven. You can’t help but whine - so Jungkook uses the hand that isn't on your waist to cover your mouth.

“You only get to cum if you’re quiet,” he tells you. “Be quiet for me, baby.”

But his hips are erratic. The sounds are lewd; skin on skin. It’s wet. Disgusting. Needy. Him, just as much as you. Sweat blossoms on his skin, keeping you both in this clammy haze of hedonism. 

Catching his lips on your ear, Jungkook doesn’t care if he isn’t supposed to let kisses linger so close to your lips. Tongue wet, he intrudes. Licks the shell of your ear. Grazes his teeth on your lobe. Whispers, “You looked so pretty tonight,” then drags his tongue across your ear. 

Cares not for precision nor accuracy, just the fact that this is an area of the body he doesn’t often explore, and that maybe he should do it more often, given how tightly your pussy is clamping around him.

There’s something about it - the obstruction of one of your senses likely to blame, sound distorted whenever his tongue licks against it - that makes you whine. 

You can’t even really do that now. Are too muffled beneath his hand - until he pushes the two fingers that had been inside your pussy earlier into your mouth. 

The taste is just the same as it always is whenever he does shit like this. Loves having you taste yourself. Experiencing what he experiences. Wants you to know exactly why he’s incapable of letting you go.

“Slutty little mouth,” he smirks against your ear. “Gonna finish in it.”

“Mhhm?” you mumble against the fingers you’re keeping wet and warm for him.

“Mhmm,” he replies. Presses a kiss to your temple, ‘cause he isn’t really thinking straight. Groans when your cunt clenches from the touch. “God, you want it, don’t you? Want it so bad. Wanna swallow my cum.”

Of course you do. You’ll take what he’ll give you. 

Your mumble around his fingers isn’t enough. He wants to hear you say it. Frees your mouth of himself. Grips your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Turns you to face further over your shoulder.

He’s just gonna make you say it. Just make you say something lewd to get him a little closer. Just… Just gonna… Just...- Oh, fuck it. Your lips are just there, and they’re wet, and they’re pouty and - God, forgive me - perfect for him.  

His eyes flitter between your eyes and your lips. Is aware you’re doing the same. 

“Kook,” you whisper, as if you’re about to reprimand him.

“Please,” he begs. Thinks he needs this just as much as you do. Maybe even more so.

And so somewhere between the overwhelming acknowledgement that this is a catastrophic chain of events, and the promise of a happy ending (of which you know damn well will never reach fruition), you let him sink his lips into yours.

You’re pretty in war, and even prettier in defeat. 

Jungkook thinks you’re prettiest when you’re all his. 

You think that to be his is to accept an eternal loss. 

The breath of his nose is heavy against your cheek as his lips press into yours, brows furrowed. The need for you to be lewd is abandoned, ‘cause Jungkook doesn’t even think he’ll last long enough for it. Thinks that nothing gets him closer than the flavour of your lips. 

Hips still jerking up, the sound of his skin hitting your ass echoing around the room, Jungkook fucks himself into you until he can do it no longer. Pulls away. Rips off his condom. Tosses it to the floor. Gets you face down again. Wanks himself to the point of coming undone, hot spurts of cum dripping onto your ass and spilling down to the valley of your spine.

He’s the one moaning now, your body defiled by a boy who you wish would paint you in pretty compliments instead. Still, this is a compliment. Kind of. You’re hot enough to make him cum. That’s nice, you suppose.

“Shit,” he chokes out, breathing all out of sync, heartbeat far too rapid. A light spank is tapped against your ass, then softly stroked. He soothes. Aloe on sunburn. Milk with hot sauce. Pretty kisses in the comedown of a rough fuck. 

You won’t get those. Wasn’t a particularly rough fuck, either - and yet it hurts so much when he gets up to leave.

It’s awkward. He doesn’t really say bye. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact he stoked a fire inside you that burned you from the inside out. Ignores the ashes that are scattered around your vessel, as if your soul has been ejected from its home. 

He’s warm, when you look at him. That little part of your heart has been stolen once more. He’s just feeding it back to you.

“Sorry,” he says, a hand on your doorknob. “I shouldn’t- I mean, we shouldn’t-”

“It’s fine,” you offer.

That’s the thing about Jungkook. He’ll give you the world, then realise it was never his to give. Always has to ask for it back. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s fucked you, then acted as if was foolish - only to repeat the same mistakes the next evening.

It’s what he’s always done, and is what he’ll always do.

You’ll never learn. 

The shirt you chuck on to head downstairs the next morning is his. 

Far too big for you, it finishes around your thighs. Television blaring in the room beneath you, it’s obvious your housemates are awake, and even as you’re trudging down the stairs, you’re not quite sure you’re alive.

The headache of an overbearing hangover is threatening your life. You’re certain of it. The fact your housemates have the television set to what must be the maximum volume? Only further sending you to an early grave. 

And yet when you see Jungkook sitting by the breakfast bar, hair in all different directions, a bowl of cereal in front of him, and smiling in the direction of whomever else is in the room, you find yourself smiling, too. 

“Morning,” you say pleasantly as you walk into the kitchen, ready to flop your forehead down on Jungkook’s shoulder like you so often do.

Ready, until you notice the look in his eyes when he turns to face you.

Ready, until you glance in the direction of his previous smile.

Ready, until you see the girl who looks a lot like his ex-girlfriend and absolutely nothing like you leaning on the other side of the counter. Mug from your trip to Amsterdam together in her hands, and the shirt you got him for his birthday covering her body, she smiles.

You’re drowning.

“Oh,” you say, not looking at him. Only her. “I didn’t realise we had company.”

“Is she still here?”

“No.”

She’s awkward as she nods. “Sorry, hey. I crashed here last night - hope you don’t mind? It’s just you know what it’s like getting an uber at that time-”

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod. Smile. Jungkook thinks you look pretty - but of course he does. You look defeated. “Totally.”

“Did you fuck her?

“No, Diz. I didn't fuck her.”

“Jungkook said you were feeling unwell last night?” She tries to make conversation. She needn’t. You feel far more unwell now than you ever did last night - and that’s before you notice the pretty purple bruise forming on her neck. “How are you feeling now?”

Her care is kind. Considerate. Wholly wasted on you because you’re gonna lie, and say that you’re fine, even though it feels as if your lungs have been filled with venom spat by a lover who is incapable of loving.

Still, you don’t look at Jungkook. Just make your excuses. Leave.

And even though he knows that he should, Jungkook doesn’t chase after you. 

He lets you go, because he knows you’ll always come back. You always do.

But if you don't?

Well, he’ll go back to you, and you’ll let him. Again, you always do.

From the kitchen, Jungkook can hear your showering starting up. Appetite lost, he isn’t listening to the girl in front of him. Isn’t even really sure of her name.

All that he’s sure of is that the fall out of this is not gonna be pretty.

[alwaysaglader]

A HEART WIRED FOR WAR (Ch. 2)

(BUCKY BARNES X READER + OTHER AVENGERS)

Chapter 2 - My Mind & Me

(Gentle Note: This chapter contains sensitive themes of trauma, conditioning, and emotional recovery)

At first, it was silence.

After Hydra fell, Y/N was pulled from the ruins of an underground lab — restrained, barely conscious, half-feral, her vitals fluctuating between superhuman and dangerously unstable. Even sedated, her body didn’t know whether to shut down or fight. 

She was brought to the Avengers Compound under heavy medical supervision. 

She was unconscious for the first two weeks.

When she finally woke, it was slow. Disoriented. Quiet.

Steve was the one who explained what had happened—gently, patiently—filling in the timeline she didn’t remember. He told her where she was, that Hydra had fallen, that she was safe now.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t speak. Didn’t resist when they moved her, but she flinched at certain sounds—boots on hard floors, the buzz of overhead lights, the mechanical hiss of an automatic door. Her eyes tracked movement, always alert, but never met anyone’s directly. 

But she was watching.

Even sedated, even weak, her mind was working. Calculating. Scanning. She noticed the rhythms of conversation, the patterns of their behaviour. She was cataloguing it all.

Because Hydra had trained her to recognise patterns—and she was using that training to get herself out.

AWARENESS

It started with body sensations.

The tremors before someone entered the room. Cold sweats when a certain tone played over the intercom. The instinct to dissociate when a male voice barked a command—even if it was just someone saying her name too loud.

Y/N noticed all of it.

She’d been trained in trauma before Hydra ever got their hands on her. As a psychiatrist, she knew how the brain protected itself. She knew how trauma loops worked. She knew what conditioning looked like. She had helped others through it.

Now, she was applying that knowledge to herself.

She wrote it all down. Simple phrases, repeated over and over:

“My name is Y/N”

“I am safe now.”

“The pain is a memory, not a command.”

She scribbled them on the backs of med charts, napkins, the margins of old files. Anything she could get her hands on. She hid them in drawers, taped them under her bed, stuffed them into her shoes.

So that when the dissociation crept in, she had something to find.

Something that told her: You’re not there anymore".

It didn’t stop the fear—but it gave her a thread to follow back to herself.

She began to recognise the physical cues—how her hands trembled at certain tones, how her pulse spiked at particular syllables. Hydra had wired her body to react before her brain even caught up. To freeze. To submit without choice.  

But she had studied this. She had trained for this. In another life, she had helped soldiers unlearn violence. Now she would help herself unlearn obedience.

REVERSAL 

She began to disarm the triggers.

Hydra had used repetition, sounds, scents, and scripts to break her down. And pain. Physical torture, layered into routine until her body learned to flinch before her mind even caught up.

But the hardest part was the words.

Trigger phrases, spoken in cold monotone, had been woven into her conditioning. They weren’t used to make her attack—but to make her obey. To still her voice. To freeze her body. To strip away her will without leaving a mark. Obedience on command.

She knew the method. Now she was flipping it.

Every night, she exposed herself to one of the cues that used to activate her—on her terms. She played tones similar to the ones Hydra used. Read fragments of the old command scripts —edited and controlled — just enough to face them without unraveling. Then stared at her reflection in the mirror, repeating aloud:"That was then. This is now. I am the one in control".

Some nights it worked. Some nights she collapsed into panic, shaking on the floor until her body came back to her. But every time she got back up, she reprogrammed her nervous system.

She didn’t avoid the physical triggers either.

The restraint pressure. The muscle memory. The phantom aches from old injuries. She recreated them, safely and in small increments—tight wraps around her wrists to mimic the cuffs, brief cold exposure, body-weight holds that once sent her spiralling. Then she grounded herself through it. Breathed through it. Interrupted the fear before it could loop.

And eventually, she recorded the trigger phrases.

Not the original voice. Not the same tone. She read them herself, clinically, like a case study. She listened in short bursts while tracking her breath, saying her name, keeping her hands still. Over and over. 

If repetition had been used to condition her, she would use it to reclaim herself.

She used her knowledge as a psychiatrist to reverse the damage: retraining the mind, memory integration, exposure therapy. If Hydra was a virus, she was the cure.

She started designing her own counter-conditioning.

The quiet weight of the warm mug in her hands—heat without threat, comfort without condition. The soft scent of jasmine from the sachet tucked in her pocket, chosen for calm, not control. And the gentle pull of the lanyard around her neck—her new ID badge, given to her the day she remembered her name. It wasn't for access. It was a reminder of who she used to be, back when she worked with trauma patients instead of being one.

She created a routine.

Wake up. Read the notes. Say her name out loud. Inhale the scent of jasmine. Feel the warmth of the mug in her hands. Acknowledge the weight of the badge. 

If her body learned fear through repetition, it could learn safety the same way.

OWNERSHIP

Eventually, she requested to be alone in a soundproof room. Bruce was hesitant, but she was clear: “I need to hear it and not break.” He agreed to trust her instincts. 

In the quiet, she played back old Hydra audio logs that had been recovered. She made herself listen. The original voice. The original tone. 

And when the trigger words came - those same syllables that had once activated her instantly — she didn’t move.

Her pulse jumped. Her hands shook. For a second, the world tilted.

But she grounded herself. Said her name out loud. Read from one of the notes she’d brought with her.

“This is a memory. Not a command.”

No blackout. No dissociation. No loss of time.

Just her. Awake. Aware.

That was the moment. The pivot point. She had broken the loop. The conditioning was a machine—and she had shut it down from the inside.

INTEGRATION 

The flashbacks didn’t stop. The nightmares didn’t magically go away.

Sleep wasn’t safe. Not for a long time. 

She’d wake up gasping, heart racing, fists clenched around sheets like restraints. Sometimes she couldn’t remember the dream—just the cold sweat and the instinct to fight. Other times, the scenes played out in vivid, unbearable detail.

There was no peace, even when her eyes were closed.

But she stopped running from it.

She began treating sleep like exposure—preparing for it like she did everything else. When the nightmares came, she started talking back to them. Repeating her grounding phrases even half-asleep, clinging to her name like a lifeline.

Some nights, she still woke up trembling.

But she didn’t avoid it. Didn’t push it away.

She talked to herself out loud when it got bad. Sat through the worst ones instead of shutting them down. Named what she was feeling. Brought it into language.

"This is fear. Not control." "This is memory. Not command."

One night, staring at her reflection, she said, “I remember the cold. I remember what they were turning me into. But I also remember who I was before.”

She wasn’t trying to forget anymore.

She was trying to include it. Make it part of her story, instead of the whole thing.

THEY WITNESSED IT. SHE DID IT. 

At first, they were cautious—unsure of how much she remembered, or what Hydra had buried in her. But they never looked at her like a threat. 

They gave her space but stayed close. 

From the moment she arrived—unconscious and barely stable—and in every day that followed, they treated her with quiet patience and steady respect. Like someone who hadn’t been written off.

Bruce took the lead—not just as a doctor, but as someone who knew what it meant to carry too much in your head. He checked her vitals like clockwork, monitored her progress, and always knocked before entering. He never hovered, but his quiet presence became something constant.

Whenever she asked to review her own brain scans, he handed them over without question. No lectures. No sugarcoating. Just data and trust—grounding her, not with sedation, but with science and calm.

He never treated her like a subject.

It was the first time she’d been in the hands of a scientist who didn’t hurt her, rush her, or tear her apart to understand her.

He offered the stillness she needed to untangle what Hydra tried to bury.

Natasha never pried, but she was always nearby. She showed up with sandwiches, and left quiet encouragement in unexpected places - a new notebook when the old one started filling up, noise-canceling headphones, a post-it on the mirror: “You’re doing better than you think.” 

As Y/N slowly settled into letting people close, Natasha got into the habit of braiding her hair - quick, practised fingers moving without fuss while talking about anything but the past.  It wasn't loud or emotional. It was steady. Protective. 

Sam didn’t push. He sat with her when it looked like she needed company - steady, present, never asking more than she was ready to give. He talked about flying, music, Steve’s terrible cooking—and eventually, about the soldiers he used to work with and the shared understanding of what people carried after combat. 

Bit by bit, Sam started catching her up on the world—new music, movies, weird internet trends, and the everyday chaos of a world that never slowed down.  No pressure. Just a steady, gentle stream of life, filtered through someone who made it feel safe to rejoin.

Clint taught her how to aim again - this time with intention, not instinct. He took her to the range late at night when the compound was quiet, when it felt less like a test and more like a reset.  

He walked her through it patiently, adjusting her stance, handing her different grips, letting her ask questions without judgment. “It’s not about hitting the target,” he told her. “It’s about proving you’re the one pulling the trigger now.”

He didn’t say much beyond that—but he kept showing up, always with a second set of earplugs and a quiet kind of watchfulness that made her feel like someone had her six.

Tony, in his own way, gave her access to control. He didn’t offer pep talks or check in the way the others did—he offered tech. “You don’t need permission to feel safe,” he told her. “You just need the right tools”.

He never asked what Hydra did to her. Never treated her like a problem to be solved. He just started fixing what he could reach. Every now and then, a random piece of tech would show up in her room: a portable white noise device, a motion-triggered nightlight labeled “Stark-grade” or she’d find a coded reminder on her screen added overnight that read: “You’re not a system. You’re a person”.

She never brought it up. He never admitted it. But for someone who acted like feelings were an inconvenience, Tony made sure she never had to fight for autonomy again.

Thor wasn’t around as often, but when he was, he made his presence known—in the gentlest way possible. He didn’t pretend to understand everything she’d been through, but he didn’t treat her like she was fragile either. “You are still here,” he said once, simply. “That means they did not win.”

He brought her Asgardian tea that tasted like starlight and citrus, told her wild stories of realms she couldn’t could picture. He didn’t ask questions, but he offered strength—sometimes through a ridiculous tale, sometimes through quiet, steady company.

One day, he handed her a small, rune-etched coin. “From my mother’s shrine,” he said. “She told me to carry it when I forgot who I was. Perhaps it will remind you—you are not lost. Only on your way back.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like healing was a journey he believed she would finish, without question.

And then there was Steve.

Steve never missed a day.

He showed up before every sunrise, with a hot cocoa in hand, knowing she found comfort in the warmth to start the day. She never told him that, but he noticed. He was observant like that.

The first time he handed it to her, he said, “Figured you’re more cocoa than caffeine,” then shrugged like it wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for her in years.

He was the first one she let sit beside her without flinching.

It wasn’t a conscious choice, not at first. He just knew how to be still—how to sit in silence without making it feel heavy or expectant.

He never asked, “How are you feeling?”. Never made her explain herself. He just sat across from her while she scribbled grounding phrases into her notebook, ran breathing drills, or traced over the scars on her hands like she was mapping herself back together.

Sometimes they trained. Sometimes they walked laps around the compound, trading a few words. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all. In the early days, she didn’t speak much. Just listened, nodded, kept pace. Steve never filled the silence unless she wanted him to—but he never left either. He showed up anyway. 

And when the words started coming—slowly, carefully—he never looked surprised. Just listened like he’d been waiting the whole time.

Every day she unlearned something. Every day she rewired another piece. Steve knew what that took. He knew it better than anyone.

They were both soldiers, just from different wars. But they understood the aftermath. The rewiring. The slow process of turning survival into living.

One early morning, they sat on the balcony watching the sun rise over the trees. She was quiet for a long time before saying, “I think the worst part wasn’t what they did. It was that they made me forget I used to help people.”

Steve didn’t hesitate. “You’re still helping. You just started with yourself this time.”

Y/N didn’t respond. Just sipped her cocoa and let the words settle. 

He looked at her—not like a mission, not like someone broken, but like he always did: like a soldier finding her footing again. Like someone who’d been through the fire and chose to walk out anyway.

The silence lingered, warm and quiet.

Then Steve let out a low breath, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know… for what it’s worth, the version of you sitting here drinks cocoa, kicked my ass in training, disarmed me in under a minute, and walked off with my shield like she owned it”.

Y/N raised an eyebrow over her mug. “You left yourself open.”

Steve shrugged, grinning. “Sure. That’s what we’re going with.”

She didn’t smile, exactly—but the corners of her mouth lifted just enough to count.

And the shield? She hadn’t given it back right away. Just stood there, holding it for a few extra seconds like it belonged in her hands. Neither of them said anything about it then.

They didn’t need to.

They were both soldiers, in different ways. That was enough.

THE TEST

An agent said one of her trigger phrases by accident.

They were reading from an old Hydra file—flat, procedural, unaware of what the words could still do.

It caught her off guard.

She heard it.

Her body froze—just for half a second. Muscles locked. Pulse jumped.

There was a flicker of static behind her eyes, like a memory trying to take control.

But then… nothing.

No blackout. No pull to obey. No override pressing down on her system.

She didn’t reach for the badge. Didn’t focus on jasmine or search for a grounding phrase.

She didn’t need to.

She just breathed.

And for the first time, she realised—she was the anchor now.

Then, steady as ever, she said the words:

“That doesn’t work on me anymore.”

She didn’t know it yet, but soon she’d be standing across from someone else Hydra had broken—and she’d be the one to help him say those same words.

--

Chapter 3 coming soon 

[emblemxeno]

I feel like I live on a completely different world than a lot of Fire Emblem fans. My favorite game is Engage, with Fates being a pretty close second. And Three Houses is easily my least favorite (I’d even go as far to say I outright don’t like the game anymore).

I think what really turned me off from Three Houses was that it had no clue what it wanted to be.

Does it want to be a social sim with engaging combat, like Persona? Because it failed at that. The social sim aspect is simultaneously tedious and easily skippable, that I wonder why they even bothered. And the gameplay is not engaging in the slightest because the maps are boring and never demand anything of the player, and this game is the worst offender of the “just make everyone one class” effect.

Does it want to be a deep, “morally grey” story with multiple points of view where nobody is truly in the wrong? Then the Slithers existing is a rebuke to that idea. They are in every meaning of the word, evil.

Does it want to have a fun route where you play as the villains who know they’re doing wrong, but they do it anyway because that’s where their belief is? Then that’s also not done well at all, since in CF they all cry and whinge about how hard it is to be fighting a war that they started!

Sorry for the rant, but it truly baffles me whenever I see takes on Reddit or wherever that people think Fire Emblem should take more inspiration from Three Houses. I think that’d legitimately kill the series for me if they decided to do that.

Mmmm, I agree with pretty much all you're saying.

While they never outright admitted that they had a problem with content bloat, the devs and writers said they kept adding stuff to the game until it "had its own soul/life" at some point. Which to some-or many, considering how many people love the game-is admirable and worthy of praise.

Me? I think it's the video game equivalent of identity crisis combined with the dreadful modern game design ideology of "everything needs to be BIGGER."

In trying to explain every detail and every perspective, 3H ends up not saying anything definitive by itself. Things only start to barely make sense when you read the writer interviews, but then you start wondering why the absurd amount of chaff (cheap dialogue) couldn't be cut.

And when it came to making everything in the game design aspect BIGGER, it just ended up being "why don't we take all the familiar mechanics and make them take longer to fulfill." The 5+ experience bars for determining levels or class abilities or weapon proficiency or class mastery or blah blah blah. When in previous entries, all you had to do was level up and use seals to reclass, bada boom. Couple that with the simulation aspect being doubled down on with Loading Screen Monastery, multiple activities which get old fast but can't be skipped unless you want to risk gimping yourself, and the hundreds of button presses to do things that were so, so quick to do in the past... Like, even if I were to give in to what most people say and concede that 3H is a beacon of modern FE storytelling, who the hell cares when the game is such a slog to play? At a certain point, the only major enjoyment anymore for me is doing funny/cool builds like Grappler Flayn or Trickster Ignatz.

I feel you on that last part, if the next FE game is basically 3H The Squeakquel, I'm gonna be real sour :///

[nona1323]

Moirai, also known as the Fates AU «Deal with the Time»

Moirai and the mechanism of how they work is pure horror, which has never been explained to us in the games. Therefore, we have come up with and developed our own version of how it should work. Here are some of the main points of our heads: 1) Threads can curl, weave into a canvas (or rather, a creepy muddled tangle of threads) and break off on their own, without the participation of Moirai. This is what we call absolute free will, an act of chaos and disorder. 2) Moirai monitor the canvas and control the threads, weaving them into a certain pattern. It's like real needlework – you can start knitting, embroidering or weaving and only you determine which pattern you will use, and with enough skill on the go, change some details of the pattern you originally conceived or create a new one. If you abandon your work and don't fold it neatly, when you return to it, your threads will get tangled and, well, you can: try to fix them, cut off the ugly piece and carefully replace the damaged threads by weaving new ones, or start working completely anew. This is the main difference between real needlework and Moirai fabrics: you cannot untangle and fix what has already happened (woven or tangled), since this is a change in the past; you cannot simply cut off everything and replace old threads with new ones, since all the threads of lives are unique and therefore they are not interchangeable in essence; or even more so start the canvas from the beginning. You can only continue from the present moment and determine what you will weave in the future. 3) This smoothly brings us to the topic of predetermined events, what is most often meant by prophecies. On Moirai's canvas, they look like knots or pieces of patterns at the far ends of the threads, to which the present still needs to be woven. That is, we already have these patterns, the result of some events, some future. And since usually* (see point 5) the Moirai canvas cannot be changed when something is already woven, these already defined events of the future cannot be avoided. But! More often than not, such prophecies give us only the result, and not how we will come to it. In other words, a result equal to 2 can be obtained as 1+1, 4/2, 10-8, or 2*1. (For example, we know that Melinoe will defeat Chronos, but we do not know how – whether she will destroy him, imprison him somewhere, break him with bare force or outwit, or maybe she will force him to make peace on her own terms?) Sometimes prophecies have only one way to come to them: in this case, the Moirai, one might say, got a little ahead of themselves and have already woven a piece of the pattern tied on a certain thread, in some certain way. In addition, there are prophecies with conditions – if character A does X, he will get a result B, and if he does Y, he will get a result C. These are very interesting prophecies from the point of view that within their limits they give some freedom of will. And they're also very similar to where we started, it's just that the characters have a little more awareness (and even less freedom, haha). Most often, predetermined events take place in the destinies of mortals. The gods are most often faced with “prophecies”, which are the most likely development of events. Prometheus and Apollo, for example, often deal with this – they feel how the threads on Moirai's canvas can go. But, sadly for them, since Chronos captured Moirai and by his actions brought the canvas into disarray, it has become difficult to see the future not only for the prophets, but also for the Moirai themselves. 

4) Moirai's canvases, found in the second part, are already “worked out”, they are always events of the past. Canvases of the present or future (predetermined events) can only be found in Moirai's Home. And you can also read canvases. Very few gods can do this, mainly those who are associated with them and prophecies: Moros, Apollo, Prometheus, etc. Moreover, each god has its own specifics. Chronos can see the past at the expense of the sands that make up the threads when they are no longer in the power of Moirai. And the very distant future of the sands, which only have to become threads. That's why he has Roman numerals. Prometheus is just able to see the near future. The closest is in the context of gods, not people. This very different time periods. 5) The Primordial gods, such as Chaos, Nyx, Erebus, Gaia and Ouranus (he is not the son of Gaia, but was raised by her), can make changes to the Moirai canvas. They are older, they are stronger, they have enough weight in the universe to crush the canvas under themselves or influence it with pure power. For example, Nyx was able to have a hand in reviving Zagreus precisely because she is the eldest of the children of Chaos, as well as Moirai's mother – she persuaded them to let her make changes to the canvas and made them. No one else (except Chaos) has enough power to try to change the past (the prophecy that Hades will have no children) and really change it. (In this case, the question arises – was it not all conceived by the Moirai themselves?) Nyx's actions are a huge exception to the rule, in fact. Normally, the influence of the Primordial gods on the canvas refers to the future, not the past: their words have sufficient power to generate a prophecy, a predetermined event, and not just be words. And yet they are not Moirai to weave the future, so their words usually influence the most likely outcome of events. In other words... even the most terrible prophecy-curse from the Primordial one can be avoided if you try hard. Or come straight to him in these escape attempts. It's a little sad that with real chances to avoid a crash, the second one most often happens. An excellent example would be the events of Ouranus and Chronos. (The next post is about Titan's parents!) 6) In order for a mortal to heed the prophecy and preserve his sanity, he needs either a gift from God, or someone must clothe the prophecy in a more primitive and simple form, while preserving all its meanings, before the mortal to whom it is intended receives it. For example, in the form of a prophetic dream, also known as the “true one”. Yes-yes, it's about Hypnos and Oneiros! This is one of their fields of activity – to create prophetic dreams for mortals at the request of Moirai and other gods. It's quite painstaking and difficult work, even jewelry, considering how fragile a mortal's mind is. Previously, Hypnos was mainly involved in this, but for some time now Morpheus has chosen this aspect of dreams. 7) Moirai are triplets, but they look different ages. Clotho looks like a young girl, even a child, Lachesis is a middle–aged woman, and Atropos is like an old woman. 8) Just a small detail, but since at the time of the second part Thanatos is locked in time, Moirai's canvas looks like a small mess: the threads do not break when Atropa cuts them, then they tear in her hands, it is worth carelessly touching. You have no idea how much this annoys the Fates. When Chronos comes to them (after their capture), a pair of scissors always flies at him, yes. 

9) When a person dies, the Moirai cut his thread of life, respectively, he disappears from their canvas. But since there is an Underground world and the dead get there, and do not cease to exist, this leads us to the fact that the dead are beyond the Fate. They just aren't on the canvas, but they still exist, yes. It would seem that absolute freedom of will, if not for the fact that now the now dead obey the laws of the Underworld. But, most interestingly, already cut threads can be returned to the canvas for a short time if the living meets the dead. For example, Odysseus and his trip to the Underworld, or in general the whole plot of the first Hades: all the gods are alive there, but the shadows are not. That is why in the Fated List of Minor Prophecies have prophecies about the reunion of Orpheus and Eurydice or about Achilles with Patroclus – these prophecies are connected with Zagreus, someone alive. Moirai cannot weave about the dead because they are no longer on the canvas, but they can weave about how someone alive interacts with the dead and thereby briefly return their threads to the canvas. 10) The magic of Moirai and Chronos are closely related. The Moirai actually shot him in the knee when they wove the prophecy about Melinoe. They doomed him to lose his granddaughter, and so he decided to find them and not let them spoil everything even more. Ironically, he shot himself in the other knee with this. Now that the threads are in chaos and the Moirai are in captivity, Chronos, as the Time, whose sand and forces pass through Moirai's domain, is also out of order. All of his complex spells and powerful tricks cannot be performed due to the general confusion. Prometheus' gift was also affected. Was it worth it? Yes. The Moirai have already played against him, and it is unclear if they will decide to do more things. Would Chronos like to have all his powers? Also yes. Alas, grandfather is now lame, and Melinoe kicks his ass. 11) Chronos and Moirai were like pen pals in their youth.

Masterpost AU "Deal with the Time" here

The description of the au is here

(English is not my native language, sorry for the mistakes)

[lilolilyr]

For the day 8 prompt of @duckprintspress' May Trope Mayhem 2025: a ficlet from DSC Michael Burnham's POV, ft. Sylvia Tilly, modern AU, pre-Milippa relationship - I might write another more shippier ficlet in this 'verse later if anyone's interested!

~

Michael flees to the bathroom as quickly and inconspicuously as she can, holding onto her dress, certain that every person in the ballroom is staring and judging, when in truth probably just a handful of people even notice her quick exit.

Her face feels hot and clammy, and Michael is glad that the bathroom is deserted when she walks in.

She lets go of her tight grip on the fabric, and the dress slides down, revealing her strapless bra. That one at least stays in place. Small mercies...

Wrestling with the dress to get the broken zipper at the back to the front, Michael curses when her nails catch on the fabric. It's just a small tear, barely visible at all, but it's enough to drive tears into her eyes. Does everything have to go wrong today?

~

A toilet flushes, and Michael freezes in shock. Fuck, she should have checked whether any of the stalls were closed. Then again, what would she have been supposed to do? Hide in a toilet stall until she is alone?

A woman with wild red curls bounces out of the stall to the sinks to wash her hands, smiling at Michael then doing a double take when she sees her state of undress.

Michael tries to smile back, more of a grimace, then looks down to fiddle with the closing mechanism. No, it's properly busted, she won't be able to fix that without actual sewing supplies and maybe an entirely new zipper...

"Everything alright?" The redhead asks as she dries her hands.

"My zipper broke," Michael replies, seeing no reason to lie.

"Ohh damn that sucks so much!"

With the stranger's honest sentiment, Michael feels a bit better.

"I don't suppose you have a jacket or top I could borrow?" She asks hopefully.

"Um, no... My friend has a shawl thing, maybe we could try that? But, oh! I've got safety pins, because I always manage to tear stuff, I mean not always but it's happened twice now so I come prepared! That could work, right?"

Michael privately thinks that using safety pins all the way on the back of her dress will look pretty ridiculous, but she doesn't want the other woman to feel bad about her suggestion, so she just smiles and nods. Besides, it's not like she has a better option.

~

"Just give me a - ah, here!" The woman pulls a small plastic box with the pins from her handbag and holds it out to Michael. "I'm Tilly, by the way!"

"Michael." She takes the pins and awkwardly holds up her dress with her elbow pressed to her side while she gets the box open.

"Oh, I know! I heard your speech earlier, it was really good!"

"Oh! You're in the field?" Michael asks, surprised. The symposium isn't mainly visited by experts of her own specialty, after all.

"Uh, no, but my friend Philippa is. She tried to explain some things to me, it mostly went over my head but I mean I still liked your speech! And Philippa likes it, so that's cool right?"

Michael nods distractedly, trying to fix up her dress, when she notices that once the safety pins are in, there's no way she is going to be able to pull it up anymore.

"Um..."

"Some help?" Tilly holds out her hand, and Michael gratefully hands the safety pins back to her, pulls up the dress and turns it the right way around before turning her back to Tilly, who quickly pulls the fabric together and secures it with the safety pins.

Once she is done, it feels tight enough that Michael isn't worried about it sliding down. She wants to turn around to thank Tilly, but the other stops her.

"Hmm, okay... They're kind of visible with all the metal, I guess I should buy pins in different colours, I've never had to fix a top with safety pins before..."

"Don't worry about it," Michael tries to sound cheerful but isn't sure whether she succeeds. "I'm sure it's fine."

"No, wait, let me ask Philippa for her shawl! It's dark green, that goes with the blue right? Be right back!"

~

Part 1 of ? • more Star Trek by me • web link

Prompt me • Tag list (lmk if you want on/off it):

@startrekgeorgiouery @toboldlynerd @badasspantiestalker @accio-baqat @spockblanket @geek-goth-gay @mlmcaptainpike @danisnotmyname @my-gaydar-is-on-point @yaminoendo @grapeyoda @wapwani @badwolfkaily @bookerandy @racethewind10 @toomuchactionforme @onaperduamedee @verbumproxen @justanalto @not-so-good-omen @blahaj-blazt @sad-tunes @forestcircle @die-schwanenkoenigin @dianessunflower

[jojosbizarrecandyland]

Chapter 2 : Drawin' Together

Previous chapter (Start)

Pages: 5 Words: 2,072 Summary: Joanne forms a bond with luke and she reveals her goals and reasons she runs a store all by herself.

The soft light of the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Joanne's small candy shop, casting a golden glow across the closed-up storefront. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams of light, their movements slow and peaceful as they glided over rows of colorful jars, shelves packed with sweet delights, and the counter that had seen better days. The shop was closed for business, but its charm never faded, even when empty. A faint scent of sugar and cocoa lingered in the air, comforting and warm.

At the center of the shop, by a small round table that was more suited for customers enjoying sweets than for its current purpose, Joanne and Luke sat together, engrossed in their coloring books. The shop’s usual buzz was absent, replaced by the quiet scratches of crayons on paper and the occasional exchange of words. Joanne, with her wide, curious eyes, leaned over her coloring book, the pages filled with candy-themed illustrations that she was diligently bringing to life with vibrant hues.

Luke, on the other hand, had chosen a different approach. He wasn’t simply coloring; he was drafting, sketching in a meticulous, almost mechanical manner. His page, once a simple landscape of a park, had morphed into a series of architectural designs, complete with dimensions and annotations. His fingers moved swiftly, tracing blueprints for a building that seemed plucked from a futuristic cityscape, the lines precise, the concept intricate.

Joanne looked over at him, curious about the strange, almost methodical way he was drawing. She picked up a few crayons from the box between them and handed them to Luke, her fingers brushing his lightly as she smiled.

"So… what's your Stand?" she asked, her voice soft but filled with genuine interest. She'd seen him use it before, though the memory was a bit hazy. "I saw it make your body turn into… stuff. Like machines, right?"

Luke glanced up from his drawing, his brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers continued to move across the page. For a moment, he didn’t answer, as if he were lost in thought or maybe considering how best to explain something so personal. Finally, he stopped sketching and placed his crayon down carefully.

“My Stand?” Luke began, his voice calm but tinged with a certain pride. “It’s called Revolution. But I call it Revo… or Reva.” As he spoke, three small, mechanical creatures materialized near his shoulder. They were tiny, barely the size of Ferris wheels, with their bodies made up of floating gears and cogs. They whirred softly, hovering near him like miniature guardians.

Joanne’s eyes widened as she watched them float, their metallic surfaces catching the light in an almost hypnotic way. Luke shrugged as if their presence was as normal as the coloring books in front of them.

“I got it a couple of years ago,” he continued, his tone growing a little quieter, “when I was in the hospital.”

The admission was said so nonchalantly, but there was weight behind it—weight that Joanne didn’t miss. She didn't pry further, respecting whatever memories lay beneath those words. Instead, she nodded as Luke continued.

“Revo allows me to turn parts of my body into robotic pieces,” he explained, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Kind of like those giant mechas you see in manga. I can transform my arms or legs into huge machines if I need to.” His voice dropped slightly. “It’s… useful. What about yours?”

Joanne straightened up, eager to share. She had always liked talking about her Stand, even though she had never met many people who could actually understand what having one meant. Luke was different. He was like her.

“My Stand is called Lollipop,” Joanne said, gesturing to her side, where her Stand manifested in the form of a tall, humanoid figure. The figure had magenta skin and heart-shaped hair, resembling a teenager not much older than Joanne herself. The Stand, sucking on a large, colorful lollipop, handed Joanne a piece of taffy without a word.

“I call her Poppy,” Joanne continued, popping the candy into her mouth with a smile. “She can turn ordinary things into lollipops. I think I’ve had her for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know exactly when she came into my life. It just feels like she’s always been there.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued by the simplicity yet uniqueness of Joanne’s Stand. Turning things into candy seemed like such a harmless power, especially when compared to his own ability to morph into a destructive force. It made Joanne seem even more innocent in his eyes.

“I’m sorry again about attacking you that day,” Joanne added quickly, her face flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and sincerity. “I didn’t know you had a Stand too. I’ve never met anyone else like me before. It’s kind of fun, though!” She giggled, her laughter light and infectious.

Luke couldn’t help but blush, his face reddening at how adorable she sounded. Her laughter was soft and melodic, the kind that seemed to chase away the shadows. His chest tightened with unfamiliar warmth, but he tried to maintain his composure, covering his mouth as if trying to suppress a grin.

“W-well,” he stammered, “there are plenty of people out there with Stands, you know. You should be careful. Not all of them are friendly, and some could try to hurt you for less.” His voice, although shaky, was tinged with a protective edge.

Joanne’s smile faltered, her brows knitting together at the thought of that. She hadn’t really considered the danger. Her Stand, after all, was more whimsical than powerful. All Poppy could do was turn objects into candy—nothing that could protect her in a fight. Her lips pursed in worry.

“I guess I didn’t think about that…” she admitted, her voice softening as reality began to sink in. “I’ll try to work harder so I don’t get hurt.”

Luke’s eyes widened as he realized he had caused her to worry. His heart raced, and he immediately began to fret, his hands fidgeting nervously.

“B-but don’t worry, Jojo!” he stuttered, the nickname slipping out before he could stop himself. “I-I said I’d help, remember? As long as I’m around, I can help protect you! Okay?” His voice grew more confident as he spoke, as if reassuring her was reassuring himself as well.

Joanne’s eyes sparkled with hope, and she looked at Luke with an expression of pure gratitude. “Really, Luke? You’d do that for me?”

Luke scratched the back of his head, looking away as his face turned a deeper shade of red. “Yeah… why not?”

Without warning, Joanne reached over and hugged him tightly, her arms wrapping around him as she buried her face in his shoulder. Luke froze, his face burning with embarrassment as his mind raced.

“O-okay, cut it out!” he mumbled, awkwardly patting her back before gently prying her off. He looked around the shop, desperate for a distraction from the awkwardness of the moment.

“Why are you running this place, anyway?” Luke asked, hoping to change the subject.

Joanne’s expression shifted, her excitement dimming as her tone softened. “Well…”

She hesitated, her voice catching in her throat as her eyes lowered to her hands. Luke noticed the sudden change in her demeanor and stopped coloring, his full attention now on her.

“My parents went missing,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “So I take care of the shop. It’s the only way I can afford to keep our house.”

Luke’s heart sank. He hadn’t expected that. Joanne was always so cheerful, so full of energy, that he hadn’t imagined she was carrying such a heavy burden. He set his crayon down, his face twisting into an expression of concern.

“Where are your mommy and daddy, Jo?” he asked softly.

Joanne’s lower lip quivered as a single tear escaped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, refusing to let it show how much it hurt. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “But I’m going to find them.”

“Find them?” Luke repeated, his brow furrowing. “But… you’re just a kid. Why haven’t you called the police?”

“I tried,” Joanne said, her voice cracking. “But they… they tried to take me away from my home.” Her childlike mind couldn’t fully comprehend the situation, but she knew one thing for sure: the police had wanted to place her in foster care or send her to some third-party home. They hadn’t understood that she didn’t need their help. She needed her parents.

“I’m going to find them,” she repeated, her resolve hardening. “And pretty soon, I’ll have just enough money to do that. No one has tried to help me, so I’ve had to do everything by myself.” Her voice broke as she spoke, the weight of her loneliness finally slipping through.

Luke watched her, his own heart aching in a way he didn’t fully understand. He didn’t have parents either, and even though he was just a young boy, he didn’t want Joanne to go through what he had. He clenched his fists, determination swelling inside him.

“You don’t have to look alone anymore,” Luke said firmly, his voice filled with quiet resolve. “I’ll help you.”

Joanne looked up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’d help me?”

Luke nodded, his expression serious. “Yeah… I’ll help you find your mommy and daddy. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Joanne’s face lit up with hope, and she reached out to grab his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Oh, Luke! Thank you! I promise, when we find them, you can eat at the candy shop for free! For life!”

Her excitement was contagious, and despite himself, Luke couldn’t help but smile. Joanne’s joy was infectious, and for a moment, the weight of their problems seemed to lift. They were just two kids in a candy shop, coloring and dreaming of a brighter future.

And as the sun began to set outside, casting long shadows across the empty store, Luke realized something: no matter how tough things got, he wasn’t going to let Joanne face them alone.

As Luke helped Joanne lock up the candy shop, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the town in a soft twilight. He pocketed the shop's keys, glancing around the quiet street. Joanne adjusted her backpack, and the two began their walk toward her home, their steps echoing in the stillness of the evening.

Unbeknownst to them, a pair of watchful eyes followed their every move. Sitting at the edge of the street, half-hidden in the shadows, was a dog. At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary mutt—just another stray wandering the town in search of scraps. But there was something bizarre, almost unsettling, about this animal.

It was an older-looking rough collie, its fur long and unkempt, with patches of graying brown and white. Its gaze was unnervingly focused, far more intelligent than any ordinary dog. Its head tilted slightly, ears perked up, as if it understood far more than a simple animal should.

The dog remained perfectly still as Luke and Joanne passed by, its eyes never leaving them. Though it stayed rooted to the spot, there was an eerie sense of purpose in its presence—a silent observer waiting for something. Neither Luke nor Joanne noticed it, too caught up in their conversation, but the dog didn’t move, blending back into the shadows as they disappeared around the corner.

For a moment, the street fell into silence again, but the rough collie stood there, watching.

Joanne pressed a finger to her chin, her brow furrowed with concern. "You really think other Stand users are gonna come after us?"

Luke let out a small sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Well, duh," he muttered, glancing off to the side. "I think, um, you know how, like, birds know their way home even when they've never been there? It's like... a brain magnet or something."

Joanne tilted her head, still trying to piece together what Luke was saying.

Luke continued, "I think people with Stands have that. Like, we're sorta drawn to each other without even thinking about it. So yeah, other Stand users might show up, and not all of them are gonna be friendly."

Joanne's eyes widened, and she gave a small nod, the weight of Luke's words sinking in.

[nastylittleghouls]

Nepenthe(s)

Relationship(s): Aether/Dewdrop, Mountain/Dewdrop

Rating: Teen

Words: about 2.1k  

Summary: Lucifer is more benevolent to his children than God. Dewdrop has always been a firm believer in that. That doesn‘t make existing without his mate any easier.

Warnings: Major Character Death, grief, mentioned Drug use, religious lore, unhealthy coping mechanisms, weed-induced weirdness about pre, implied disordered eating, unintentionally funny metaphors

Notes: Special thanks to @askingforthesun for allowing me to borrow elements of their fic (also MCD, be warned, but so good. Go read! ) and general lore so I could release this little thing into the wild. Hopefully, you won’t regret letting me into your sandbox. 😉 I recommend listening to the song I used as an intro during the second half of this fic (It'll be linked there) Unbeta‘ed as usual.

AO3 link for the so-inclined

You taught me the courage of stars before you left How light carries on endlessly, even after death With shortness of breath You explained the infinite And how rare and beautiful it is to even exist I couldn't help but ask for you to say it all again I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen I'd give anything to hear you say it one more time That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes - Saturn- Sleeping at last (or, Dewdrop reminiscing about Aether)

Plants behaving badly: murder and mayhem is playing on the TV. The still ongoing consequence of a shared joint, Mountain lamenting the lack of variety in his collection of carnivorous plants, and a turned too serious debate about which ghoul is the most alike to any of the aforementioned plants. Mountain can‘t let shit like this go. He has to be right and he’ll present proof. 

Therefore, sometimes things that happen in the greenhouse don’t stay in the greenhouse. They occupy the common room in the ghoul wing. 

Mountain has their enormous pack blanket wrapped around them both, Dew‘s head resting partly in his armpit and halfway on a pec, his legs across Mountain‘s thighs. Mountain’s hand is absentmindedly rubbing over a weirdly raised stitch on Dew‘s knee. Courtesy of Dew taking care of rubbed-through fabric himself.  It’s actually kind of nice to feel the thread pressing into his skin. 

Dew’s only half listening to Mountain explaining why this is his favorite documentary about carnivorous plants and how it‘ll show Dew why he‘s right.  His attention is a mess on a good day. If he's not holding his guitar or praying, his memory is even worse. Now the weed does the rest to scatter his mind all over the place. 

Mountain squeezes Dew a little too hard when the sundew finally makes an appearance. It’s uncomfortable. Even so, it helps Dew to fully focus on the right now. „See? That’s you!“

Dew narrows his eyes at the screen. He still doesn’t see his point. „And I repeat, the fuck? How?“

„With your pre. It‘s like, extra thick. Little pearls all over the red tip of your dick when you get all needy. Smells and tastes delicious. It’s a ghoul mouth trap“, Mountain emphasizes with a gesture at the screen, a dopey weed-induced grin on his face, barely managing to duck his head away when Dew half-heartedly swats at him. 

„You‘re a fly then, the way you always buzz around me despite the threat of certain death, begging for a taste.“ 

A faint blush appears on Mountain‘s cheeks and his eyes drop down between Dew‘s thighs, licking his lips. Intention clear. His nostrils flare to see if he can catch that sweet scent. If Dew‘s in the mood to indulge him. 

There is- nothing.  Not a hint of arousal.   Not even Dew’s natural smokey aroma. Yet, he’s not disappointed. The fact that Dew is here with him, willingly allows himself some mundane enjoyment, already feels like so much. 

Even more so when Mountain thinks about how often Rain had gone to the cathedral to check on him throughout the last months, how Mountain had found him earlier, sleeping surprisingly peacefully in the pew after missing yet another meal. His prayer beads wrapped so tightly around his hand that the indents were still faintly shimmering on his skin now. And Mountain had had enough. He had scooped him up and carried him into the greenhouse where this whole thing had started and now; it almost feels like a usual night before their world had been tipped upside down again. Almost. 

It’s a silver lining. 

„If anything, I‘m a bee. I only go for the tasty shit and sleep with the prettiest of flowers“, he counters, so confidently with his flat chest puffing out and everything, it‘s making Dew snort. That‘s truly his earth ghoul right here.  

“I can’t tell if you’re calling me pretty or just want to fuck your plants”, Dew teases with feigned thoughtfulness, flicking his fingers against the space between Mountain‘s eyebrows. It earns him a light pinch in the thigh and a mumbled: “fuck you”.

When the earth ghoul looks up again, he expects another snarky come back but Dew sends him a look that is not quite regretful but close to it. Dew’s hand moves up to pet Mountain’s hair, using it to pull him down to peck his lips. 

„Not tonight.'' 

Those words should sound like a raincheck. What Mountain hears is an apology when there shouldn’t be one. His love for Dew is not tied to conditions like Dew sharing his body with him. Now less than ever.  He wishes he had the means to let Dew know somehow without making a big deal out of it, for the fire ghouls sake, when he feels a small red rose bloom at the bottom of his horn, coming to his aid. He nods and leans in for another peck. Turns it into a proper kiss because he can and Dew lets him.  

„Another time,“ he agrees and plucks the rose with a small wince, tucking it safely behind Dew‘s ear, “my pretty flower”. 

The gesture makes Dew frown up at Mountain, and for a split second, it seems like the next swatting is imminent. Mountain would endure that and more. What matters is that Dew knows he is loved. But it doesn’t happen. Dew just settles into his side again with a huff. 

Then the narrator moves on to another plant and the moment is over. „That Butterwort is Cumulus,“ Mountain states, in a tone that indicates he expects Dew to disagree again. Instead, Dew nods, agreeably, and even adds, „Aurora too.“

As soon as the credits roll, Dew untangles himself from Mountain’s arm and the blanket and slips to his feet, brushing his lips affectionately over the earth ghoul’s hairline and the base of his horns. His smile is weary when their eyes meet again.  

„Gonna hit the hay. Night, Evergreen“.

Mountain gives him a bewildered look but eagerly meets him halfway just the same when Dew moves in for a hug. It has Mountain holding him tighter than he probably should, his face tucked into Dew’s neck. He just missed this more than he had let himself think about and it feels too soon to lose it again. 

“Night, Lilypad. Don‘t let the bed bugs bite.”

He watches Dew walk out of the common room until he‘s out of the door and almost swallowed by the shadows in the hallway, his mind still mulling Dew’s words over. No one has called him Evergreen since….

Clarity hits him like a well-aimed sobering punch in the gut. The almost overwhelming feeling of nausea follows suit. It‘s here. The moment he dreaded, they all dreaded, may happen. In hindsight, the signs were blatant.  Dew not even trying to bargain with him about leaving the cathedral, the overly sudden surge in willingness to be social for such a long period of time when Dew had been shying away from it. All that combined with the missing natural scent, the most obvious one of them all, is unmistakable. A sure sign that fire ghouls are on the verge of leaving the physical plane of existence. 

All right in front of him. The very last one left from his old pack. Eventually, he will accept it as the honor that it is. Right now, he‘s reeling. 

He gives himself a mental shove and manages to call an „I love you. Sleep well“ after Dew just before he’s out of his sight.

Then his eyes turn back to the screen. Stares at it until his vision blurs. Stricken. Chest so tight he can barely breathe. His claws pierce through the thick fabric of his self-assigned greenhouse overall he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet. It takes all of his willpower to keep himself sitting on the couch right there, to not let his selfishness win to try to stop the inevitable. It’s not his right to interfere, if he even could, as painful as it is. As it will be, for a long time.

So he just sits there, helpless in his decision. 

A weeping willow. 

Dew ghosts through the corridors of the ministry, on a whim taking the long route to pass through the Ghouls' living quarters. The urge to hear their voices before he retreats to his hideaway is stronger than usual tonight. To lock another piece of each and every one of them once more into the respective places in his heart. 

There’s a thud behind one of the closed doors, followed by Swiss’ cackling. Aeon and Aurora complain about being bullied. That exasperated yet fond sigh? Cirrus. 

Rain‘s room is quiet except for the sound of running water. It draws Dew in so he pauses, lays both palms on the wooden door, and listens for a breath, maybe two. Sends a wave of affection Rain’s way before continuing his path. 

He can still hear Sunshine’s laughter, after their caused chaos went either according to plan or wonderfully wrong, when he passes her abandoned room, as faded in his memories as it is. He gives her door a little salute, not trusting himself to linger there. Knows that Cumulus finds solace in sitting in there for a while during this hour, singing to her lost ray of light. 

Treasures, all of them. 

He takes all of them up the stone stairs into the attic with him, the soles of his shoes scruffing over the sandy surface as he recites another prayer under his breath. As if to absolve himself for his absence in the pews. The beads around his neck feel heavier with each word, making him briefly consider turning around and visiting the cathedral for a second time today but he has to admit to himself that he wouldn’t be able to get far tonight. It’s late and the call of the stars promises a little more comfort.

Rain would be thrilled at that amount of self-reflection. 

The old oil lamp he grabbed on the way flickers as he lights up an incense stick with a press of his fingerpads, setting both up on the floor in front of him. 

After, he settles comfortably into Aether‘s old armchair, right in front of the window. Hidden amongst Aether’s other belongings that he couldn’t squirrel away into his own room, the stars in the night sky welcoming him back through the glass. One brighter than the others, brighter than Sirius he likes to think, his very own guiding light. 

Watching over him. Waiting for him. 

As he recounts the constellations to himself in soothing murmurs, he traces the scar on his palm, swallowing heavily when he reaches the end before lacing his fingers together. A sad imitation of what used to be Aether’s hand engulfing his. His mind shifts to the moments he had been curled in Aether‘s lap in this very chair and played idly with his hands. Twisting his rings up and down his fingers. Tickling his palm. Relishing in their size difference, their thrumming bond, and Aether’s pleased chuffs. At times, simply lost in sharing their respective tribes’ folklore, awed at each other's way with words. At others, well…

He needs it more than ever now. That certain kind of warmth. That fullness, first and foremost in his heart. 

He yearns for it with every fiber of his infernal being. 

To be home.

Dew sinks further into the chair and a forgotten sense of calm washes over him. No longer is that sob stuck behind his sternum that burned as hot as the unshed tears in his eyes. No longer does he feel the urge to fight it when his eyes fall shut on their own accord. Slowly. Unhurried.

The strange coldness, coming from deep down inside him and radiating through his bones like an ache, starts to dissolve. Imperceptible, his charred skin lightens and his scarred gills heal from the fire damage.  A gift of appreciation by the Prince for his unwavering devotion. Not only to the seven but to his mate as well. 

Unbidden, he remembers the last time Aether prepared morning soup for him, is sure he can taste the perfection on the back of his tongue, and for once it doesn’t twist his insides into knots. 

He is too tired. So very tired and giving in feels so right like nothing has for too long. 

His star in the sky flares up fleetingly, and Dewdrop smiles softly to himself, the first real smile in what seems like an eternity, when he feels familiar, weightless hands rest lovingly on his shoulders. His head tilts instinctively towards the touch, dipping slightly into the sun-faded brocade of the chair cushion beside him. The merest hint of Aether‘s scent, and the salt of tears still lingering in the fabric, fill his nose. 

His prayers are granted at last.

Above the stars, below the flames; finally reunited. 

The affirmation of love Dew hasn‘t uttered out loud since, leaves him with a long, blissful sigh. 

„I belong to you, my starlight“

Akin to a kiss, barely there, floats a caress over Dew’s lips, making good on a promise. 

“Oh, my Firefly….I adore you”

With his mate’s awaited response, Dew’s chest falls peacefully for the last time. The last glowing ember turns gray. His soul follows Aether’s into the night.

Home. 

[sybaritick]

though i've mentioned playing Rogue Trader recently I've never made much commentary on my RT so please have this and no other context

speaking of "background info about your Rogue Trader" seeing kiava gamma 100% solidified my belief that tessera grew up on a manufacturing world that looked "like that, but the way it did before all the Chaos and crap." for this reason i imagine she has very detailed but currently completely non-useful knowledge about the manufacturing process for one particular piece of mining equipment: the thing her parents, both engineers, were responsible for and something she witnessed and certainly had to help out with repeatedly. Nobody Ask Me About Rotary Drilling Rigs Ever Again (and she got her wish!). She was working there with the expectation that she would take on their roles one day so it was like. apprenticeship/training rather than child labor. though there is a fine line between those things as we all know lol

there is some immaturity to her (which ive talked about before) even tho she is mostly practical. sounds contradictory but i think detail will help explain this better... deciding "actually i want to be in the military i don't care about making drill parts" is in a sense selfish, or at least indicates she is a certain type of person-- paradoxically it is not the "practical" choice! but her parents were like ok if you're sure you can go to the naval academy then. (idk what it's like in universe i'm handwaving that her parents had the correct connections and she had the right test scores to do it). mentioned it before but i think it's bc she had some critical childhood experiences about the imperial navy showing up and saving everybody from xenos and she has this idealized image of them still in her head. i mean shes not an idiot she knows they're not perfect but she is a patriot who genuinely believes the imperial navy is in the right for ideological reasons.

also, as is often the case, she went from "and i never want to do any more engineering ever" to very quickly realizing that one, she missed it, and two, she had a talent for it and her education was dedicated to it so i imagine they put her on a bunch of weapons stuff. tessera's interest in discussing the technical specs of the voidship's cannons, lance weapons, missiles, and the differences some new installation has made interests no one but Pasqal. u can take the homie out the manufactory world but you cannot take the manufactory world out the homie. still, that background (as a naval officer) makes command of the ship and void combat more natural to her, so it serves her as a rogue trader.

bonus

I love how this explanation includes me saying "It's kind of selfish to want to do something with your life other that the very specific mechanical engineering discipline set out for you by your parents." The Writer's Barely-Disguised Insane Worldview. I swear I do not actually believe that ofc lmao, you certainly do not owe that to your parents it's more in-universe it was her guaranteed path to a decent life, a "well the good opportunity is right there so," so in a practical sense, okay i'm really just digging myself a hole aren't i, However, in my defense, for like several centuries this would have been considered fairly reasonable. (Surely it's fine to justify some viewpoint with "But for several centuries everyone thought that")

[herearedragons]

i think i fooled myself into believing i sent an ask before whoops can i get 5, 7, 17, 25, 31, 33, 39, 40, 43, 45, 50!!!

5. If you could make only one of your OCs popular/known, who would it be?

well honestly Selene is already what I would consider a popular oc because like. more than a handful of people know who she is and have said nice things about her and people have ??? drawn her ??? unprompted ??? which is WILD shoutout to the Selene fandom once again. so if I had an option to make one (1) oc popular on a larger scale it would probably be her because I already know she'd click with people (and also she's my favorite and I'd never get sick of talking about her/seeing other people talk about her).

but also as a secondary option, Aqun and/or Adina because I feel like they have some fun nuance to them and I'd be kind of curious to see different people's takes/opinions/interpretations of them

7. Are your OCs part of any story or stories?

BDJDBSJSHSJSBSJDJDKS well?????? yes?????????

most of them are part of the story of their associated videogame, and then there's all the fic I'm writing. I do also have some non-fandom characters/settings rotating in my brain, but it's nothing concrete enough to talk about

17. Any OC OTPs?

no OCxOC ones, but a lot of OCxcanon ones tbh. if we narrow "OTP" down to One True Pairing as in "I can't envision them with anything else" then it's Selene and Edér (surprising no one) and Mae and the Devil of Caroc (which also shouldn't be surprising). if we interpret it as "favorite ship regardless of whether this PC has other ships", then I'm adding SolAqun to the list bc they've also been on the brain lately. the holy trinity of Doomed Yaoi, Undoomed Yuri and Impending Doom Het Ship

25. The OC that resembles you the most (same hobby, height, shared like/dislike for something etc?)

funnily enough probably Aqun. we look nothing alike but Aqun🤝me (multicultural, multilingual, single child, STEM, Logic and Rationality as a coping mechanism, inclined towards Making Things, burning hatred of Social Overcomplication)

31. Pick one OC of yours and explain what their tumblr blog would be like (what they reblog, layout, anything really)

Adina would 1000% be on here and her blog would be red-themed with yellow/blue/green accents, have a custom HTML theme she edited herself with artwork BY her, and it would be just all of her interests in one big pile with a barely functioning tagging system. she posts her vitaar designs a lot and her pfp is Her Actual Face with her favorite vitaar design up to date. she uses all caps/keysmashes a lot and vibes perfectly with tumblr's more absurdist kind of humor. Funny Nonsense comes to her effortlessly

33. Your shyest OC?

LORENZO. he's trying so hard to figure out how to People and having the physique of a Death Omen + an evil voice in his head is not helping. also he was a slave for the first 24-ish years of his life and old habits of Be Quiet Be Helpful Don't Speak Unless Spoken To die hard

39. Introduce any character you want

making you look at: the guy from the previous question. he's a runaway slave. he's a Ghost Bard. he was briefly possessed by the god of death and killed everyone in his master's estate with a song. he can sing ghosts into existence. he's haunted by his evil past life. he doesn't speak Aedyran (Eoran English) that well yet. HE'S SHY.

40. Any fond memories linked to your characters? Feel free to share!

@curiouslavellan I have to shout you out again because brainstorming Selene and Helaine plotlines in real time in DMs has been one of this year's highlights for sure. the people don't even know about the soul merging in POE1 and the Selene Is Dead drama in POE2. they don't even know about the werewolf au (well. one other person knows about the werewolf au)

43. Do you have any certain type when you create your OCs? Do you tend to favour some certain traits or looks? It’s time to confess

I'm going to be real, my OC creation process IS just like. *spins wheel* so what's the source of YOUR deep set feeling of alienation

45. A character you no longer use?

shoutout to this girl who is an old creepypasta OC of mine. I still care her

50. Give me the good ol’ OC talk here. Talk about anything you want

subjecting you to the mental image of Aqun and Eldritch Wolf Solas chilling together in some nice scenic place. they never got to do that but I think they should have

[glitterrosesnzz]

Cat in a Box

@hachiibun happy birthday!!! i hope i'm not too late to it shdflkjsldfs.

here's a 1.8k words long Lyney fic ft. various hcs

Aether silently stood leaning over Lyney’s shoulder as the magician went through the process of loosely explaining his newest trick.

“Now, I can’t tell you everything, of course-” Lyney said, tapping on the side of the magic box they were standing in front of. “But this box here is going to be somewhat of the main event for the show tonight.” 

“Boxes again?” Aether asked, “This is like, the third time you’ve used one. Is it like your cat instincts jumping out?” 

“My ca- I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Traveler.” Lyney laughed, “It’s only Lynette who got the cat genes. Although, I suppose I have been called cat-like by some people… in the mysterious and charming way, of course.” 

Aether rolled his eyes, wishing that Lynette was here at the moment, knowing that she at least would give a more truthful answer. But, she was currently off in one of the side rooms of the Opera House with Paimon, indulging in some sweets, and Aether didn’t feel like interrupting the two of them for something so minor. 

“So.” He said instead, “What exactly is so different about this box?” 

“Well you see, I’m going to change my dear sister Lynette, into a charming little bunny.” 

Aether blinked slowly. Then, he shifted, leaning against the door of the box slightly. 

“A bunny.” He deadpanned, “...Now that I think about it, despite it being one of the most well known tricks, to the point that I know it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do a trick with a bunny. Do you- do you even have a bunny?” 

“Why of course!” Lyney gave an overdramatic little bow, gesturing for Aether to move out of the way, before dramatically knocking three times on the box’s door. On the third knock, Aether could hear a slight thump, and when Lyney opened the door- 

There was a small black bunny sitting on the floor of the box. 

“Traveler, allow me to introduce you to Lapin.” Lyney said, moving out of the way as the Traveler stepped into the box, bending down to gently pick the bunny up. “Ah, but don’t tell Paimon or Lynette about him. This is going to be a surprise for my siblings as well.” 

“So Lynette doesn’t know that you’re going to ‘turn her into a bunny’ then?” Aether asked,gently petting Lapin and pushing himself up against the wall of the box as Lyney subconsciously stepped in as well in order to speak face to face. There was barely enough room for the both of them to stand in the box without brushing together. “Why wouldn’t you tell her-” 

Aether’s question was cut off by the sound of a click- and they both tensed, but neither of them was fast enough to react as the door to the box swung closed. 

Aether’s elemental vision activated automatically, acting almost like night vision. It was through this that he only just barely caught the brief flash of panic on Lyney’s face. 

“Well!” Lyney’s voice held an amount of practiced calm to it that, if Aether didn’t know better, he wouldn’t even realize was faked. “This is certainly unexpected.” 

“...Can you get us out?” Aether asked, tilting his head slightly as Lyney’s nose twitched. 

“Welllll… no. There is, unfortunately, no switch on the inside of this box! There is a failsafe though, it should open on it’s own in about ten minutes.” 

And, well, Aether was pretty sure that was a bold-faced lie, considering he was quite certain he could feel what seemed like a switch or other sort of mechanism pressed up against the center of his back. It was in a position he couldn’t quite reach on his own, especially with a bunny in his arms, but Lyney would only have to just reach around him… 

Maybe he didn’t want to get too close? Now that he was staring, it did seem like Lyney was pressed as close against his side of the box as he could be, slightly tensed up. It had never really seemed like Lyney had much problems with physical touch before, but maybe this was just a bit too much. 

Still though… 

“We could just call for Lynette and Paimon to get us out.” Aether suggested, “I’m sure they’d hear us if we yelled, this place isn’t that big, and the sounds from the stage echo everywhere-” 

“There’s no need for that.” Lyney sounded slightly breathless, which was strange, considering they were doing no physical activity at all. “Lynette isn’t meant to know about our little friend Lapin here anyways, remember?” 

“And why is tha-” Aether stopped himself mid-sentence, watching as Lyney’s expression twisted slightly- which was strange. Lyney didn’t normally allow so many different facial expressions to slip through his mask. Albeit… he might not know that Aether could see him right now, the box would be pretty dark for the average person after all. “...Are you okay?” 

Almost instantly, the strange expression vanished from Lyney’s face, replaced with his usual calm and collected composure, but still, Aether couldn’t help but feel like there was something slightly off. 

“Perfectly fine as always!” Lyney said. Aether narrowed his eyes in suspicion, lightly scritching at Lapin’s head as he thought- 

Only to be startled as, without any pre-warning, Lyney suddenly jerked his head to the side, hat sliding slightly askew as he half stifled a sneeze. 

“Heh’KSh-!!” The half-stifle was extremely ineffective at preventing the other side effects that happened to come with a vision user sneezing, the entire box briefly lighting up with tiny sparks of pyro. But that wasn’t what surprised Aether the most. 

No, that honor went to the cat ears and tail that suddenly and mysteriously appeared on Lyney’s body. 

“Oh darn…” Lyney muttered, before clearing his throat. “Apologies, that kind of snuck up on me.” 

…Should Aether ask about the ears? Would that be rude? It was clearly something that Lyney wanted to hide. 

Aether didn’t get the chance to ask, as the next moment, Lyney’s expression twisted, and he was jolting to the side with another failed half-stifle, the box lighting up with pyro sparks one again. One of said sparks lightly brushed up against Aether’s cheek, and he quietly hissed at the slight sting. Lyney muttered a quiet apology under his breath, holding one finger against his nose. 

Right. Random cat ear generation aside, something told Aether that Lyney’s sneezing was not going to stop anytime soon, and Aether would rather get out of the box before he got burned, thank you very much. 

“Lyney.” Aether said, watching as Lyney quietly sniffled, suddenly looking slightly nervous. 

“Yes, Traveler?” 

“I know the switch thing was a lie. I can feel it up against my back.” Aether deadpanned, and, for some reason, Lyney almost seemed to… relax? Strange. “So hurry up and get over here and get us out before you end up burning one of us.”

Ah, and Lyney was tense again. 

“Oh, right.” One of Lyney’s cat ears twitched, and it took all of Aether’s strength to bite his tongue and keep himself from commenting on it. Slowly, Lyney moved closer, until they were almost face to face, his hands moving to reach behind Aether’s back to find the mechanism. Lapin seemed curious about the new proximity, the bunny’s ears twitching. Lyney slightly twisted his face away from it. “Sorry, it’s slightly more complicated than a simple switch, it might- might take me a momen- hH-” 

It was with near-lightening speed that Aether’s hand shot up, pinching Lyney’s nose shut. Based on Lyney’s past two attempts at stifling, this was not going to end well if the magician was left on his own, and Aether was not going to get burned today, thank you. 

Lyney almost seemed startled for a second, but the sudden action was clearly not enough to chase the urge to sneeze away. 

“Hih’NKsh!” There was no sparks this time, but based on the way Lyney’s breath continued to audibly hitch afterwards, his cat ears pressed back against his head, and how, through his glove, Aether could feel Lyney’s nose twitch, Aether could tell this wouldn’t be the last sneeze. “Tr-Traveler, wh-hIh- what-” 

“Just focus on getting the door open.” Aether said. Lyney seemed to follow that instruction, Aether could just barely make out the sensation of the magician’s hands moving behind his back, surprisingly steady even as Lyney’s hitching breaths turned desperate. 

“Hehh…hh…hiHH–!” Lyney seemed to only just barely choke back a sneeze. Aether rolled his eyes. What, was he embarrassed about sneezing into Aether’s hand, now? 

He was just about to tell Lyney that he was being ridiculous when there was a resounding click, the door of the box swinging back open. 

Wasting practically no time, Lyney forcibly pulled himself away from Aether’s grip, rushing out of the box. Aether followed behind him at a much slower pace, wiping his hand off on his clothes before going back to gently petting Lapin, but he still was just in time to see as Lyney finally succumbed to whatever itch had overtaken him. 

“Hi’KISHiew!!” Bright sparks appeared around him, some small outright flames appearing as well as Lyney’s hat outright fell off this time from the force of him doubling over, the sound of it hitting the stage covered up by the sound of Lyney’s fit. “Heh’SHii! H’EKShiew!!” 

“Lyney.” The sound of Lynette’s deadpan voice made both Aether and Lyney jump, Lyney forcing himself back upright to face her. She did not look impressed. 

“Ah- Ly-Lynette- hIH-hEH’KSHiu!!” Lyney doubled over with another sneeze, fit clearly not done. “Hh’ISHkiew!!” 

“So.” Lynette said, her hands on her hips, tail swinging back and forth in disapproval. “The little guy over here in Aether’s arms is the reason you’ve been sneezing your head off the last few nights.” 

Lyney was too busy doubling over with another sneeze to give a response, and Aether blinked down at the bunny that was snuggled innocently in his arms. 

Oh. So Lyney was allergic to bunnies then. 

…Pinching his nose shut with a hand that was likely covered in bunny fur probably hadn’t helped Lyney’s current condition in the slightest then. 

Well, whatever. Wasn’t like he could do anything to change it now. This information wasn’t even the most shocking thing Aether had learned today. 

Speaking of which… 

“So like, are the cat ears… real?” Aether whispered to Lynette. She blinked slowly in response, before sighing. 

“He just thinks they show too much of his real emotions.” She responded, and Lyney somehow managed to pause mid-hitch to give her a horrified look. 

“Lynette! Do- hIH… don’t tell- tell him tha-hAH- H’KIShiew!! Heh’SHIew!!” 

Lynette sighed, walking over to her brother and grabbing him by the shoulders, starting to lead him off stage. 

“C’mon, let’s go get you cleaned up so that you’re not still sneezing like crazy by the time the show starts.” She said, before looking over her shoulder back at Aether. “Traveler, find someone to take care of that bunny, we’ll find a replacement for tonight’s show.” 

Aether glanced down at the bunny in his arms. Lapin stared silently back. 

Hearing Lyney sneeze again from somewhere offstage, Aether let out a sigh. 

He supposed he could keep the bunny in his teapot for now…