#detailed explanation alert

[rokatanonc]

Commentaries concerning Elven Naming Traditions of Middle-earth on RealElvish.net

Recently I read this (https://realelvish.net/naming/middleearthelves/) article on RealElvish.net because I was curious about it and, in a way, I was amused by it. It amused me how epically the article’s writer has failed. Or more like, I would have been happier if I was indeed amused. Truth is, after I finished reading I was enormously embarrassed on the writer’s behalf and could not quite imagine where the person in question had sucked all this stuff out.

So, I decided to let the steam off by writing a critique about it. Let us proceed from paragraph to paragraph. This will seem more like some kind of commentary while reading the actual article as I decided to cite it so that you, folks know what I am talking about.

Elven Naming Traditions of Middle-earth If you haven’t read the essay on the Elven naming traditions of Valinor, go back and read it, then read this essay. The conclusions and terminology used in this essay will make more sense if you do so.

If you would prefer to read the mentioned article yourself then you can do so by clicking on the underlined part, but as my humble self is already familiar with the –correct– Valinorean elves’ naming traditions, therefore I did not have to read that essay, but to be fair to those who are not, here is the shortened, simplified version of what they had wrote in there:

The Valinorean elves, specifically the Noldor, had four types of names or essi in Quenya, their language. (The language of the Sindar is referred to as Sindarin.) The three first were called anessi or ‘given names’ as they were bestowed upon an elf by somebody else, but the last type is the cilmessë or ‘chosen name’ as this was chosen by the elves themselves.

The first anessë can be translated as ataressë since it is called ‘father-name’. This was given by the child’s father and it was a public name, so anyone could address a Noldo by it. The second anessë is the amilessë or ‘mother-name’ as this was bestowed upon children by their mothers after they became a bit older. This name too was a public one, though more descriptive and kind of prophetic in its nature. The third anessë is the epessë or ‘after-name’ that could be given by anybody and it was a sort of nickname, if you will. Finally, there was the cilmessë, the name that reflects a Noldo’s personal linguistic tastes. This was a private name and only those close to the elf used and it was considered rude for anyone else who did not know the person well.

So, this is the –tremendously– watered-down version, but please, worry not, I will not begrudge you if you do not believe me and choose to look the topic up. In fact, I do recommend the mentioned essay as it is very helpful and, as you will see later, its insightfulness creates a harsh contrast with this article. Although the constant miswriting of the Quenya accents gets on my nitpicking nerves…

If you are curious to know more about the naming conventions of the Valinorean elves then I also recommend the articles on TolkienGateway.net titled essë (https://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Ess%C3%AB) and Elven customs (https://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Elven_customs). These three articles together help to have more understanding of the naming traditions of elves living in Aman, especially as RealElvish got a few things wrong regarding which names are public and which are not, plus making up some other things along the way.

Of the naming traditions of the Eldar who lived in Valinor, we know much. However, the naming traditions of the Úmanyar (those who didn’t go to Valinor and stayed in Middle-earth) are largely undocumented. Though Tolkien never explicitly described them, we can guess by looking at their names.

This is absolutely true and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this paragraph, only that later the writer had beautifully cornered themselves in the following text.

The Elves of Beleriand are the ones most likely to have naming traditions echoing the traditions in Valinor, seeing as they were the closest to Valinor and they had trade and communication going between them. Therefore, when Doriath was conquered and the Sindar fled deeper into Middle-earth to live in the lands of other Telerin Elves, they brought these strong traditions and their language with them. Since the language was adopted, it doesn’t seem too strange that the naming traditions would come along too.

Okay, now it is time to scream: “Silmarillion spoiler alert!” If you are not familiar with the history of elves then I have to recommend you, dear readers, to study it a bit, since the topic is quite complicated and would be too bothersome to explain it in length here. Although you will get some specifics nonetheless but for the sake of my own and your mental health I will merely assume you all know what I am talking about in this part, and be warned that it will be a very long tirade. You have been warned…

The very first part of the sentence seemed innocent enough, but the next one about trading and communication just blew the fuse for me. I found it confusing because, if you think about it, if this had been a canon fact, then a lot of events would have developed very differently compared to what was originally written by Tolkien.

If there would have indeed been trading and communication going between Aman and the realms of Beleriand, then how come the Sindar suffered so much that they thought the Feanorian Noldor their saviours when Morgoth’s army was ordered to confront them, thus enabling the strained Sindar forces to win the First Battle? Because if there was any kind of communication between the two continents then:

1) The Sindarin and Quenya Elvish dialects had never become so different from each other due to the constant transmission of news and there would have been elves living in the Blessed Realm who spoke Sindarin. Naturally, there would have been plenty of discrepancies still, but there would have been more similar loanwords they shared as well since they would inevitably assimilate phrases and expressions.

2) The Sindar would have been capable of speaking with the Noldor without the Noldor ever properly learning Sindarin and translating their essi into those Sindarin equivalents and then Quenya would not have been considered a dead language in the Third Age because of disuse in speech.

3) Círdan, Thingol, Lenwë and the other mention-worthy elven lords, would have been informed about Morgoth’s misdeeds in Aman, thus the dwellers of Beleriand would not have been so surprised by his return.

4) Mentioned elven leaders would have also been informed about the First Kinslaying and so, they would have been completely aware of who the Noldor were and what have they done and there would have been totally no need to pester Galadriel (who was staying in Doriath as a guest) about why the Noldor had returned to the Hither Lands. This would be the case even if there was a (likely) pause in passing information between the continents during the Long Night after the Darkening of Valinor. Also, later, Thingol would not have banned Quenya because no ruler in their right mind would ever prohibit the language of an important trading partner.

Although this does not mean that there was not any kind of trade between Sindar and Noldor, but it is more likely to have happened after the arrival of the Exiles. And even if, at first, they were viewed as God-sent, after the Fëanorians proved to be way too haughty and Thingol learned about the first Kinslaying, I doubt that the Noldor would have been considered important trading partners. Let us not forget that Elu Thingol too was a monarch and had a prideful disposition due to that or else he would have not made the sycophant Saeros into his counsellor.

If there was commerce between the elves of Aman and Beleriand before the Exiles’ arrival then would the Sindarin king not be a bit more affable towards them? The Noldor after all, even with having their own agenda, ended up helping them turn the tables in a very perilous period. In this situation a potentate should have made as many allies as he could because Morgoth’s presence threatened them ceaselessly; the Moriquendi, more than any Elda could fathom, knew exactly just how cruel and devastating that could be. Though the elven tribes had travelled together for a while during the Great Journey, those times were merely a taste of the horror the dark forces were capable of. Moreover, the Eldar had the (far from perfect) protection of the Valar, but the Moriquendi had stayed behind and fended for themselves for practically long millennia.

But Elu Thingol, while not being hostile, had no care for the Noldor save for the children of Finarfin for they were his kin since their mother was Eärwen, daughter of Olwë who was his younger brother. Only the descendants of Eärwen was he willing to let into Doriath and those were five persons at the maximum: Finrod, Angrod and his son, Orodreth, Aegnor and Galadriel. It is clear that Thingol had found the preservation of his kin and loyal subjects more important than gathering confederates. (On a sidenote: Thingol was described as a good friend of Finwë so it is quite a mystery why he was so dismissive of the other Finweans.)

I do not know why he could not see the usefulness of a Noldo-Sindarin alliance. The Exiles were kinslayers indeed, but there were amongst them who regretted their actions. However, regardless of whether they were repentant or not, the Noldor had already proved to be a force to reckon with thus quite valuable in the fight against Morgoth. They also had both Ainur-reinforced technology and knowledge at their disposal; the Noldor were craftsmen and their skills were superior to the Sindar in that regard since they had the opportunity to directly learn from the Ainur. If Thingol could have put aside his pride he could have seen the bigger picture since a Beleriand-wide Noldo-Sindarin alliance would have been far more auspicious in the wars coming.

In The Silmarillion there are quite a few times when Thingol’s self-esteem had made things worse for his very own people he ought to protect. It gradually grows into arrogance and tethers on the edge of madness towards the end of his life. But this is another topic, so just let us say that Thingol had preferred something akin to ostrich policy: he did not deny that there was a problem (Morgoth), but he pretty much ignored it and did not give much afterthought to anything outside the borders of Doriath and refused to cooperate with the Noldor.

5) Finding a way back into Valinor and asking for the Valar’s help would not have been that big of a deal if there would have been continuous trade between Beleriand and Middle-earth. After all, trading routes are a sure way to get to any country and the technology of Valinor could have helped any realm in battles waged against Morgoth. If there indeed were such fixed ways then it could have also spared a lot of effort in getting back to Aman; you would only need a couple of trusty men who would make sure to relay your help-requesting message. Also, the wars fought in the Hither Lands would have been greatly reduced in number thus preventing a lot of tragedies due to the Valar not giving a care about the plight of the Noldor and the free folk of Beleriand, save for the few times when the Valar had interfered. Although most of those were the works of Ulmo alone…

In The Silmarillion, we can read that Manwë had sent Thorondor to Fingon’s aid when he prayed to him so that he could free Maedhros from the peak of Thangorodrim:

Thus Fingon found what he sought. For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment. But Fingon climbed to the foot of the precipice where his kinsman hung, and then could go no further; and he wept when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth. Maedhros therefore, being in anguish without hope, begged Fingon to shoot him with his bow; and Fingon strung an arrow, and bent his bow. And seeing no better hope he cried to Manwë, saying: ‘O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!’ His prayer was answered swiftly. For Manwë to whom all birds are dear, and to whom they bring news upon Taniquetil from Middle-earth, had sent forth the race of Eagles, commanding them to dwell in the crags of the North, and to keep watch upon Morgoth; for Manwë still had pity for the exiled Elves. And the Eagles brought news of much that passed in those days to the sad ears of Manwë. — Quenta Silmarillion, Of the Return of the Noldor

It is clear from the text that the great eagles always brought tidings about the Hither Lands to Manwë so he was quite aware of what happened to the elves residing there. However, there is no mention of Manwë giving instructions on what should be done about Morgoth, so the eagles constantly informing him was a one-way communication only. If Manwë was so sad, then why did he not do anything about his waylaid brother who terrorized the beings he was so sad for?

There were two other occasions when a Vala actively helped the elves in Beleriand but both of those were the deeds of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters. First, he saved an elf from drowning. That elf was Voronwë who was amongst the delegation sent by King Turgon to find a way to Valinor and beg the Valar for their forgiveness so that the Noldor can go back to Aman. They did not succeed, and, in the end, only Voronwë survived thanks to Ulmo, who also entrusted him to show Tuor the way back to Gondolin so that they could warn the Gondolindrim that their city would be discovered by the Enemy and they should leave it. 

By the way, it was also Ulmo who revealed the hidden valley of Tumladen to Turgon where he later built Gondolin. And it was Ulmo again who showed Finrod the abandoned cave of Nulukkizdîn which later became the capital of the realm of Nargothrond. Later, Ulmo cautioned the people of Nargothrond to destroy their bridge built by Túrin and close their doors as his powers were withdrawn from the Sirion so he was unable to protect them any longer. This was also the reason why he sent a message to Gondolin as well, by the way. Neither the Gondolindrim nor the elves of Nargothrond heeded his warnings and that decision led to their ruin…

Elrond’s mother, Elwing was saved due to Ulmo’s powers as well. So, it should be obvious that amongst the Valar, Ulmo was the most supportive and considerate towards the elves in Beleriand. Aside from these mentioned occurrences, the Powers of Arda had not deigned to do anyone a favour until the War of Wrath. But even before that, they needed to have someone to beg for it. We already know that Manwë was very much aware of the happenings in Beleriand as the eagles always brought him news about those and yet despite being the appointed High King of Arda, he needed someone to spell out for him that there are severe problems outside Aman. He also held back Oromë and Tulkas, Valar who wished to do something about Morgoth when he destroyed Laurelin and Telperion.

Putting that aside there indeed is an allusion to the running communications between the two continents in The Silmarillion, but there is no indication of any kind of trade though. Here is the part I am talking about:

But new tidings were at hand, which none in Middle-earth had foreseen, neither Morgoth in his pits nor Melian in Menegroth; for no news came out of Aman whether by messenger, or by spirit, or by vision in dream, after the death of the Trees. In this same time Fëanor came over the Sea in the white ships of the Teleri and landed in the Firth of Drengist, and there burned the ships at Losgar. — Quenta Silmarillion, Of the Sindar

So, there was communication, but these connections were confidential and were most certainly not used to help people, save from those the receiver deemed important enough to inform. It is evident that the Ainur had several means of long-range communication despite the distance between Middle-earth and the Blessed Realm. Melian probably told Thingol what she discovered as she endeavoured to preserve Doriath to the best of her knowledge, but the Nandor who sought their protection were not given much regard unless they settled down within the Girdle of Melian. Only those within the borders of Doriath were given priority and similarly to them, any other leader in Beleriand did the same: the safety of their own people took precedence over the safety of allies. For example, Turgon was so concerned about the Gondolindrim’s survival that his worries practically clouded his judgement, especially after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad where he became the last child of Fingolfin remaining. Likewise, the Feanorians’ primary goal was both the retaking of the Silmarilli and the well-being of their people who loyally fought by their side. So, in a nutshell, the tidings that any ruler got from Aman did not circulate between Belerandian allies even if the ruler in question took up arms to aid those allies in battle, thus reinforcing my third and fourth points.

6) During the wars, but even before them, in the Years of the Trees, Sindar, Nandor, Teleri and Avari elves had died fighting the dark forces who were commanded by Sauron in his lord’s absence after Morgoth himself was imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos. We also know that the souls of elves who die are housed in these very Halls and await their re-embodiment. If there indeed was trade and communication between the Hither Lands and the Blessed Realm and if those dead non-Valinorean elves were re-embodied, they would have come to live near the Noldor, the Teleri and the Vanyar, because they would have been already familiar with them. If that had been the case, I believe that the detail-oriented Tolkien would have mentioned something like this even in something as unfinished as The Silmarillion but nothing of the sort is ever noted.

So, if those elves were re-embodied and lived in Aman, then they most certainly did not dwell near the already existing elven cities. But if they knew the Valinoreans, why would they do that? If there were indeed Sindar in Aman, then gradually and still in the Years of the Trees, Sindarin would have become another spoken dialect and would have created a need amongst the Quenya-speaking dwellers to learn the language, and perhaps it would have prompted the Valinoreans to take Sindarin lessons. This would have rendered the need for the Noldor and Sindar to learn each other languages when the Finweans met them. The initial language barrier, however, is actually quite plainly written in The Silmarillion.  

Now in Mithrim there dwelt Grey-elves, folk of Beleriand that had wandered north over the mountains, and the Noldor met them with gladness, as kinsfolk long sundered; but speech at first was not easy between them, for in their long severance the tongues of the Calaquendi in Valinor and of the Moriquendi in Beleriand had drawn far apart. From the Elves of Mithrim the Noldor learned of the power of Elu Thingol, King in Doriath, and the girdle of enchantment that fenced his realm; and tidings of these great deeds in the north came south to Menegroth, and to the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest. Then all the Elves of Beleriand were filled with wonder and with hope at the coming of their mighty kindred, who thus returned unlocked-for from the West in the very hour of their need, believing indeed at first that they came as emissaries of the Valar to deliver them. — Quenta Silmarillion, Of the return of the Noldor

This also explains what I referred to right above the first point, and the part I highlighted proves both my first and second points as well.

I hope these six points at least somewhat show you why I think that the paragraph (from the essay) quoted above is a complete bullock, and after this point, it does not get better. As I have already hinted, this essay is almost the complete opposite of the article Elven naming tradition of Valinor in precision.

But would there be any naming traditions that they didn’t already have? From a linguistic point of view, there is a striking similarity to the Sindarin word “eneth” and the Quenya word “anesse”, suggesting that the Úmanyar also have Given-names. Denethor (which originally was a Common Eldarin name, “Denitháró – Lithe and Lank”) is obviously an Epesse, given to the hero who saved the Nandor. Another example of an Epesse given before the languages had truly split is Elwê’s name, “Thindikollo – Grey Cloak.” It refers to his silver hair.

The question and the following sentence are all right though the accents on every single Elvish moniker and on the word anessë are wrong. Also, Denethor is the name of a Nandorin elf and the Nandor were counted as both Moriquendi and Úmanyar whereas the Eldar came from Aman, therefore Common Eldarin could not be possibly spoken by any elf who never went to the Blessed realms in their life. And, the Primitive Elvish form of Denethor was Denethara not Denitháró, assuming that the essay’s writer indeed meant Primitive Elvish by ‘Common Eldarin’. This error is followed by the misspelling of the word epessë twice in a row and then writing wrongly both Elwë’s name and his after-name since the proper Primitive Elvish form of his epessë is Thindigollo. The writer mayhap confused it with its archaic Quenya form, Þindikollo. What this nickname actually referred to I will not argue about, because theirs is as good a guess as any.

The Parentless Elves (the Elves who first awoke on the shores of Cuiviénen and who therefore have neither parents nor a birth at all) all have Chosen-Names. While the Noldor glorified and enshrined this quite a bit, we don’t know to what extent the other cultures developed this; we can guess that they also could choose their own names, like their fore-fathers did. Also, there may be the odd occasion wherein an Elf decides to leave their old names behind, and go by an Alias, so that type of Chosen-name we can’t rule out either. There is little in the way of evidence of Mother-Names, but it seems unlikely that they wouldn’t also exist, as any Elven woman is capable of having insight in the hour of birth into her child’s future life and personality. Therefore, I contend that Mother-names are also possible.

What these paragraphs describe, I can agree with, only I would add that if the Úmanyar elves naming conventions were so similar to those coming from Valinor then Tolkien would have mentioned it in any of his writings left behind and thus we, fans, too would be more certain concerning this. 

Finally, the Father-Name. We know that in an earlier version, of his Elven language history, Tolkien made a way to have Father-names for the Ilkorin Elves (uncivilized Elves outside the Elven cities) from a note in the Etymologies. They have a different sort of Fathername, which is completely unlike the Quenya or Sindarin Fathernames, wherein “go-” is prefixed onto a parent’s name. Also, this sort of name is just convenient.

The essay’s writer knew about Ilkorin so they should be also aware that J. R. R. Tolkien had phases in which he evolved the elvish dialects. For those who are not aware, Tolkien polished his fantasy languages through three phases: there was an early (1910-1930), a middle (1930-1950) and a late period (1950-1973) and Eldamo.org (https://eldamo.org/index.html) is a splendid site for etymology freaks not unlike myself. If you open the website you will see in the Language Index that Ilkorin (or Doriathrin) is an elvish dialect in the Middle Period.

What my problem is, if the article’s writer was aware of the Ilkorin elves then they should also know about these Periods and then they should also know that Tolkien, as a linguist, was very detail-oriented. Not mentioning that go- was the Gnomish prefix for patronyms and exclusively meant ‘son of’; not ‘not daughter of’ not ‘child of’, but its explicitly written down that go- stood for ‘son of’. In Ilkorin, it was simply go (‘from, away; patronymic’) and Tolkien demonstrated its use in the phrase Luithien go Thingol which translates into ‘Luithien, child of Thingol’. (By the way, Luithien is a variation of Lúthien.)

Also, a patronymic is not the same as a father-name neither in principle or practice. While a father-name could, and in most cases of the Eldar did, contain an element from either parent name, in Tolkien’s world, a patronymic was constructed by swapping -ion or -iel after the parent’s name. For example, Gildor Inglorion (“Gildor, son of Inglor”), Aragorn Arathornion (“Aragorn, son of Arathorn”), Arwen Elrenniel (“Arwen, daughter of Elrond”) and, in the first Peter Jackson movie, there was Legolas Thranduilion (Legolas, son of Thranduil).

“ In conclusion, I believe that the naming traditions of the Eldar come from the shores of Cuiviénen, and therefore aren’t completely different amongst the sundered Elves. That being said, I believe that the Úmanyar’s names are structured like this:

Indeed, the Eldarin naming conventions must have come from the shores of Cuiviénen, but since the writer already confused the Eldar and the Dark Elves once, I believe they meant the elves staying behind in the Hither Lands. And I have already mentioned this a bit more above, but for clarity’s sake: if the Úmanyar’s naming traditions were similar to the Exiles’ own, Tolkien would have mentioned it either in The Silmarillion or one of the Appendixes.

1. The first name is a Father name, with some portion of the father or mother’s name in it, and probably ending in -ien, -iel, or -ion. There probably would be some sort of ceremony or celebration for the parents to show off their new child, and let everyone know of its existence, wherein they would also tell everyone their new baby’s name. This name probably had very little personal significance, and could be used by outsiders.

What they wrote I have never ever seen in amongst Sindarin names. (On Eldamo you will find the whole list of names Tolkien has ever committed to paper.) But the patronymics sure can be used by anybody to address other elves, though I imagine that would be similar to how we address people by their surnames.

2. The second name describes the Elf’s personality. It is chosen later in life, when the Elf’s personality has taken form. For the Úmanyar, gaining linguistic ability and intelligence isn’t as highly prized as it is for the Noldor, so there probably isn’t a Name-Choosing ceremony amongst the Úmanyar. I do think that there can be more than one of these names, possibly one given by the mother, using her unique insight into her child’s personality and future. This name probably was much more intimate and personal for the Elf who had it, so using it would require a personal relationship. It would be rude for outsiders to use this name.

I reckon it would be more precise to say the name somehow does describe the elf, but one would indeed have to get to know him or her better for that. As I said above, I do not believe that there would be any equivalent to ataressë or amilessë amongst the Úmanyar, and as the essay’s writer noted the Úmanyar did not prize linguistics as much as the Valinorean elves did. I think it is more probable that a child’s parents together chose a name they thought would befit them, but anyone could address them by that if they knew it.

3. The third name is an Epesse of some sort, or a professional’s title. It can be descriptive of some event the Elf is well known for, the place that such an event took place, or some outstanding physical or mental feature that the Elf is well known for. Other than titles of nobility, Tolkien wrote about two professional titles: Celebrimbor for silver smiths and Tegilbor for scribes. So we can infer that people were sometimes referred to by their occupation instead of their name. ”

Again, I feel I need to specify the things written better. What I concluded from the name list on Eldamo, an epessë can become a professional title and vice-versa a professional title can become an epessë. For example, there is the Telerin Nówë who is mostly known by his epessë, Círdan which consists of the word círdan (‘shipwright, shipbuilder’) and it is simply an occupation used as a moniker; he was probably the most excellent in this craft or he might have been the one who founded it. The same might be the case with Tegilbor.

Celebrimbor is a bit of a complicated case… If we take The Silmarillion as canon then he was a Noldo, but in other texts, he was either a Teler or a Sinda or his lineage is not specified at all. Within the stub Concerning Galadriel and Celeborn in the chapter The History of Galadriel and Celeborn in the Unfinished Tales (c. 1959), there is a mention about the Noldo Celebrimbor that he wished for his skill and fame to rival Fëanor’s own. I think an ambitious person like that would prefer if it would be his personal name to become renowned and not an occupational title made into epessë. In a text called Eldarin Hands, Fingers and Numerals from c. 1968, Celebrimbor is a Telerin elf who accompanied Celeborn into his exile to Middle-earth and according to this text, Celebrimbor was indeed an epithet for famous silver-smiths amongst the Teleri. However, in a later text titled as Of Dwarves and Men from c. 1969, Celebrimbor is depicted as a Sinda and son of the minstrel Daeron. As I have already cleared that a professional title can become epessë then it is very probable that his real name was something else but he was so outstanding in silver-smithing that he was just referred to as Celebrimbor. (In this point I had worked hard to deliberately put aside my own preference of a Fëanorian Noldo Celebrimbror because I am such a big simp for the Fëanorians! So, I suppose it is not surprising that I am glad that in the latest known versions of The Silmarillion he was made to be Curufin’s son and this will always remain my canon too!)

General Facts About Elven Names in Middle-earth • Since the Elves of Middle-earth are so spread out, it’s unlikely that everyone could know what everyone’s names are, and if they ended up with the same name, they wouldn’t know it. Even so, they don’t take names they know are being used by someone else. To do so would create confusion. So, the names of famous historical figures wouldn’t be taken as chosen names, and I doubt an Elven mother would give their child the name of someone famous. Using someone else’s name is considered trying to impersonate them. There is no Elven equivalent to “John Smith”.

This is a very valid point and there is nothing wrong with it, plus I 100% agree with it.

• Elves don’t share their Father-names when they marry. Their names are unchanged, except for the romantic nicknames they call each other.

Although the writer confuses patronymic and father-name again, what they say is yet again correct. A famous example of this is Galadriel; her ataressë was Artanis (“Noble Woman”) and her amilessë was Nerwen (“Man-maiden”) whereas the moniker Galadriel was an epessë bestowed by Celeborn, but since she found this the most beautiful amongst her epessi it became her chosen name.

• Elves’ names change as the language around them changes. This is also why Legolas is sometimes called “Greenleaf.” It is simply the translation of his name into Westron, not a surname.

This also might seem appropriate even though I do not agree with it. Let’s use Legolas’ name again as an example: it is indeed translated as “Greenleaf” but it is a Nandorin and not a Sindarin name so the proper Sindarin moniker would be Laegolas. However, the Sindarin word laeg (“fresh and green, viridis, green (of leaves/herbiage”) was, by the Third Age, already an archaic one replaced by calen (“green; fresh, vigorous; †bright”). So, due to this example, I suppose it becomes a bit more understandable why I do not completely agree with it, but let me give another instance using Elrond’s name. The nomen uses the Sindarin elements êl (“star”) and rond (“(vaulted or arched) roof; vaulted chamber or cavern; heavens [as a roof of the world]”). By the third Age êl, just like laeg, became an archaic word and gil (“star; (bright) spark, silver glint, twinkle of light”) replaced it in speech. Therefore, if the statement is wholly true then Elrond would call himself Gilrond in the Third Age, just as Legolas would rather use Calenlas, because the first elements of their names became archaic and fell out of common use. This reasoning just sounds stupid, isn’t it? Well, this is what the writer apparently says. An elf’s name does not change if the bearer themselves do not wish to change it. Plus, if the names would also change with the language then that means they would also change in the written chronicles and if you are not a linguist this would be plainly confusing. Like, they would refer to Elu Thingol as Gilu Thingol and you would not know that Elu and Gilu describe the same person unless you are a loremaster. Fortunately, this is not so; the writer’s statement is true to the degree that a word corresponding to the linguistics of the age would more likely be used as a name element, but I say that is not always the case, Legolas is a good example of this. Also, Greenleaf was also used along with his given name (like ‘Legolas Greenleaf’) and never alone.

• Elves never use the names of Eru, the Valar, or Maiar as their own. It’s considered trying to become or impersonate a god. Similarly, they aren’t named abstract concepts like “Justice, Mercy, Love, Victory, Life, Death” or the names of countries or natural things like “Star, River, Fire, Earth, Sea”. Names referencing these things usually indicate the person’s relationship with them, like Gaerdil (sea-lover) or Edennil (human-lover). Names about one’s ethnicity or homeland are usually indirect references, like Legolas (green-leaf), which references his homeland (Mirkwood is called the “forest of green-leaf” in Sindarin) and his ethnicity as a Legel (green-elf). A name referencing something like stars or rivers and so on wouldn’t just be “Star” or “River”, but would be compound name, showing in what way the character is like the thing, like “Thranduil” (vigorous-river) who has a river running through his home. The name is suggesting that he’s energetic and strong as this river. Barring Ataressi, names are usually descriptive of the elf, often just an adjective with a name suffix added or a description of a specific characteristic. So, names like Arwen (noble maiden) or Glorfindel (golden-hair) are the most common.

I agree with this point utterly, only there are a few inaccuracies concerning the brought-up examples. Legolas was not a ‘Legel’, he was a Sinda or Grey elf, though that does not mean he cannot be a Laegel –as the Sindar referred to a Green elf–, however, the elves who dwelt in both Lothlórien and Mirkwood were called the collective term Tawarwaith (“Forest People”). Even though they indeed descended from the Green Elves they were referred to as Silvan Elves by the Third Age. Also, the moniker Thranduil means “Vigorous Spring” and it contains the Sindar adjective tharan (“vigorous”) and the noun tuil (“spring” as in the season). Regarding Arwen’s ordinariness as a name, well it is indeed a simply constructed nomen so it is indeed highly possible that there might have be other Arwen out there in Middle-earth, but no other Arwen had the after-name Undómiel (“Evenstar”) as this was only beared by the daughter of Elrond. Moreover, this was a Quenya epessë and thus was very unique in the Third Age where Sindarin was the Middle-earth-wide spoken language whereas Quenya was in position as Latin is in our world and current age. And concerning Glorfindel, its wearer was originally a Noldo from Valinor and the Noldor usually have dark hair, so one who was born with golden blond tresses counted as extraordinary and was unusual in Middle-earth too, especially by the Third Age when the other (mentioned) golden-haired elf is Thranduil, and this could not be more canon as it is since Tolkien himself wrote it. Galadriel got her name due to her luxurious gold-silver hairlocks as it was highly unusual, to say the least; it was quite a big deal for elves to see such hair colour. So, it was not likely to encounter another Glorfindel in Middle-earth as he was a well-known figure by the Third Age when most of the elven population had dark hair with the occasional silver in Telerin bloodlines like Celebrían and Celeborn.

And finally, I would like to give my own observations about elvish names in Tolkien’s universe also serving as an extension to the last point above. Since I mentioned the Third Age and Sindarin so much, let us begin with the Grey Elven names. I will discuss both genuine Sindarin names and Sindarinized Noldorin names, though I will write the equivalents of Quenya and Sindarin suffixes, if there are such, in parentheses. Also, an asterisk* behind a nomen will be marked as (known) epessi while the names translated from the other dialect will be underlined.

Generally used feminine suffixes in Sindarin:

-dis (Q -nis) ‘female agent’ or ‘bride’

-eth (Q -issë) ‘feminine ending’

-iel (Q -iel) ‘daughter; feminine suffix’

-ien (Q -ien) ‘feminine ending’

-il, -el (Q -iel) ‘feminine suffix’

-wen (Q -wen) ‘maiden, feminine suffix’

In the Sindarin utilized by elves -iel specifically never appears as part of the elf’s chosen name only when it is used in an epithet or patronymic. See Ar-Feiniel, Elrenniel, Gilthoniel, Tinúviel for instance, all of them function as an epessë would and are not the actual name of the person in question as Gilthoniel was an appellation of Varda in Sindarin. However, -iel and its variants in Mannish Sindarin were more likely to be used in given names than the suffix would have been in Elvish names. See Berúthiel, Fíriel, Ivriniel, Lothiriel and Niniel for example.

Female Elvish names: Aredhel, Ar-Feiniel*, Arwen, Astoreth, Celebrían, Celebrindal* (Q Tyeleptalëa), Edhellos, Elrenniel*, Elwing, Faelivrin*, Finduilas, Galadriel*, Gilmith, Gilthoniel*, Gladhwen, Idril, Íreth, Laewen, Lindis, Lúthien, Melian, Mithrellas, Nellas, Nimloth, Nimrodel, Rodwen, Tinúviel*

Female Mannish names: Adanel, Andreth, Berúthiel, Eledhwen*, Emeldir, Finduilas, Fíriel, Galadwen, Gilraen, Glóredhel, Ioreth, Ivorwen, Ivriniel, Lalaith, Lothiriel, Meldis, Morwen, Niniel, Rían, Saelind*, Urwen

Generally used masculine suffixes in Sinadrin:

-bor (Q -quar) ‘fist’

-dil, -nil (Q -(n)dil) ‘friend, lover’

-dir, -nir (Q -ner) ‘man’ as in the sense of ‘male person’

-dor (Q -tur) ‘king, lord’

-hir ‘lord’

-ion (Q -ion) ‘son’

-on (Q -ndo) ‘masculine suffix’

-or ‘agental suffix’

-(r )on ‘agental suffix’

-u (Q -wë) ‘a person or being’

Masculine names are a bit more trickier. Male elves, or all elves in general, are more likely to use compound names that are built up of words inspired by the physical world, especially by nature. See Celeborn, Legolas, Malgalad, Oropher, Saeros, and Thranduil for example. The suffix -u was used only once in Elu’s (“Star Person”) moniker in The Silmarillion. Meanwhile, the usage of -ion is mostly limited to after-names and patronymics. The other suffixes are common in both Elvish and Mannish names be they given names or epessi but perhaps the Men had tended to prefer -dil/-nil, -dir/-nir, -dor and -hir a little better than the Elves did. However, these are merely my own musings as the Sindarin name list on Edalmo contains literally all the names including place names, epessi, weapon and animal names as well, though Mannish names are the majority of personal names in the list. Here, however, I will be focusing on the names of people.

Male Elvish names: Aegnor (or Goenor), Aerandir, Amras, Amrod, Amroth, Angrod, Annael, Aramund, Aranel*, Arminas, Arothir, Astoron, Beleg, Bronwe, Caranthir, Celeborn, Celebrimbor, Círdan*, Curufin, Cúthalion*, Daeron, Denethor, Dior, Duilin, Ecthelion, Edennil* Edrahil, Egalmoth, Elladan, Elrohir, Elrond, Elros, Elu, Eluchíl*, Eluréd, Elurín, Enerdhil, Ereinion*, Erellont, Erestor, Ergammon, Faenor (or Fëanor), Falathar, Felagon*, Felagund*, Finarfin, Findor, Finellach*, Fingolfin, Fingon, Finrod, Fin (or Finu), Finwain*, Firindil*, Gaerdil, Galadhon, Galdor, Gelennil, Gelmir, Gildor, Gil-galad, Glindúr, Guilin, Gwindor, Haldir, Inglor, Legolas (or Laegolas), Lindir, Mablung, Maedhros*, Maeglin, Maglor, Ornil, Oropher, Orophin, Pengologh, Peredhel*, Rasmund, Rodnor*, Rúmil, Tarmund, Tegilbor, Thingol*, Thinrod, Thranduil

Male Mannish names: Adanedhel*, Agarwaen*, Amlaith, Amrothos, Anborn, Angbor, Aradan, Arador, Araglas, Aragorn, Aragost, Arahad, Arahael, Aranarth, Aranuir, Araphant, Araphor, Arassuil, Arathorn, Araval, Aravir, Aravorn, Argeleb, Argonui, Arvedui, Arvegil, Arveleg, Baragund, Barahir, Baranor, Baravorn, Belecthor, Beregar, Beregond, Beren, Bergil, Bór, Borlach, Borlad, Borlas, Boromir, Borondir, Borthand, Brandir, Bregolas, Camlost*, Celebrindor, Cirion, Dagnir, Dairuin, Damrod, Denethor, Derufin, Dervorin, Dírhael, Duilin, Duinhir, Edelharn*, Egalmoth, Eladar, Ecthelion, Elphir, Eradan, Erchamion*, Erchirion, Estel*, Faramir, Findegil, Fuinur, Galdor, Galador, Gilbarad, Gildor, Glirhuin, Glórindol, Gorthol*, Gundor, Hador, Halbarad, Haldir, Hallas, Handir, Hathhaldir, Hathol, Henderch, Herion, Hirgon, Hirluin, Húrin, Iorlas, Labadal, Malbeth, Mallor, Malvegil, Mormegil*, Naeramarth*, Neithan*, Orchaldor, Radhruin, Ragnir, Ragnor, Sador, Saelon, Targon, Telchandir*,Thalion, Thorondir, Thorongil*, Thurin*, Thuringud, Turamarth, Túrin, Udalraph*, Uldor, Ulfang, Ulfast, Ulwarth, Úmarth*, Urthel

Generally used feminine suffixes in Quenya:

-ë female names often end in this

-ië another usual feminine ending

-iel (S -iel,-il,-el) ‘-daughter; feminine suffix’ also ‘feminine patronymic’

-ien (S -ien) ‘feminine ending; feminine patronymic, -daughter’

-issë (S -eth) ‘ending in feminine names’

-ldë ‘feminine agent’

-llë  ‘feminine agent’

-ndë ‘feminine agent’

-nis (S -dis) ‘woman’ as in ‘female person’

-wen (S -wen) it is the suffix form of the archaic version of vendë, meaning  ‘maiden’

Like the Sindar and with the sole exception of Míriel (Fëanor’s mother), Quenya-speaker elves do not use -iel in their cilmessi neither they have it in their ataressi or amilessi. However, it is heavily used in the case of epessi and when they refer to a female by their parent –usually the father– in the form of patronymics. Just like the Men of Middle-earth, Númenóreans and later also the Men of Númenórean descent, prefer to utilize -iel, -ien and their variants in their nomina than any other alternatives mentioned above. See Ailinel, Almarian, Almiel, Míriel (also known as Ar-Zimraphel), Silmarien, Telperien, Tindómiel, and Yávien. Also, the Númenórean were more prone to use the Valar’s name in their own: Nessanië, Uinéniel, Vardilmë.

Female Elvish compound names: Amarië, Anairë, Artanis, Eärwen, Eldalótë, Elenwë, Findis, Ilwen, Indis, Írimë, Írissë, Itarillë, Lalwendë, Míriel, Nerdanel, Nerwen, Serindë*, Tyeleptalëa*, Undómiel*        

Female Mannish compound names: Ailinel, Almarian, Almiel, Ancalimë, Elestírnë, Erendis, Írildë, Isilmë, Lindissë, Lindórië, Mairen, Míriel, Nessanië, Silmarien, Telperien, Tindómiel, Unéniel, Vanimeldë, Vardilmë, Yávien

Generally used masculine suffixes in Quenya:

-ion (S -ion) ‘-son, masculine patronymic’

-mo ‘agental suffix’

-(n)dil Variants: -dil, -nil, -ndil (S -dil, -nil) ‘-friend, -lover; devotion, disinterested love’

-(n)dur Variants: -dur, -nur, -ndur ‘servant; to serve’

-ndo (S -on) ‘masculine agent’

-r(o) Variants: -r, -ro ‘agental suffix’

-wë (S -u) ‘ancient name suffix (usually but not always masculine)’

Similarly to the cases above, Elves are more likely to use compound names that may contain one of the mentioned suffixes, particularly in their epessi, whereas Men, especially the Númenóreans, usually stick with -ion, -(n)dil and -(n)dur. The following instances are all from Eldamo’s Quenya name list and I deliberately wrote down every moniker worn by Men and elves related to this matter so my point will be seen. Also, with the exception of Lómion which is Maeglin’s amilessë, and the only instance in Quenya when -ion is used in a mother-name, all the other nomina utilizing -ion is a patronymic. Urundil is the epessë of Mahtan who is Nerdanel’s father and thus Fëanor’s father-in-law and Eärendil was actually ‘just’ half-elven so his name is also listed below as well. Aulendur however is more of a title for Noldor who entered into the service of the Vala Aulë rather than it is an actual personal name. As opposed to the Elvish names, the Men were a bit less squeamish to use a Vala’s name in their own.

Male Elvish names: Aicanáro, Ambaráto, Ambarto, Ambarussa, Angamaitë, Angaráto, Aracáno, Arafinwë, Aranwë, Aranwion*, Artafindë, Artanáro*, Artaresto, Atarincë, Atyarussa, Aulendur*, Canafinwë, Carnistir, Ciryatan*, Curufinwë, Eärendil, Elemmacil, Elerondo, Elerossë, Elmo, Elwë, Fëanáro, Findaráto, Findecáno, Finwë, Finwion*, Ingalaurë, Ingoldo, Ingwë, Ingwion*, Laicolassë, Laurefindelë, Lenwë, Lómion, Macalaurë, Mahtan, Maitimo, Minyarussa, Minyon*, Morifinwë, Morwë, Nelyafinwë, Nolofinwë, Nurwë, Olwë, Pityafinwë, Quengoldo, Russandol, Sarafinwë, Sarmo, Sindicollo*, Telperinquar, Telufinwë, Tyelcormo, Turucáno, Umbarto, Urundil*, Voronwë              

Male Mannish compound names: Aldamir, Aldarion, Amandil, Anardil, Anárion, Ancalimon, Anducal, Aracorno, Arantar, Arciryas, Ardamin, Ardamir, Artamir, Atanalcar, Atanamir, Aulendil, Axantur, Calimehtar, Calimmacil, Calion, Caliondo, Calmacil, Castamir, Cemendur, Ciryaher, Ciryandil, Ciryatur, Ciryon, Eärendil, Eärendur, Eärnil, Eärnur, Elatan, Elendil, Elendur, Eldacar, Eldarion, Elentirmo, Elessar*, Envinyatar*, Estelmo, Falassion, Falastur, Hallacar, Hallatan, Herucalmo, Herumor, Herunúmen, Hostamir, Hyarmendacil, Írimon, Isildur, Isilmo, Malantur, Mámandil, Manwendil, Mardil, Meneldil, Meneldur,Minalcar, Minardil, Minastan, Minastir, Minohtar, Minyatur, Narmacil, Nolondil, Nólimon, Númellótë, Númendil, Ohtar, Ondoher, Ornendil, Oromendil, Orontor, Ostoher, Palantir, Parmaitë, Pelendur, Quennar, Rómendacil, Siriondil, Súrion, Tarannon, Tarciryan, Tarondor, Tarostar, Telcontar, Telemmaitë, Telemnar, Turambar, Ulmondil, Umbardacil, Úner, Valacar, Valandil, Valandur, Vardamir, Vëantur, Vinyarion, Vorondil

[kenzdolls]

JAX RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS .

⌗ pairing: (tadc) jax x gn! reader

⌗ warnings: lowercase intended, has spoilers of ep 5

⌗ a/n: idk i did this since I’m trying to reach out to other fandoms (yes i’m doing all the characters i have free will)..also since my inbox is dry, i’m asking…PLEASE SEND ME REQUESTS MY BRAIN IS FRYING FROM WRITERS BLOCK

FIRST TIME MEETING:

▹ jax literally does NOT care when you first arrive because he's seen too many newbies lose their minds within the first week (he's learned not to get attached too quickly after what happened with ribbit)

▹ probably pranks you on your literal first day because "welcome to hell, might as well get used to it now" but then feels weirdly guilty about it later??? like he'll leave a small apology gift outside your room (probably stolen from someone else's room tbh)

▹ gets annoyed when you don't immediately break down or start crying like most new people do - where's the entertainment in that??? you're just… adapting??? (this bothers him more than it should)

▹ starts paying attention to you when you either: 1) successfully prank him back, 2) don't rat him out when caine asks who put glitter in ragatha's hair, or 3) laugh at his jokes even when everyone else is giving him death glares

▹ definitely steals your room key within the first week just to see what you're hiding but then gets genuinely curious about your little personal space and the weird way you've arranged everything

▹ makes fun of whatever coping mechanism you've developed but secretly takes notes because holy shit you're actually handling this better than he did

▹ starts doing that thing where he "accidentally" bumps into you during adventures or walks just a little too close when caine isn't looking (personal space who???)

▹ probably gives you a stupid nickname based on either: something embarrassing that happened to you, your appearance, or just to annoy you (spoiler alert: he keeps using it even when you start dating)

▹ gets genuinely confused when you start talking to him like he's a actual person and not just the "funny mean rabbit" because??? people don't usually do that??? ribbit was the last person who really saw him as jax and not just comic relief

HIM CRUSHING ON YOU:

▹ this man is in DENIAL with a capital D - like he'll literally tell himself "i don't like them, i just think they're less annoying than the others" while actively going out of his way to spend time with you

▹ starts hoarding little things that remind him of you (a button that fell off your outfit, a drawing you doodled during a boring caine explanation, etc.) but will DIE before admitting it

▹ gets weirdly protective but tries to play it off as "you're MY entertainment, nobody else gets to mess with you" but really he's terrified of losing another person he cares about

▹ begins pranking you more but they're like… softer pranks??? like putting fake spiders in your bed (but making sure they're not the kind that actually scare you) or rearranging your room (but not actually breaking anything important)

▹ starts having those moments where he'll say something genuinely sweet/supportive but then IMMEDIATELY follow it up with an insult to maintain his image ("you're not completely terrible at this… for an idiot")

▹ catches himself staring at you during adventures and gets MAD about it - like why are you so distracting??? he has chaos to cause and you're just… existing??? attractively??? rude.

▹ probably has a minor crisis about his feelings because the last person he really cared about was ribbit and we all know how that ended (he's absolutely terrified of caring about someone again)

▹ gets jealous when other circus members get your attention but won't admit it - instead he'll just insert himself into conversations or create distractions to get focus back on him

▹ starts doing that thing where he remembers really specific details about you (your favorite corner to sit in, how you fidget when you're anxious, what makes you laugh) but acts like he doesn't pay attention to anyone

▹ has definitely had at least one dream about you and woke up SO MAD about it because feelings are WEAKNESS and he doesn't DO weakness

▹ begins testing the waters with more physical contact - "accidentally" grabbing your hand during adventures, leaning against you when he's "tired," finding excuses to be in your personal space

▹ gets genuinely upset when you're having a bad day but doesn't know how to help without compromising his reputation, so he'll just… be less mean to everyone that day (the others notice and are confused)

YOU DATING HIM:

▹ asking you out was probably the most awkward thing he's ever done because he had to drop the act for like 0.5 seconds to be genuine and he HATED every second of it (but your reaction made it worth it)

▹ your relationship is 70% banter and 30% genuine sweet moments when he thinks nobody is looking and 100% him being terrified you'll abstract and leave him like ribbit did

▹ still pranks you but now it's "couple pranks" - like putting fake love letters in your room signed from other circus members just to see you get flustered, or rearranging your stuff to spell out "I LOVE YOU" (but then denying he did it)

▹ gets SUPER jealous but tries to play it off as possessiveness - "that's MY idiot you're talking to" (he's not fooling anyone, he's just insecure)

▹ shows affection through: stealing things for you, letting you win at games sometimes, sharing his food, and most importantly - telling you his real thoughts instead of just sarcastic quips

▹ absolutely MELTS when you play with his ears but will threaten anyone who points it out (his ears do that little twitch thing when he's happy and you're the only one who gets to see it)

▹ has nightmares about you abstracting and will sometimes wake up and just… need to see you to make sure you're okay (he'll make up some excuse about being bored or wanting to prank someone)

▹ starts including you in his pranks as a partner rather than a target - you two become the WORST duo and everyone else suffers for it (but secretly they think it's cute that jax is happy)

▹ gets genuinely soft when you're upset about the whole "being trapped forever" thing because he KNOWS that feeling and doesn't want you to go through it alone like he did

▹ probably has a secret stash of things he's made/found for you that he's too embarrassed to give you directly, so he just leaves them places you'll find them

▹ learns your triggers and genuinely tries to avoid them in his pranks/jokes because making you laugh is good, making you hurt is NOT (growth!!!)

▹ gets scared when you're too quiet or seem distant because what if you're starting to abstract what if he's losing you what if what if what if so he'll just hover around you until you're acting normal again

▹ your first kiss was probably during a really dangerous adventure when he thought one of you might not make it out, and he just couldn't leave things unsaid (very dramatic, very him)

▹ now he's stuck between his fear of losing you and his genuine happiness at having you, so he's like… aggressively affectionate but also constantly worried (someone get this rabbit some therapy)

▹ starts planning little dates within the circus - like setting up movie nights in the common area or finding ways to get you both out of adventures so you can just hang out

▹ definitely practices saying "i love you" in his room before he actually says it to you (and when he finally does, it's probably during an argument where he just blurts it out and then gets embarrassed)

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare @boreaswrites [OPEN]

✦ REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ✦

© KENZDOLLS 2025 . do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work in anyway including the use of ai onto any other social media platforms or it will permit an instant block on all platforms.

[chanelrolls]

kneel, caleb.

synopsis. your subordinate, caleb, has always been the ideal employee. but appearances deceive, don't they? there's no way your perfect junior is a massive perv... spoiler alert: he is.

content. afab!fem reader, office au, caleb pov, creepy & obsessive behavior, gaslighting, unsactioned spying, perverse actions, workplace malpractice, masturbation, p in v, oral (f!receiving), mouthspitting, desk sex, caleb is just an overall gross stalker, could be dubcon.

READ AT UR OWN RISK !

a/n. hi! just wanna give a heads-up that caleb might be a liiiittle ooc here since i wanted to try a powerplay dynamic between him and you, with caleb formerly being the bottom. basically, a pathetic yearning submissive!caleb :3 (but he'll dom in the end)

wc. 4k

The hum of the office printers and the soft taps of the keyboards were the routine background music to Caleb's workday. It was a monotonous cadence that had long since stopped to register in his head.

Today, though, those sounds felt like a mocking grate.

He sat at his desk, trying to silence the pounding of his heartbeat. His crisp khaki shirt clung to his broad shoulders down to his back from a sheen of sweat. Then, his fingers, usually so precise, trembled over the keyboard.

He had meant to print the latest client proposal for his superior, you, to review. Such a simple request, and yet, he had fucked up. In a catastrophic lapse of his usual meticulousness, a single, misplaced keystroke had sent his most lewd and explicit writings to the communal printer. Pages upon pages of detailed smut that featured him splitting you wide open on his cock. The printer that everyone, including his manager, used. Sheet by damning sheet were now spilling out for the entire world to see.

Fuck. How could I mix up the damn files? Why didn’t I double-check?

He berated himself internally for the slip up. Propelled into action by sheer panic, Caleb shot up from his chair. His typically measured stride broke into an uncharacteristic sprint, each urgent step towards the printer room amplifying the dread that clutched at his throat.

Throughout, his mind was ablaze with the potential fallout; the scandal would be career-ending, soul-crushing. His perfect professional image, the one he had so carefully constructed, was on the brink of shattering.

All because of a fucking misclick.

As he neared the doorway, time seemed to contort, stretching the seconds into lifetimes. His only hope was to snatch away the filth before any eyes, especially those of his superior, could take it in.

But as fate would have it, the universe conspired against him. Just as he was about to lunge for the papers, a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

You.

Oh, fuck me.

With no time to think and everything to lose, Caleb settled for a risky plan. His stride slowed, attempting nonchalance. "Ah, Y/n, just the person I was hoping to catch," he blurted out, his voice a strained mimicry of casualness.

"There's been a slight hiccup with the proposal I was printing for you. It seems the printer has pulled the wrong file from the queue." The lie was a gamble, a last-ditch effort to deflect from the horror of the situation. "I'll sort this out and bring the correct one to your office shortly. My apologies for the inconvenience."

His plea to the deities was silent, desperate: Take the bait. Please, for the love of God, take the fucking bait, don’t question it, and walk away.

There was just no plausible explanation for why he had multiple pages describing you as his pathetic cock sleeve, stupid cum rag, bitch in heat, and other similar obscene names.

Caleb refrained from allowing his eyes to dart towards the incriminating evidence hanging from the printer tray like a sordid tapestry, not wanting to draw further attention to it. Standing rigidly, every fibre of his being willed you to accept his words, to leave the room without a second glance. His future, his reputation, his very sanity hung in the balance, suspended by the slender thread of a hastily conjured lie.

You paused at the doorway, brow furrowing slightly as you take in Caleb's flustered state. His shirt was a bit rumpled, hair slightly disheveled, and his eyes had an oddly unusual stern look. It was a far cry from his usual put-together demeanor. You couldn't help but notice the way his gaze darted nervously to the printer and back to you.

Something's not right here.

"A hiccup?" you asked, arching an eyebrow. "I don't have time for printer malfunctions, Caleb. I need that proposal on my desk within the hour." Your voice came firm, a subtle undercurrent of warning beneath the professional tone.

Caleb swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your gaze like a physical pressure on his chest. Fuck, she's not buying it, he panicked internally.

"Of course, I apologize for the delay. I assure you, it will be resolved shortly," he replied, his voice strained. He was wracking his brain for a way to salvage this situation. He couldn't let you see the depravity spilling from the printer, the explicit details of his obsession with you splayed out for all to see.

Desperate, he took a step closer to you, his hand outstretched in a placating gesture. "Perhaps we could discuss the changes you wanted to the proposal in your office? I have a few...notes I jotted down earlier that I think you'll find useful," he said, his tone a careful balance of deference and subtle manipulation.

If I can just get her out of here, away from the printer and those fucking papers, I can contain this disaster.

You hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing as you studied Caleb's face. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding something, that there was an undercurrent of desperation in his manner. But the mention of the changes you had requested gave you a pause. You did need the proposal, and if Caleb had the notes, then perhaps it was better to hear him out in the privacy of your office.

"Very well," you said finally, turning on your heel. "But make it quick, please. I have a meeting in thirty minutes that I can't miss."

As you walked out, Caleb felt a wave of relief wash over him. That was too fucking close. He turned to the printer, his hands shaking as he gathered up the incriminating pages, stuffing them into his briefcase. I can't let her see this, I can't let anyone see this, he repeated like a mantra.

You settle into the plush leather chair behind your desk. You watched as Caleb hurried in after you, his movements hurried and frazzled. He was acting even stranger than before, eyes darting around your office nervously.

He's up to something. But what?

"Alright, Caleb, let's see these notes you mentioned," you hold out your hand expectantly. You leaned forward, elbows on your desk, and fixed him with a penetrating stare.

Caleb swallowed hard. His mouth suddenly felt dry. Think, you fucking idiot, think. He berated himself. He couldn't show you the real notes, not with the depraved shit he'd written about you splashed all over them.

"Ah, yes, of course," he stammered, fumbling with his briefcase. In truth, he was buying time, trying to come up with a plausible lie.

I can't let her see those pages, I can't let her know how I've been fantasizing about her, he thought desperately. But I need to give her something to keep her off my trail.

In a moment of inspiration, he pulled out a sheet of paper, scrawling a few generic notes about the proposal. It was thin, but it would have to do.

"Here," he hands you the sheet. "I thought we could lead with the data analysis section, highlight the key insights that drive the strategy. And perhaps emphasize the cost-saving initiatives on the next page to frame the financial benefits..." He droned on, his voice taking on a professional cadence. But inside, his mind was becoming a whirlwind of panic and lust.

Even during such a moment, Caleb couldn't help himself but to trail his eyes down the perfect curve of your neckline, and then to the flawless skin of your cleavage that had let itself expose through a few undone buttons. I just want to bend her over this desk and fuck her until she screams. Show her who the real boss is. His gaze continued to rove over your form, before swallowing. He couldn't act on those urges, not now. Not ever. He had to keep up this charade, had to maintain the illusion of the perfect, dedicated employee.

Play it cool, Caleb, he told himself. Don't let her see how crazy you are about her.

You listened to his suggestions, expression inscrutable. You, again, felt like he was holding something back, that there was a hidden agenda behind his words. But the notes, flimsy as they were, could work.

You lean back in your chair. "Those are...adequate," you set the single sheet of notes down on the desk. "But I seem to recall you mentioning you had more than just this. Hand them over please." your tone left no room for argument, and you fixed him with a stare that dared him to disobey.

Caleb felt his stomach drop as you demanded the rest of the notes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She's not letting this go.

He knew he should refuse and make up an excuse, anything to keep you from seeing the depraved writings that filled the rest of the pages. But the words stuck in his throat, and he found himself reaching into his briefcase once more, fingers brushing against the paper.

Maybe if I just give her a little taste, she'll be satisfied and wouldn't question further. Maybe she won't look too closely.

With a shaking hand, he passed some of the papers to you, his heart hammering against his ribs while you took it from him. He watched you flip open the cover and began to read.

At first, your expression remained impassive, eyes merely scanning the lines of neat lines of words. But as you turned another page, he saw a flicker of confusion cross your face.

You blushed.

Oh god.

Cute.

But, wait, fuck, she's seeing it, he thought, a wave of nausea rising in his throat. She's seeing all the filthy things I've written about her!

"Caleb...what're these?"

No.

Kill me.

"Did you write these...?" You breathed, holding up the paper with trembling fingers.

No, I didn't. Well, yes, I did. But, no.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was frozen, paralyzed by the sheer, gut-wrenching terror of being exposed. He had crossed a line, and he knew there was no going back. His career, his reputation, everything he had worked so hard to build, was about to come crashing down around him.

I'm fucked, he thought, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. I'm so fucked.

Just as the tension between you reached a fever pitch, the office door suddenly swung open, and a co-worker pokes her head in. "Excuse me! I have that report you asked for," She announced, oblivious to the charged atmosphere. She breezed in, setting a folder on your desk. "Sorry for the interruption, but this is really urgent."

You blinked, startled by the interference. Then, you glanced at your watch, cursing under your breath when you realized the time.

"I have to go," you stood up from your desk, not sparing Caleb a glance. The papers were already slipped into one of the compartments of your worktable.

Caleb stood frozen as the two women exited the office, leaving him alone with his racing thoughts.

Later that night, as you sat in your dimly lit condo, unwinding from the stressful day, Caleb was hunched over his laptop in his own apartment. His fingers trembled as he clicked through the surveillance feed, and watched you.

He had installed a small camera inside the teddy bear he had gifted you months ago, a "joke" present that you had accepted with a polite smile and a strained laugh. At the time, he had told himself it was just a harmless prank, a way to make you smile. But deep down, he had known the truth - it was a way to invade your privacy, to make you his in a way that you could never know.

Now, as he watched you move around the room, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across your face, he felt a thrill of excitement and fear. You were so close, so real, and yet so utterly unaware of his presence.

He zoomed in, the image blurring slightly once he focused on your face, on the way your lips moved as you read a book, oblivious to his gaze.

Mine.

Caleb shuts his eyes for a second.

You aren't here for that, Caleb.

He still couldn't forget the look on his manager's face upon stumbling over the depraved fantasies he had long since kept hidden. He swore he saw a blush forming across your cheeks when you did. Did she like it? Could there have been a chance?

No, weirdo.

He had been told by you to talk in your office by tomorrow morning, and he didn't need any further explanation. Because he knows he's about to get reprimanded for what he had done. But watching you through the camera, fingers resting against the philtrum of his mouth, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest.

You wouldn't dare fire him. You needed him.

As Caleb watched, transfixed by the scene unfolding on his laptop screen, you suddenly paused in your reading. Caleb curiously leans back. You reached into the leather bag on your nightstand, your fingers rummaging around before emerging with a familiar-looking set of pages.

Oh.

Caleb's heart leapt into his throat as he recognized the documents, it was the very same set of perverse writings he had given you earlier that day, the ones you had left in your desk before being called away to the meeting. Somehow, you had taken them home with you, and now you were reading them in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Caleb studies your reactions. She must think I'm a sick, twisted freak.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs and biting your nails while you scanned the lines of his obsession. The expression on your face was hard to decipher, but it didn't show any hint of revulsion nor disgust. If anything, you looked quite... interested. And it made Caleb squint his eyes into a pair of half-lidded ones. Or could she be enjoying what I wrote for her?

He knew he shouldn't do this, especially when his career is already on the line. But he found it hard to resist when you're there.

You're there, sitting cross-legged on the bed while being confronted by the true depths of his desire. Showing the skin of your legs by wearing a pair of short shorts, showing that supple fucking skin he had been longing to touch.

Caleb reached down.

Your hair is so perfect, it falls on all the right places. Your neckline, one of his favorites, seemed to tease him a little more right now than usual. Not in a dramatic, romantic way, no. In a suffocating, painful way, as if his ribs constricted each time you tucked a strand behind your ear. Your lashes, long and curled like they belonged in oil paintings, cast shadows over your cheeks that Caleb studied too often. He knew the exact angle at which the light struck your skin to make it glow. He’d memorized it, hoarded it.

Caleb's breathing grew ragged palming himself through the rough fabric of his pants.

You weren't just beautiful. You were specific. A kind of cruel perfection stitched together from his glances, the curve of your shoulder in a nightgown, the slight press of your lips as you read. Hell, your voice, too. Your voice wasn’t just soft, it was a sound that haunted him long after meetings. It echoed inside him with maddening clarity.

She's mine. Caleb unbuckled his belt, adam's apple bobbing down out of guilt. Guilt and excitement. She doesn't know it yet, but she's mine.

With a strangled groan, he kept his eyes on you, stroking himself faster, stroking himself with urgent movements.

"Fuck," He sighs, rolling his head back. One hand squeezing the base of his cock, the other folded above his forehead. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, just like that..." It was so wrong. He knew he was gross for acting like this, but the indecency of it all only seemed to heighten his arousal.

Leaning forward, Caleb opens the first compartment of his table, grabbing something from the inside. He quickly pushes it back close, holding up the item in his hand before bringing it to his nose. Your red, laced panty.

Smells so fucking divine.

He takes his time sniffing it, eyes shut. How and where'd he get it? That's a different story. Right now, the focus lies on how Caleb brings the piece of fabric in the other hand he used for stroking, wrapping it around his shaft. And then, he jerks himself off with your panty.

Caleb moaned.

"Fuck me." He stares at you on his laptop screen through half-lidded, lust-filled eyes. You had already stopped reading, standing up to do your self-care routine that Caleb had gone used to by watching it every single night.

First, serum. And then, moisturizer. Then, face gel.

You dropped the tube on the floor, and you had to crouch down and bend over to reach for it when it rolled down your bed.

Caleb tensed. Shit.

He picked up the pace, grunting and moaning, a sheen of sweat forming in the pits of his clavicle, rolling down to wet the neckline of his shirt. "I'm gunna cum, baby—" And he did. He came hard, his body shuddering as he watched the juices spill out from the tip, shooting out to the laptop screen, to the keyboard, everywhere.

He lets his head finally fall back in a dramatic swing, chasing his breath.

Even as he masturbated to your panty every night, to you through the camera, he would never be able to satisfy himself entirely unless it's your pussy squeezing his dick.

Caleb sighed. Now that you've found out about the smut that he'd been compiling, he wonders how long would it take before you find out the categorized files in his USB drive, filled with pictures he'd taken and stolen of you without consent. How long would it take before you see the altar of your printed photographs across his wall, scribbled by a red marker of hearts. And to the lockbag of your hairstrands he'd find when he cleans your office.

There's no way you'd suspect him further. After all, Caleb had always been the model employee. Everybody in the corporate looked up to him, admired him.

There's no way he was actually a massive pervert who stalked you and obsessed with you to death.

Caleb felt like a man walking to his own execution as he crossed the threshold to your office. He adjusted his tie, then smoothed his shirt. His hands were sweating, so he wiped them down on his slacks before stepping in furthermore. And every step felt like a countdown to combustion.

There you were, a figure sculpted by dominance and grace. You didn't look up right away, just gestured toward the seat across your desk, as you slowly closed a folder in a deliberate manner.

Caleb sat frozen.

He could barely feel the chair under him, only the thundering echo of his heart in his ears. Somehow, the room felt too warm. No, maybe, it was you. The way you moved around the desk, unhurried, and impossibly close now.

He kept his eyes down.

Don’t look at her. Don’t make it worse. Don’t ruin this.

But his body betrayed him, as always. Every sense strained toward your presence- the soft scuff of your heels, the faintest trace of your perfume- it pulled at something in him that he had tried to suppress for months. No, years.

She knows.

God, she knows.

The fantasies, the language he used, the devotion pressed into every word of those wretched pages. You had seen it all. There was no salvaging his image now. Not the image he had so carefully constructed. The polished, respectful, reliable subordinate. The ideal employee who never overstepped, never strayed, who served you with silent loyalty.

Tch. As if you didn't jerk your cock off to her last night.

A fraud.

And yet, even as shame licked at the edges of his chest like fire, part of him thrilled in it. Because you knew, and you had read it. And you called him here.

"Did you enjoy writing them?" You finally spoke.

His throat tightened. "…Yes."

God, he hated himself for it, but he meant it. Every line was a prayer. Every fantasy was a cathedral built in your image. He’d written them in the quiet of the night, behind locked doors, whispering your name in a confession. And now, he sat like a sinner at your altar, awaiting judgment.

"Do you fantasize about me often, Caleb?" Your voice came quiet- careful not to pique any curious ears from outside your office- but it pierced right through him.

He looked up, and it was a mistake.

Because one look on your ravishing beauty was enough to make him feel his pulse throb in his neck, enough to give him the bold will to admit everything he had ever kept.

"I—" he tried, then paused. Of course, he couldn't lie. Not to you. "Yes."

Caleb dropped his gaze once more.

Say something. Apologize. Beg, Caleb!

But his mouth wouldn't open. His thoughts were nothing but swirled, messy, undignified: Touch me. Destroy me. Just don’t send me away.

What frightened him most wasn’t your punishment, but the possibility of your indifference. That you might turn cold, dismiss him, begin to look at him like he meant nothing.

He would rather burn than having to endure such a thing.

"I understand if I need to be...reassigned," he said at last, breaking through the silence like glass. "I’ll submit the request myself." But even as he said it, his chest screamed don’t go. Don’t let her push you away. Please.

Caleb didn’t move when you circled back to your desk and sat down slowly, with all the calm of someone entirely in control. You reached into your desk drawer.

Instantly, he recognized the sound of the papers before he saw it. Those cursed, damning papers. The one that held every word he'd bled onto the page in a haze of desire and delusion. You placed it neatly on the desk, right in front of you, then tapped it once with your finger.

"Read it."

What?

Caleb’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He blinked. "I’m sorry?"

Your gaze didn’t falter. “Out loud. All of it.”

Silence expanded like smoke. He couldn’t breathe.

The humiliation hit him first- a visceral, gut-wrenching kind. His entire body recoiled at the thought. Every word in that set was an exposure and a betrayal of all the control he tried so hard to keep. The fantasies weren’t gentle. They weren’t clean. They were obsessive and creepy and dirty.

But beneath that terror...

Oh god, he wanted to obey.

To surrender.

To give you everything you asked for, even this.

His hands moved slowly, hesitantly, before he took the set of pages. Caleb licked his lips. “I…”

Your voice cut through him like a blade. “Begin.”

He inhaled shakily. The words clung to his throat. "...'I don’t remember the last night I slept without h-her shadow on my ceiling. I think about her every morning before I put on this mask. The perfect subordinate. She doesn’t know I would burn this entire company down for five minutes alone with her in a room where I’m not beneath her title. Where I-I’m not just her assistant. But that’s just fantasy... isn’t it?'"

His voice cracked on the last line, hands gripping the paper tighter. Don’t stop. You can’t stop now. She asked for this.

“…‘I watched her pour coffee in the break room once, and my hands clenched so tight I left nail marks in my palm. Because I thought, uhm- what if she told me to... kneel? I would, without shame. I would even thank her for it.” He could feel his own face burning, chest tight with breathless exhilaration.

You still hadn’t interrupted. You were listening intently.

And that, somehow, was the most unbearable part.

Caleb swallowed again. “…‘S-Sometimes I pretend she’s already mine. In my head, I undo her buttons. One by one. I trace the hollow of her throat with the same precision I use to format her spreadsheets. I press my mouth to her skin and whisper everything I’ve never said aloud.’”

The words hung in the air, and Caleb's voice had stopped trembling. Rather, it had settled into a lower tone, as if he had crossed an invisible threshold and found himself oddly unafraid.

You sat back in your chair, as if reclining into a throne you’d claimed without effort. You let the silence stretch, then reached for it like a violinist would a bowstring. “Well,” you began, “That was almost poetic, Caleb. I wasn’t expecting you to be such a romantic.”

No response.

So you talked again. "But that was only the second page, wasn’t it?" You gently tapped your nails on the papers. "There are more. Many more, much more explicit and... less reverent."

Caleb's eyes finally lifted, cautiously, like the weight of them had to be managed.

Gone was the nervous boy you summoned into your office. Because in his place stood a man unraveling at his own pace.

"I wonder," you mused, tapping a finger to your chin, "were those written before or after the one where you wrote about bending me over my own desk with your belt around my wrists?"

To your surprise, Caleb didn't flinch.

Instead, he reached forward, closed the pages with a definitive sound, and slid it across your desk- never once breaking eye contact.

Fine. If you want more, I'll give you more.

Then he smiled.

But you won't come out of your office untouched.

Not the polite, warm smile he usually shows you when you walk past each other, no. It was something colder, sleek. Like the moment a knife catches light. "Would you like me to read that one too, Y/n?"

You arched a brow, mildly amused by the sudden shift. But you didn't speak. Not yet.

Caleb moved to stand up, a single deliberate action that suggested something had changed between the two of you. "I can recite it from memory," he says, "If you prefer."

It was your turn to swallow.

"I wrote those pages to survive you," Caleb lowered his lashes. "To avoid myself from doing something... irresponsible." and then, he stepped forward. "Now, you're asking me to read them and revisit every word. So if this is what you want, Y/n-" he rests both of his hands against your desk, leaning forward. "Then you don't get to act surprised if I stop playing the nice guy."

There was a long pause, and you didn't fill it.

But Caleb noticed the way your throat moved when you gulped, the way your hands began to clench themselves.

You were wavering.

And he, who had once trembled under the weight of your attention, now stood taller. Still bound by his shirt and tie, yes- but no longer leashed by fear. "I won’t read them."

Your eyes narrowed a fraction. "Excuse me?"

"I don’t need to," Caleb slowly began to circle your desk, approaching you closer, and it made you unconsciously back away. "The ones you’re thinking of… I know those by heart."

He had grown into his obsession.

Into yours, apparently.

This was utterly inappropriate and absurd. You knew better. And yet, you stared up at him like you were the one caught, like you were the one awaiting permission. And Caleb... Caleb merely looked down at you, head slightly tilted.

With a measured grace, Caleb dropped to one knee, eyes never leaving yours.

And you, to your own horror, didn't look away. Because you should've stood up, said his name in a warning. You should've reprimanded him in a professional way. Not whatever this is. But instead, you sat still.

Caleb's palms slid, languidly, up the length of your calves. He inhaled softly. God.

"I rememer writing about this one," His fingers paused just below your knees, and you could feel how long they were through your stockings. The sheer audacity of him, touching you with that same calm he used in reports and presentations, made you pick up your breathing. "You leaned back in this very chair, and you parted your legs. Just a bit. Enough to make me desperate and beg."

You stopped breathing.

"You watched me as I touched you," His index finger teased the hem of your thigh-high. "Slower than I wanted to. And when I couldn't take it anymore..." He smiled faintly, cruelly. "I took your skirt off, I took your panties off, and I took your virginity."

Then, he presses his lips against your knee, inhaling your scent once more. I want to fuck this woman already. God, please let me. He shuts his eyes, then slowly, made his way to the upper area of your thigh with his mouth.

You almost whimpered, fingers gripping tightly on the armrests of your chair.

"I went with eating you out. I licked your pussy, sucked your clit, and you moaned, Y/n, you grabbed my hair and-" Caleb opens his eyes, and looks up at you. "You came right into my mouth."

You grabbed his necktie and pulled him closer, which catches him off guard.

He stared at you, stunned- for once, without something ready to say. His chest rose and fell with the quiet force of someone whose fantasy had just collided, violently, with reality.

Caleb swallowed.

Nonetheless, his voice returned low, strained with a trembling thrill. "Do you want me to recreate it?"

You didn't respond.

So he reached out, his hands trembling slightly as they slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt up to reveal the lacy edge of your panties. He leaned in, burying his face against the soft fabric, inhaling deeply the scent of you, a heady mix of your natural aroma and the faint perfume of your lotion. Fuck.

Unable to resist any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly dragged them down your legs. As they fell to the floor, he tossed them aside carelessly.

You told yourself it's just this once, and though you knew that it's a weak attempt of justification, you repeated it inside your head. Just this once. Then you'll end this madness.

Caleb seemed to sense your hesitation, and he pressed his advantage, bruhing his lips against your bare folds in the lightest of kisses. The touch was electric, sending a jolt of sensation shooting up your spine. "Please," he breathed, his tongue darting out to trace the seam of your pussy lips, teasing the sensitive flesh. "Let me taste you."

Just this once, he thought, just this once and then I'll end this. I swear I will.

"Then do it," you commanded. "Show me what a devoted servant you are."

Oh.

Caleb didn't hesitate. He immediately buried his face between your thighs, his mouth covering your most intimate area as he began to eat you out with desperate hunger. His tongue delved between your folds, stroking and probing at the slick, heated flesh.

"Mmm, s'good-" he groaned into you, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. God, she tastes even better than I fucking imagined.

He sealed his lips around your clit and suckled hard, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud. His hands gripped your thighs while at it, pulling you harder against his face as he feasted on you, his moans growing louder and more wanton by the second.

God, help me or I'm going to lose control.

Caleb's cock throbbed almost painfully in the confines of his pants, the intense taste of your arousal making him harder than he had ever been in his life. He ached to free himself, to stroke his aching flesh while he pleasured you, but he resisted the urge. This moment was about you, about worshipping your body and bringing you to the heights of ecstasy.

That's it, baby. Come for me.

When Caleb looked up at you, he looked like a boy lost in a dream, looking wholly out of place in his loosened tie and undone collar.

You had come into his mouth within a blink of an eye.

Thick vanilla streaks now clung to the corner of his mouth, a smear just beneath his bottom lip, the pale sheen catching the lights of your office.

His lips parted slightly, face flushed. He looked up at you like he wanted you to see how the haze within his eyes strayed farther from innocence. Like he knew exactly what he looked like, mess and all.

Your fingers reached out and brushed lightly against the corner of his mouth. One soft sweep. Then another, slow and deliberate, catching the trail that had slipped down toward his chin. Your thumb dragged across his lower lip last, then paused at the center.

Caleb didn't move.

He only exhaled shakily, lashes fluttering once as he stared into your beauty. His mouth stayed slightly open, as if daring you to go further. Then, in the heat of the moment, he rises up to gently grab your chin with all of his fingers. "Will you let me do anything to you?"

You nod, wordlessly.

"Open your mouth then." He whispers, and when you did, he spits into it. You shut your eyes, breath hitching. Caleb sighed at the sight of his own saliva pooling in your mouth, this time he's the one wiping away the drool with his thumb. "You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

It didn't take long before the two of you agreed on fucking in your office.

You're bent over your own worktable ridiculously, struggling to get a better grip on the edge while you could feel the cock of your subordinate incessantly piercing through the slit of your pussy. "Caleb, slow down-"

"I can't hear you." He slams it deep that it pounds against the flesh of your womb. The pleasure elicits a whiny moan out of you, and in response, Caleb behind you grabs your face to cover your mouth. Of course, you wouldn't want your co-workers hearing you. You wouldn't want them exposing a scandal between the manager and her own subordinate, right? "So goddamn tight."

Like she was made for my dick.

And then, he increases the pace.

Caleb lifts your ass up higher to angle himself better, before repetitively pounding you down the table with a mind of a machine that focused on an objective to cum in your sex.

He pulls out, and in again. Again, and again, and again, and again.

Faster, deeper, harder, he shuts his eyes and rolls his head back at the feeling of being squeezed by your very walls. Oh, he could get used to this sensation for decades. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his pistoning cock while he fucked you with wild abandon. He knew you were close, because he could hear it in the desperate, keening cries that spilled from your lips with each brutal thrust.

With a sharp cry, your body convulsed beneath him, your pussy clenching down on him like a vice when you came undone. He felt your juices gushing around his shaft, soaking his cock and balls as you rode out the waves of the intense orgasm.

I can't stop.

But even as he felt you spasming around him, he didn't let up. He couldn't bring himself to stop the relentless assault on your pussy. He was driven by a primal need to keep you in a state of constant, mindless ecstasy, to make you forget about everything except the feeling of his cock splitting you open again and again.

I can't seem to stop.

Caleb hooked one of your legs over his elbow, the new angle allowing him to plunge even deeper into your still-quivering pussy. He could feel your slick walls fluttering around his pistoning shaft, trying in vain to adjust to the relentless invasion.

Fuck, I'm so deep inside her...

He could hear the obscene, wet sounds of your coupling filling the room, the slap of skin against skin and the squelch of your arousal with each brutal thrust. I'm going to fuck her hard like this everyday. He bit his lip, then opens his mouth to exhale desperately. So hard, and deep, that she can't look at another man without thinking of me.

He could feel his orgasm building to a crescendo, his balls drawing up tight as he slammed into you faster, the force of his thrusts shaking the desk beneath you. He could tell he was close just from the telltale tightening in his gut that signaled his impending release.

I'm going to cum.

With one final, savage thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. I'm cumming in this perfect fucking cunt. His cock pulsed and throbbed as he exploded inside you. He could feel his hot seed gushing forth that painted your insides with thick, virile ropes of his essence. "Take that all."

Caleb collapsed against you for a moment, his sweat-slicked chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He could feel the aftershocks of his intense orgasm still rippling through him.

You weren't sure anymore if you could resist seeing this man each day.

You feel his fingers tucking the wet strands of your hair behind your ear, before placing a kiss on your temple. "You think we're done already?" He chuckles deeply, rising back up and grabbing your hips. "I'm still about to fuck you against that window."

And after that, in the elevator. Then, in my car. And then, in the public restroom. All of those, in one day.

[tfatwsbarnes]

don’t be tardy | tlou jesse

summary: jesse hates tardiness and you run late. you rub off on him and give him something to be late for.

pairing: jesse x fem!reader

word count: 2.2k

trigger warnings: lil bit of bad language, jesse is kinda mean but not really, kissing, brief smut but not in great detail. reader doesn’t really take things seriously lmao

a/n: if me posting jesse fics keeps him alive i won’t ever stop 😤 love my diva. this is super choppy and short so i don’t expect enjoyment from it!

gif credit: @pedgito

      7:00am.

        You opened your eyes briefly to look at the red lights flickering on your alarm clock. The sun seeped in from between the thin, makeshift curtains, and you smiled into the duvet that covered you from neck to toe. For once, you felt serene, tranquility found in the Commune of Jackson. Survival a distant memory.

        You could do this forever.

        "Fuck!" Your eyes shot open, body upright as you read over the time once more.

        You were late. So fucking late.

You jumped into your clothes, swearing as you crashed into your cabinet when your foot got stuck in the leg of your pants. No time to fix your appearance, you slipped out of the front door, the profanities continuing to string along with you on your way to Main Street.

Feet pounded against the ground, wet mud flicked up behind you, chest heavy from panic when you managed to reach Main Street from your home in record timing. The building that held the Patrol meetings just adjacent to where you had skidded round the bend. Brass knob within your reach, you huffed as you grabbed and twisted it.

Door creaked to alert the compact group, you bared teeth as you cringed, boots tip-toed as best as you could above the old floorboards. As presumed, the meeting for morning Patrol had already started without you.

Familiar faces, Ellie and Dina, sat in amongst the older patrolmen, both offering a wave when you ducked your head in an attempt to conceal your lateness to Jesse who stood, arms crossed his chest, his eyes tracking you like prey for the taking.

"You're late." You winced at his deep tone.

Mottled hands from forgetting your gloves in a hurry, dragged the closest chair toward you. A concoction of embarrassment and shame crossed your face as eyes turned to you when Jesse spoke. Backside hitting the plastic chair, you felt the need to press your hands together; as if you were about to pray for his forgiveness.

OK. It wasn't near enough as good as an impression you could've made on your first patrol. It took months of arguments, pushing yourself to the limit and extra credit earned through mundane tasks that landed you the spot in the Jackson Patrol. And, now, you were late for your first meeting.

You had hoped it was Tommy or Joel Miller in charge. They'd have let it slide. You liked those brothers.

Jesse was your friend, if you could call someone you slept with on the regular, that. You met him by association of being relatively close to Ellie and Dina. He was a serious guy, little humour in duty-related situations, but you thought he was nice enough to engage in conversation with. And in turn, he showed you how nice he could be with your legs wrapped around his neck.

It was an added bonus that he was fun to look at.

You had wished he kept that momentum going when he stared you down, expectant of an explanation as to why you had tiptoed into the Patrol meeting.

"I'm sorry." You mustered.

Jesse puffed out, “Yeah—Sorry doesn’t cut it when you’re on duty. Thankfully, for you, your partnered with me. Otherwise, you would’ve cost us another Patrol member. A dip in our numbers, could mean we miss vital intel coming head-on to Jackson.”

“Alrigh’, she was late by minutes.” Joel Miller piped up from behind, “Give her a break.”

You didn’t dare move to mouth a ‘thank you’ to Joel. Mentally noted, you would buy him a drink at the Tipsy Bison later if Jesse hadn’t thrown you in jail for your tardiness.

Chairs creaked as people shifted awkwardly. Joel Miller was softened in his older years, but nobody dare speak out against him, especially Jesse — as much as undermining him set his internal anger ablaze.

“We’ll talk after.” He said. Which meant, we’ll talk when Joel Miller can’t defend you.

As he turned, you leant into Ellie, “Yeesh. Men are so touchy in Jackson.”

The meeting didn’t last long, or as long as you had hoped to avoid Jesse’s wrath in private. Every individual had an area to map out and scan to ensure there were no immediate threats to your Commune. There had been an increased sighting of the Infected in every direction, and this shook the infrastructure of Jackson. So, everybody was on high alert, observant of the grounds outside the confines of the walls.

You stood with the rest of the group, Ellie patted your shoulder for added sympathy for what you were about to face. She left you alone, head bumped with Dina as they spoke amongst themselves as the group bottle-necked at the entrance to the building.

An escape may have sufficed until you saw him later, but, that would’ve earned you an immediate dismissal from the Patrol Team and, you had a point to prove that you were worth the slot taken from others to maintain the safety of Jackson, Wyoming, whatever it took.

As the team filtered out, Jesse approached you with a mean-mug. No special chit-chat.

"Consider this a warning." Jesse was mad. Not the type of mad that would linger, but he had been on your side to convince Maria Miller that you were a good fit for the patrolmen. He didn't like his ass being shown.

You gawked, "A warning? Jesse, I thought we were friends—" You stopped following him when he turned sharply.

"—You want dismissed on your first day? If we weren't friends, that's where you would be. Shovelling horse shit and grovelling." He looked you up and down, "But, we are friends. So, you get a warning. Two more and I can't help you. Take your wins."

"OK." You kind of wished Joel stuck around to back you up. You twiddled your thumbs, reprimanded like a child. “Does this warning extend to tonight?”

You meant about having sex.

Jesse scanned his surroundings to ensure no eavesdropper had heard your invitation. He lowered his voice to a mumble, “No. Get to the stables.”

—

"You get the Appaloosa." Jesse informed when you reached the stables with the rest of the group.

You stopped in your tracks with your jaw slacked. There is one thing aside from the Cordyceps Outbreak that you loathed entirely and it was the Appaloosa stallion with a biting problem. Hoof battered against the stable door, the stallion whinnied in frustration from being contained — you presumed it craved human flesh.

He bucked when sat upon, you once going over the reigns and heavily winded when Jesse was showing you the ropes on how to properly guide a horse. After you had landed in the wet mud, the horse bit your arm for good measure.

That moment forward you both found enemies in each other.

Jesse was being cruel.

You followed Jesse to his selected horse, a gentle brown mare that liked you for your apples.

Throat cleared, Jesse turned to look at you innocently as you returned it with a plead, "Please don't make me ride that fucking Zombie—" You pointed to the stallion, "He has anger issues and, he's impossible to control."

Jesse threw the saddle over the mare and shrugged before swiftly straddling the horse, large hand smacked against the mare's neck as it stood grazing upon the hay in her stable.

"It's exposure therapy for you." He retaliated as he kicked the stirrups, his horse following the guidance with ease. He passed you slowly, a smile crept upon his face, "Teaches you how to deal with touchy men in Jackson."

He left you fighting the horse to get the saddle on its back, which in turn made you late to the gate with a grimace.

You had, surprisingly, survived the Patrol on Zombie, the Appaloosa. It seemed that you had breached through the stallion’s walls and managed to bribe him with soft-mints you stole from Jesse’s pocket when he scoped the land for any sign of an influx of Infected. In return for a mint after a handful of minutes apart, Zombie didn’t buck you off, or attempt to bite you despite your hand close to his mouth for the taking.

You returned to the stables, Jesse had taken the reigns of your horse, his private punishment over with as he guided it back into its area to rest. He came back, dusting his hands of the hay, a smile widened on his face.

“He didn’t kick you off.”

You threw him a petulant look, “Yeah. I know that broke your heart, you mean bastard.” Saddle in hand, you threw it onto the table, “And to think I was going to wrap my mouth—”

“—Enough.” Jesse warned.

“Sorry. Work hours.” You sighed at your brain’s disobedience to filter your mouth. From your peripheral, you saw Jesse shake his head in an attempt to hide his humour. You changed the subject, “Are you going to Maria Miller to debrief about the thirty dead?”

Jesse nodded.

“Can I come?” And he laughed. A genuine laugh in your face. If you weren’t on the receiving end, you may have begun to laugh with him because it was contagious for such a brooding man.

“No. You can’t” His laughter still sweet on his tongue, palm to his chest, “That’s called favouritism and we don’t need an uprising just because you’re pretty. Plus, I need to get there on time. Something you don’t know the meaning of.”

You blinked, “I’ve been on time.”

He spoke your name, “You have never been good at time-keeping. I’m pretty sure, Joel is still waiting for you for that one woodwork training session you organised last week—” Fuck! You knew you forgot about something, “It’s OK. I’ll keep us right for future events.”

Arms folded, you perked at his slip-up.

“Oh? There’s an us, now?” Stomach flipped, “I thought there was no blurring the lines, Captain Jesse.”

He said nothing more. Simply pecked your lips and exited the stables to his debrief with Maria Miller, and Tommy; they came as a package deal.

You went to go make amends with Joel before heading to Jesse’s for the night.

—

Jesse's workout chair had seen many workouts. It was sturdy, rattled a little when he was focussed on building muscle on his shoulders but all-in-all it was a good chair.

The bolt rattled at the base of the chair from the vigorous movement it was enduring. You were seated against the pleather, back hitting it with force as Jesse held your legs up by your ankles. Your knuckles were white from gripping onto the slim chair, mouth agape as Jesse continued his endeavour.

You hadn't meant to start this. It was a mere coincidence that you and Jesse were feeling some type of way the morning after you stayed for the first time, and you only encouraged it a smidge before caution was thrown to the wind and now, you were naked in Jesse's home, getting plowed on his workout chair.

"Oh my god." You whined which only spurred Jesse more.

He took both your ankles in one large palm, the other dove between your legs and your head hit the headrest, lids heavy as sweat followed the curve of your back. Jesse smirked at the vision he had created, the confidence built like a skyscraper in him for causing you that type of reaction.

        "Yeah?" He asked rhetorically and you nodded obediently. He went to open his mouth to let pure filth leave his tongue, only to jump from fright from the four knocks to his front door. His hips stuttered, "Shit. Hello?"

        "Jesse?" Ellie's voice called through the door and the pair of you looked to each other in panic. "I can't believe I'm about to say this—But—You're fucking late for patrol."

        Pinched brows, Jesse slowed his thrusts and craned his neck to look at the clock on his bedside table.

        Holy shit. Jesse was late.

        "Fuck—Yeah. Give me a minute."

        He unsheathed himself from you, a finger pressed to his lips when Ellie tried the door handle — both of you grateful that it was locked. Jesse threw his shirt on haphazardly, frustration shown in his hand gestures as he stumbled around the room, his patrol clothes unprepared which, again, was out of character.

        You stood from the chair, feet tiptoed to the door to grab his boots to unlace for him. Eyes squeezed shut, you could hear Ellie muttering to herself as she stomped the snow on her boots against the concrete of the steps. Jesse met you halfway, fully clothed compared to your bareness, a 'thank you' mouthed your way when he took the boots from your hands.

        "Will you hurry the fuck up?" Ellie called.

        Jesse swore under his breath, "Ellie, have a little patience."

        You and Ellie managed to scoff at the same time. A playful pinch to your budded nipple as retaliation, you swatted at his hand before he pulled you in for a chaste kiss.

        "See you later." He mumbled into your mouth, his willpower almost folded from feeling the hotness of your bare skin.

        "Mhm." You whispered. Quiet enough that Ellie wouldn't hear, "You deserve the Appaloosa today."

[theseerasures]

imagine becoming friends with this girl--not like, super close friends, just on friendly terms--who seems destined to become an influencer. she's not one yet but she already has a following at the school you both attend and everybody likes her because she's nice to everyone and pretty funny. one day she starts hanging out with this absolute loser buzzkill sjw and at first you're like, fine, it's a good look to shout out smaller content creators, but then they just never STOP hanging out

one day both of them leave campus to go on a day trip and clearly SOMETHING happens, because right before dinner you get an emergency alert on your phone that her loser friend is on the FBI's most wanted list for animal torture? the popular girl's not answering any of her texts, even from her hot metrosexual boyfriend that she has, and no one hears anything until the next day when she goes Live and announces that she got a really big sponsorship from THE PRESIDENT, no followup on that thing where her bff apparently was a terrorist this whole time

the next few years are really scary because the terrorist keeps evading capture and like, commiting so many atrocities and the details always end up getting leaked. you're terrified in particular because duh, you went to school with that psychopath and apparently she was doing all these terrible things and turning into some freaky three eyed snake when you weren't paying attention. the one spot of joy for everybody's doomscrolling is the popular girl. she does an adread for the government at the start of all her stuff, but the content itself is just like. hauls and GRWMs and makeup tutorials with the occasional day in the life sprinkled in, which is always nice to consume after another horrific news cycle.

she gets engaged to the hot metrosexual boyfriend from school eventually and does an Engagement Reveal bc of course she does, and it's...really weird?? hot metrosexual fiance leaves abruptly halfway through and then the whole thing turns into like. this bizarre apology video, with crying and everything, only she doesn't give specifics or context AT ALL before it's over and she goes back to doing a mukbang with some of her fans and your old principal, who probably got her that government sponsorship. apparently some crazy shit happens to the country after that but you weren't really following it bc you were too busy talking with your friends about what the FUCK was up with that engagement annoucement. you all go back through her history to figure out what problematic thing she might have done but you can't find anything, other than being friendly with the terrorist chick when you were all in school. obviously she couldn't have known about the terrorism back then, so it might just be drama farming. she's a pretty bad actor

except she doesn't post again for a few days, which is worrying since she's ALWAYS followed a super strict upload schedule, but the country is pretty much on fire at that point, so. when she next posts you're pretty excited, because maybe you'll get an explanation for some/any of this, or preferably a sequel drama video

instead she tells you that the terrorist chick is dead, the president is. resigning? leaving? also dead? and he never sponsored any other influencers, which means she's president now, and after she throws your old principal in jail she's gonna teach everybody how to be nice

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 17: Too much and not enough

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: After a quiet sit-down breakfast, Natasha leaves for work and Wanda helps you get ready for the appointment. The fading of your concussion begins to reveal more of your personality to them... but also unleashes some logistical concerns.

Word count: 8.1k

Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/S dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, non-sexual intimacy (but also with hints of sexual feelings at times).

Heads Up: Passing reference to disordered eating thoughts/behaviours. In depth depiction of a panic attack.

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. This chapter is a bit weird, I won't lie. I'm not 100% happy with it, but I think I just need to let it go, so I can move on and progress the story again. Please forgive me if it doesn't live up to your expectations 🥺♡

The evening slips by in a blissful blur, and in the morning the details are hazy, like the remembered fragments of a dream…

The feel of Natasha’s fingers in your hair. The grounding warmth of Wanda’s hand on your thigh. The whispered conversations which floated between the two of them, as your eyelids began to droop and their bodies drew closer at either side. 

Nestled between these two women, you drifted for a while in that feeling of fuzzy contentment, understanding nothing of what they said except the safety they conveyed to you. You were there, and they were happy to have you; their lives could continue with you folded between. 

And you no longer felt like a burden. For those few moments, you felt like you belonged.

———

In the soft light and stillness of the morning, you grasp for the memories, wishing you could recall with greater clarity how Natasha bade you goodnight, and how Wanda settled you into bed. It feels cruel that these details get lost in the interlude between days, and the incomplete edges prickle with doubt upon waking. 

It’s twenty minutes to seven — much sooner than you really need to get up, but you already feel far too alert to attempt sleep again. So you haul your body out of bed and begin the day with a half-body stretch and a painkiller, washed down with the water Wanda left you. 

After a toilet trip and a cursory face wash, you tuck your laptop under your left arm and head downstairs to the kitchen, placing your feet carefully, silently as you descend. As you tiptoe round the corner, Natasha is there, alert, awaiting your arrival. She smiles at you as you enter, and you smile back, though her ready attention has you wondering. You place your laptop on the counter beside her, too occupied even to second-guess your proximity, and sit on the empty barstool, crossing your right leg over your left.

“Good morning, lapushka,” she greets you quietly, and you feel heat blooming in your cheeks at the nickname, which still feels like a gift every time she offers it.

“Morning, Nat,” you whisper back, giving her a bashful smile, then looking down at your lap. Your mind is still waking up, but your thoughts have already begun whirring, thinking about her, trying to fill in the gaps.

“What are you thinking about?” Natasha asks you gently, and her question pulls you out from your daydream. 

“Oh…” you say, glancing up, then ducking you head again and feeling the warmth in your cheeks extend out to your ears. “I was just thinking about how you always seem to know when I’m coming. Even before I can see you.” You look back up at her, wondering how she’ll receive this, how she’ll respond. She smiles and gives you a little shrug.

“I have good hearing, I guess,” she offers in explanation. 

You frown slightly, feeling there’s more to it — but also feeling unsure about how to inquire further. Natasha can be so guarded, so particular about what she’s willing and unwilling to talk about. You don’t want to make her uncomfortable, but you also want to understand. 

“You’re like a…” — your fingers dance up and down above the counter as you flail about for a light-hearted analogy — “like a spider or something. Like you can feel me moving on your web.”

Natasha laughs, more than you think your comment deserves — which makes you wonder if she’s laughing at you, rather than your words.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, a little defensively. She grins at you.

“Maybe you’re onto something, lapushka,” she says, raising her left eyebrow. “A spider, huh?”

You huff a little, only half-jokingly. 

“Well, I don’t know. You just seem to sense me moving, even when I’m being quiet.”

“You’re a lot quieter than Wanda, I’ll give you that,” Natasha grants you, and somehow, her observation feels like praise. It cheers you up immediately.

“Thanks!” you reply, beaming. “I bet I can be quieter too — maybe one day I’ll surprise you!”

“Oh, you think so?” Natasha replies, grinning slyly. “I’m not so sure. In fact, I’m even confident enough to bet a cinnamon roll on it. If you surprise me at any point, I’ll get you one from the bakery, deal?”

You sit up straighter and wiggle your dangling feet in your excitement, your competitive spirit activated at once. 

“Deal!” you agree eagerly. Natasha offers her left hand, and you shake it, face aching from the pull of your grin. And in the moment when you let go and Natasha lets her fings linger a little longer, brushing over your skin, you feel your excitement transform into something else. Something that flutters in your tummy, as you meet her eyes and see the way her head cocks to one side, her smile a little lopsided, eyebrow ever so slightly quirked. The way she regards you seems to sit somewhere between amusement and affection. Rather like one might look down at an unruly puppy, redeemed only by its youthful and cutesy qualities. It’s a little confusing, and perhaps you’d like to understand it someday, but for now the day is unfolding with a quiet ease, and you have no desire to disrupt it with rumination.

“Let me get you some coffee,” Natasha says, standing up. You thank her without quibbling, knowing she likes the routine and ownership of the task, and open up your laptop, intending to write an email to your supervisor. You quickly become distracted though, and by the time Natasha places a mug of coffee beside you, you’re already pursuing a side quest: reading about postgraduate socials, and all the sports club tryouts you might have considered, were it not for your injury. 

“What would you like to eat?” Natasha asks you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder to obtain your attention. You glance up, then back at your screen, answering haltingly due to your divided attention.

“Um… I think I’m fine with just coffee for now.”

“Alright,” Natasha acknowledges, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze before removing her hand. “Just be prepared that Wanda will probably ask you as well, when she’s down.”

You nod automatically, then look up once her words have been fully processed. 

“I’ll probably feel more hungry then,” you suppose quietly, and Natasha nods, sitting down beside you and sliding her mug closer to take a drink. Thoughts bubble inside, and threaten to spill out. It seems your filter isn’t working so well today. Perhaps you’re becoming a little too comfortable with them, because you find yourself rambling: trying to explain, trying to process it yourself.

“I know Wanda’s worried that I’ve not been eating much, but I’m fine, really. It’s just the painkillers sometimes make me feel a bit sick.” 

Natasha doesn’t reply with any word or gesture. She just watches you, her face neutral, open. An invitation to continue. An invitation which you accept, though you avoid her eyes as the words spill out, a little embarrassed by the honesty that overcomes you.

“…But also maybe a tiny bit because I’m not doing much exercise. I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m really not hungry or if my brain isn’t allowing me to feel it, I guess.”

You turn back to Natasha, checking for her reaction. Her face looks much the same as before: neutral, but perhaps a little softer. She moves to rest her left arm on the counter, her hand close to yours, but not intrusive.

“Have you felt this way before, when you’ve been injured?” Natasha asks, and this in itself reassures you. She’s approaching the problem logically, without judgement. Just exploring, wondering. Piecing things together before giving direction, like she wants to fully understand.

“Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Like when I dislocated my knee… it was hard. But things were kinda hard anyway, at that time. I’ve been doing a lot better since then. And I know I need to eat, so my body can recover.”

“That’s right,” Natasha says gently, and she reaches forward to place her hand on top of your own. “You do.”

You nod awkwardly, chewing the inside of your cheek as you try to summon some semblance of wisdom to reassure her that you’re not entirely useless, not completely broken. 

“I think going into uni will help,” you tell her, focussing on the way her thumb moves just ever so slightly over the back of your hand. “It will give me a routine, and I can take the thinking out of it then.”

“That’s a useful insight,” Natasha comments, and you look up to see her thoughtful expression, as she considers your words. “You like structure, then?

You raise one eyebrow slightly, and hold in a huff of laughter.

“Not all the time,” you admit, smiling shyly at her. “Sometimes I hate it, because it makes me feel caged. But if I’m completely honest with myself… I think I need it. At least a little. My brain doesn’t organise itself very well, on its own.”

“Could we help with that?” Natasha asks then, and suddenly her hand on top of yours feels heavy, feels vital. You realise that when she lifts it, there will be a loss. Just like when you have to leave.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and your cheeks ache from the effort of producing a smile. “I’ll figure it out, eventually.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, just a little, for the briefest moment. But then she nods. Short and final. Her hand lifts from yours, and she turns back around to the counter, reaching for her book.

You follow her lead, focussing back on your laptop screen. But your fingers flex over the keys, missing her hold, trying to adjust to the loss. Inside, a part of you screams to take it back. To accept her offer of help, to allow them to take control. But this is different from letting Wanda help you with dressing, or letting Natasha supervise you in the gym. This would be unnecessary: help beyond what could be justified through your injury. It would be an extra ask, an extra burden. And you can’t — you won’t — allow them to take that on. However much the idea tempts you.

You take a deep, silent breath, and pull yourself back to the task at hand. Pulling up your email tab, you begin writing an email to your supervisor, Professor Manné. You’ve only spoken very briefly during an online interview a few months ago, but you’ve seen a video of a lecture she gave last year about some of her research. Her intellect and academic output are formidable, but she delivered that lecture with a quiet warmth, which you hope bodes well for your mentoring relationship. 

You’re so focussed on your task that you don’t notice Wanda entering. It’s only when she says “Good morning, darling,” and kisses you on the top of your head from behind, that you are alerted to her presence. Thankfully, you don’t jump. That would be embarrassing, after you made so much of Natasha’s observation skills earlier. Normally you are pretty observant — but sometimes you just get so focussed that everything else disappears. When you turn to greet Wanda, you notice that Natasha has a small smirk on her lips. You catch her eye, blushing, and her smile deepens. It’s not fair, really. Because now, when you smile at Wanda, she can see your blush too. It’s far too early to be having so many feelings. And it’s only made worse when Natasha spins on her seat, stands up and wishes her wife good morning with arms wrapped over her shoulders and a long kiss to the lips. 

You should look away.

But you don’t. 

You watch their lips interlocking, Natasha’s head tilting, Wanda’s hands moving to her wife’s hips… you watch it all, transfixed, frozen but for the way your thighs press together on the stool. You feel hot and bothered — and also a little sad, a little annoyed. It’s ridiculous to think like this, but a part of you feels like they’re teasing you. But no, of course not. They’re just being themselves, loving each other in the way they always do, and you’re merely an intruder. A perverted guest who neglects to avert her eyes when they share affection like this. 

And the sadness? You shove that down, far too scared to process the jealousy, the longing.

Your turn to stare at your laptop — not the screen, but the keyboard. Keeping your gaze dipped, and frowning a little as you will your mind to calm down and your body to cool down.

“Have you eaten already?” Wanda asks, and you choose to assume it’s directed at Natasha, not you. You’re not ready to respond just yet, so you pretend to be occupied with your emails again.

“Not yet,” Natasha replies evenly. “We were waiting for you.”

Wanda manages to summon some agreement from you with regards to breakfast, and she hums happily behind you as she gathers bagels and spreads. You send off the email to Professor Manné, then pull up the research studies you were reading the other day, finally able to make more sense of them now that your brain is feeling a little clearer. You suspect that you’d have even more clarity off the painkillers, but you’re not ready to face the unfiltered pain just yet. And you doubt Wanda would let you, even if you were. 

“Do you want to join us at the table, myšička?” Wanda asks, moving to your left side and placing her right hand on your shoulder. You realise that Natasha has already vacated the space beside you, and you turn to see her placing spreads and a plate of bagels on the dining table. 

“Would it be okay if I brought my laptop over?” you ask tentatively, looking at Wanda with what you hope is a politely imploring expression. “I kind of want to finish reading this paper, while I’m in the zone.” 

She tilts her head as she listens to your plea, smiling in a knowing sort of way. 

“Alright, myšička. Let me carry it though — we don’t need any more breakages, do we?”

You blush at her slightly teasing tone, but you stand up, letting her hand slip off your shoulder and move to lift your laptop as you make your way over to the table, sitting down in your usual seat on the far side. Once situated, Wanda places your laptop carefully down in front of you and asks what you’d like to eat, offering to make up a plate for you. So you shyly request two plain bagel halves, with cream cheese on one, and peanut butter on the other. Wanda moves diligently to make them, and soon slides the plated bagels to the left side of your laptop, along with a glass of orange juice and a banana.

“Thank you,” you acknowledge, making sure to meet her eye and smile as you say it, to truly convey your gratitude. Even though the addition of the banana feels a little overwhelming. Does she expect you to eat this all? Is this part of the deal?

“You don’t need to eat the banana, or drink the juice, sweetheart,” Wanda tells you, and you feel the tension in your chest release on your exhale. “Only if you want them.”

The slight stiffness of your lips evaporates into a truly relaxed, contented smile, and you look back at your laptop, giving a little nod. 

Wanda and Natasha begin to chat quietly together, and you make sure to take a bite of the cream-cheese laden bagel, as a show of your good intentions. As you chew and try to reel your attention back to the research paper, you realise the slick way she presented the food to you: by adding the optional extras, she implicitly cemented her expectation that everything else would be eaten. 

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about this. It’s not unreasonable, not by a long shot — but the mere expectation tugs at that rope buried deep inside you. There’s nothing pulling back, not right now. But there could be, at some point. And that scares you. 

You stare at the words on the page, forcing yourself to find the focus again, to move quickly away from that dark line of thinking. You’re fine. That’s what you told Natasha this morning. And it’s true. You’re going to work hard to keep it that way. 

Your commitment falls slightly flat on the account of your startling ability to focus this morning. Somehow you find that narrow beam of attention again, and you stop hearing the soft voices of Wanda and Natasha talking at the table; you stop seeing the plate beside you; you stop remembering the expectation to eat. 

“I’m going to head up and get ready for work, now,” Natasha tells you, standing at the corner of the table, and looking down at you as you blink up at her. “I’ll say bye before I go, though.” She reaches out and shifts your plate ever so slightly towards you. When she speaks next, her voice is a little lowered. Gentle. Private. Wanda is over in the kitchen, placing something in the fridge. Just out of earshot. “I know you’re ‘in the zone’, lapushka. But just try taking a few bites, when you remember, okay?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, but you nod.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just forgot.”

“I know,” Natasha murmurs, smiling reassuringly. “And that’s okay. I just thought I’d remind you.”

You nibble your lip, then move your hand to take the closest bagel half, which is mostly intact apart from one small bite. You take another bite, and start to chew, staring down at your keyboard, feeling watched. 

“Thank you,” Natasha grants, and then she moves to leave. 

You chew and you chew, but derive no enjoyment from the slightly soggy bread and thick creamy topping. You should have eaten it sooner, before the cheese seeped in and the bread cooled. Next time you’ll do the spreads yourself. The ratio is off: there’s too much spread for too little bagel. It’s just a sensory thing. Nothing else. Definitely. 

You don’t want to eat the rest, but you fear it’s going to become some big power struggle, between Wanda’s worry and your stubbornness. Regardless of how you feel about it, it’s not fair to make her worry. So you force it all down, over many bites and increasingly draining chews, using the orange juice to wash the mouthfuls down when the peanut butter half starts to stick in your throat. It’s hard to eat and read at the same time, so the research paper takes a back-seat for a while, until you’ve tackled the plate and received Wanda’s approving smile. Then you’re free to read again. Except the heavy, full feeling in your stomach is not conducive to focus. 

“That’s me heading out now,” Natasha calls, emerging from the staircase and taking a few steps towards the table, her hands in the pockets of her sharply tailored maroon trousers, the sleeves of her blazer rolled up to reveal her forearms, where your eyes linger for a few moments too long. “I’ll be back around 6, probably. Good luck at your appointment, lapushka.”

The nickname pulls you out of your reverie, and you look up to meet her eyes from across the room, trying to scroll back through what she said in your mind. Her wry grin is a little distracting, but you get the gist after a moment, and manage a reply.

“Thank you. Have a good day, Nat.”

“You too. See you later.”

Wanda stands up and walks over to Natasha, reaching out with both arms and placing her hands on her wife’s slightly bent elbows. She says something quietly to her, and Natasha replies at a similarly indistinguishable volume. Then they kiss, and Wanda lets her go. As Natasha turns she sends you another smile, before departing.

Wanda begins tidying up the table, and you shut your laptop to help her.

“You can carry on if you like, sweetheart,” she tells you, but you shake your head.

“I can help.”

Wanda just smiles and nods at that, allowing to to help move the dishes across. Your stomach feels a little sore, but it’s probably just from eating too fast, in your haste to dispose of the bagels. It’s not bad, just uncomfortable. You’ll forget it, soon enough.

When there’s nothing left for you to help with, Wanda pauses loading the dishwasher to suggest you go upstairs and get ready, and she’ll join you in around fifteen minutes to help you dress. You agree obligingly, and make your way upstairs to the bathroom on the top floor, where you use the toilet and brush your teeth with only a little bit of wasted time between, when you stare into the mirror and lose yourself in a daydream. You still look rather worse for wear, even disregarding the sling. The graze on your chin and underside of your cheek has seemed to grow with the bruising that has bloomed around the edge of the raw skin. And you look rather pale, you think. Perhaps it’s the lack of movement, lack of fresh air and exercise. God, you miss running, cycling — freedom — so much.

Once finished, you change into fresh underwear and a pair of loose-fitting black jeans. You pull on fresh socks too, and contemplate your thinning supplies. You really need to do some laundry; things are on the brink of becoming desperate. 

Wanda knocks on the door, and you call out permission for her to come in. She enters, smiling warmly and moving towards you, not too close, but there. Familiar, comforting.

“Do you have something to change into?” she asks, prompting you to pull out a bralette and one of your last clean t-shirts from the drawer.

“Would it be okay for me to do a load of laundry later?” you ask, as you turn back to her. “I’m sort of running out of clothes.”

“Of course, darling — I should have suggested it earlier, I’m sorry. We could even put a load on now, so it’s ready to hang up when we get back from the hospital?” 

“Yes please,” you agree.

“Alright,” Wanda smiles, “let’s get you dressed, then we’ll do that.”

She moves closer to you then, and her eyes stray to appraise the clothes you’ve picked out to wear.

“Is that Italian?” she asks, looking back at your t-shirt to give context to her question, as she begins to detach your sling.

“Yeah,” you say, glad to have something to talk about, as a distraction from the discomfort of holding your arm steady. “I won it in a hill race, when I was on holiday in Italy. I mean, I didn’t win — I just came fourth woman, but they gave out prizes for first to fourth, for some reason.”

“That’s impressive,” Wanda praises, and you’re caught between pride and the automatic urge to bat away the compliment.  “How did you end up doing that race?”

“It wasn’t a big important race,” you emphasise, not wanting her to think you’re more accomplished than you actually are. “I just saw a poster in the tourist information office near where my friends and I were camping, saying there was a hill race down the valley that week. A couple of my friends seemed keen too, but on the morning of the race they didn’t wake up, so then I was out of a lift, and I had to run ten kilometres down the valley to the village it started from. It was pretty stressful, but it warmed me up I suppose.”

“And you still came fourth?” Wanda asks, smiling as she carefully detaches you from your pyjama top.

“Mmm. Maybe I could have come third, or second if I didn’t have to run there, but I definitely wouldn’t have come first. The woman at the front was really quick.”

“And you won the t-shirt, after?”

“Yeah, and like a bag of local foods and stuff. It was really nice.” As Wanda helps you into your bra, you remember another detail of the story, your confidence growing with every show of interest Wanda grants you. “Oh, and when I finished there was this guy with a megaphone who interviewed me — through another guy, who was translating — and he was like announcing to everyone that there was an ‘international athlete’ in their midst, and he asked me about where I was from, and how I found the race and stuff… And I said it was a great course, though a bit too hot, given where I’m from, which they seemed to find funny.”

“That sounds like an amazing day,” Wanda surmises, helping you into the prized t-shirt. 

“It was,” you agree, sighing nostalgically. Then you grin. “Except for the fact that — just before the prize-giving — my phone fell out my pocket when I was washing my hands, and it fell in the toilet.”

“Oh no, myšička — that’s awful!” Wanda empathises, her eyes widening at your words.

“Yeah, it wasn’t great. I had to walk back up the valley after because I was too tired to run anymore and I had the bag of food to carry, and my phone was completely dead so I couldn’t phone my friends to ask for a lift back. And when I got back to the campsite I attempted to save the phone by putting it in a pan of orzo — because I didn’t have rice — but it didn’t work, of course. So I lost all my photos, and all my messages, and I had to fly back home the next week without a phone. It sucked.” When you stop, you realise quite how fast you’ve been talking, how much you’ve said. You don’t think you’ve said this much at all yet, with Wanda. Is this a sign that your concussion has finally eased? Or that you’re finally feeling safe enough to be yourself around her? Or, a miserable thought pipes up, a sign that you’re forgetting to restrain yourself, forgetting to wear the mask and control your inconvenient habits.

A slight tremble runs through your body as the familiar thoughts thump in your brain. Like a sinister second heartbeat, they pulse in beat, repeating. 

Too much. You’re too much. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly, “I didn’t mean to talk your ear off.”

“You didn’t,” Wanda tells you, holding your arm steady in her left hand, and cupping your cheek with her right. “I love hearing your stories, myšička. It’s like a gift every time you share a bit of yourself with us.” 

You blush at that, overcome with the sweetness, and rather touched despite your inclination to disbelieve it. Because it’s so kind. Like Wanda always is. She smiles at you, then starts to put on your sling, threading your arm through, and attaching it gently behind your neck. She needs to be close to do this, her chest so close to your own. When she’s finished, she slowly lowers her arms back to her side, studying you with a tilted head, her lips curled up so sweetly.

Your gratitude fills every breath you take, and you feel compelled to share it with her, to show her how you feel. Not just for her help, but for her acceptance too. Though you long to dive forward, you hold yourself back, to ask. To seek permission.

“Wanda?” you whisper. Her name still feels necessary somehow, despite your two bodies being the only ones occupying this space.

“Yes, darling?” Wanda prompts, and you find yourself trembling slightly as you breathe out your request.

“Please may I hug you?”

Wanda pulls you in, even before she responds in words. Her left arm wrapping round your body, her right hand guiding your head to rest on her shoulder.

“Of course, sweet girl. Always.”

Your left arm curls around her back, and your fingers flex for a moment before finding the fabric of her t-shirt, which they cling to, without conscious thought. Upon her shoulder, your eyelids flicker closed. And in the darkness, you feel only her warmth, and the whisper of her lips brushing a kiss on your head.

You’d happily stay like this forever, you think, but after a while, Wanda’s soft voice calls to you.

“Sweetheart?”

“Mm?” you hum quietly into her shoulder, hoping she won’t extricate you, but knowing that she probably will. There are things to do, places to go, people to see. But you’d happily forfeit it all just to stay here with her. And perhaps Natasha too. That would be nice.

“We need to get going soon. And we should put on your laundry, before we go.”

You don’t say anything. Like your silence will put a stop to proceedings, and prevent her from letting go.

“Come on,” she encourages you with a little chuckle, giving your back a light, prompting pat. “There can be more hugs later. I promise.”

It’s just about enough to placate you, and you let Wanda unravel you from her arms. Once free, you blink slightly in the sudden light, which you didn’t have to endure while safely nestled in her shoulder. 

“Where are your clothes for washing, myšička?” she asks you, and you move slowly to your bag on the floor beside the drawers, which is filled with your worn clothing. 

“Just in here,” you tell her, and you lift the bag up — but it never makes it to your shoulder because Wanda lifts it from your hand and slings it over her arm. 

“Are you sure that’s all?” Wanda checks, and you nod. “Alright. Could you find your phone and your Kindle please, darling? I think it would be good to have things to do while we’re there.”

“How long do you think it will take?” you ask, not liking the prospect of spending a long stint in the hospital. 

“I’m not sure, sweetheart. They might want to take more scans, which could mean a fair amount of waiting.”

You sigh deeply at that. Waiting is the worst. The one good thing about the accident was that the concussion scrambled your brain enough to delete all the boring periods between. Now you’ll be having the full hospital experience. Waiting. Being prodded in body and mind. More waiting. Probably being patronised too. And all under a different system: a system you don’t understand at all. 

Not wanting to cause a scene with your reluctance, you force yourself to find the items Wanda suggested. Both are easy to locate, placed on the bedside table in a neat stack. You slide your phone into a pocket in your jeans, and carry the Kindle in your hand as you walk back to her. 

“We should probably bring you a sweater too,” Wanda says with a frown, like she’s merely voicing her thoughts aloud. You watch as she moves to your drawers and finds your grey pullover with the quarter-zip. “Will this do?” she checks, and she smiles at you when you nod, tucking it under her arm before holding her hand out to you.

Wanda leads you down to the basement, where their washing machine resides in the little pantry off the living room. She places your clothes in the drum before you can protest, and you find yourself clutching your waist, embarrassed at the sight of her hands manoeuvring the bundles of fabric, which occasionally flashes the familiar colours of your underwear. But she looks so at ease, so unbothered by this task… 

Still crouching down, Wanda opens the door of the cupboard beside the washing machine, and gestures to a variety of laundry liquids on the shelf.

“What would you prefer?” She asks, and you answer without thinking.

“The one you use,” you tell her, the words tumbling out your mouth like the fall of a Jenga block tower: unstoppable; inevitable. “I like the way your clothes smell.”

The humiliation rumbles through your body like thunder, and you’re frozen on the spot, like the lightning strike of your words has burned your feet to the floor. Your brain wants to run away, to retreat to the bathroom and curl up on the floor until you have rebottled the self-loathing and screwed the lid on tight. But you can’t move at all. 

Wanda stands up, holding a bottle in her hand. 

“You really are the sweetest little thing, myšička,” she coos, and she gives your forehead a quick affectionate peck with her lips. 

You remain frozen as she pours some detergent into the drawer, baffled by her ability to reframe your weird words into something adorable. Of course, you meant it in a nice way — you do love the way she smells: that warm mix of sweetness and some kind of spice. But it’s weird to have noticed, and even weirder to comment on it. Yet somehow, she doesn’t seem unnerved by your impulsive admission. She just seems endeared. And although the horror of your reply still niggles at you, her kiss seems to soothe the shame. 

Maybe it was sweet. Maybe it was okay.

With the wash cycle started, Wanda turns back to you, slinging your empty bag back onto her shoulder and tucking your jumper under her left arm. She moves in front of you, reaches out with her arm and turns you with a soft pressure on the back of your hip, so you’re facing the same way as her. Then she curls her arm around your back and steers you out, her hand settled on your waist in a way that feels startlingly intimate at first, then merely grounding. 

Wanda guides you upstairs and takes your Kindle as she instructs you to put on your shoes. She tucks it and your jumper carefully in her handbag, which she retrieves from a little console table in the entryway. Then she ties your laces, slides on her own shoes, and leads you out the door.

The process of getting into the car is softly familiar. She still buckles you in and checks you’re safely enclosed before carefully closing your door. Again there’s mere moments to compose yourself, as she walks around the front of the car then enters on the left side. When she turns on the engine, she smiles at the clock on the display.

“We’re in good time,” she tells you. “Even if the traffic is bad, we’ll get there a little before your appointment.”

Only then does it strike you quite how much agency you have surrendered. How much responsibility you have shafted upon her. You’ve spared no thought at all to this appointment really, just trusted that she’d sort it, that she’d take charge. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, wanting to acknowledge your realisation, but not really sure how. “I — I’m sorry I’ve been so useless. I appreciate you, Wanda. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, darling,” she says warmly. “But you’re not useless; you’re just recovering. It’s okay to be a little less able, right now. And I’ll help as much as you need, for as long as you need, alright?”

You don’t trust your ability to thank her in words, without letting a sob spill out. So you just smile in a watery sort of way, and nod. She smiles back at you, reaches out and gives your hand a gentle squeeze, then moves her hand to the steering wheel and begins to pull out. 

The world looks slightly misty out your window for a while, until the tears in your eyes either evaporate or are reabsorbed for later. The traffic is quite heavy still, even though it’s after 9, and the journey has many slow sections and stops. Your brain does a funny skip every so often, a little panicked jerk when you see a cyclist near an intersection. Even though it isn’t you, on the bike. You can’t help but imagine the other viewpoint, the version of the accident which Wanda saw through the windscreen. You wonder then what it was like for her, driving to the emergency room to find you, and discovering you bruised and confused on a hospital bed. How it felt for her, having to talk to the doctors on your behalf, because you could barely hold a conversation with anyone.

And what now? You haven’t spoken to anyone else since the accident, nobody except for Wanda and Natasha. Even with them it’s been hard to summon sentences at times. How will you cope with the brisk, clinical manner of unfamiliar people in the hospital?

Your eyes drop as you get lost in your daydream, slowly slipping into a spiral of concern. Your left hand lifts to your mouth; at first just your knuckles press against your lips, and then a fingernail is pressed between your teeth and you begin to bite down, gnawing away as you ruminate. 

“Myšička?” Wanda calls your attention with the soft nickname and a gentle nudge of her right knuckles against your shoulder. You turn to look at her, hand only moving after you’ve fully switched your focus from your worries to her words. “Could you pass me a mint, please? There’s a tin just in the glove compartment.”

You follow her gaze to the little door in the dashboard, and you open it up with your left hand, finding a little tin and moving it to your lap. After prising off the lid — with care taken not to spill them — you hold up the open tin to Wanda. She smiles and takes one out, popping it in her mouth.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re welcome to take one too, if you like.”

You return the tin to your lap and consider for a moment, before lifting one white circular mint out and placing it between your lips. As you close the tin and return it to its home, you suck on the mint and feel the cool flavour awaken your senses a little. Somehow it helps elevate your thoughts from emotional concerns to practical ones.

“Wanda?” you ask suddenly, pushing the mint to your right cheek with your tongue. She glances over and gives you a smile of encouragement to continue. “Will I have to pay for the checkup?” You turn to face forward, looking out the front and frowning with the weight of your ignorance. “I just… I don’t have any idea how all of this works, here.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Wanda says carefully, her words coming out slow and measured. “It should be covered by your insurance. But worst case scenario, we’ll figure it out together, okay?”

You turn back to her, your left hand balling into a fist in your lap.

“What if I can’t afford it? Will they tell me first, or will they only give me the bill after it’s done?” Your left hand releases, then bears down again on your thigh, nails pressing in. “Oh God… I can’t afford it… I should have got a job — I was meant to get a job… And I… I can’t…”

“Hey,” Wanda calls to you, and you feel her hand scoop up your own, leaving five points of prickling pain in the wake of your nails. “Baby, just breathe for me. Everything is going to be okay. Just breathe.”

“I can’t,” you choke out, and you don’t even know what it is you’re referring to; there are so many things you can’t do, you can’t manage. Wanda squeezes your hand, her focus switching between the road and the disaster you’re creating, the disaster that you are. 

“I’m going to pull in, myšička,” she tells you in a calm, quiet voice. “Just take some deep breaths for me; you're okay, sweetheart.”

She lets go of your hand, and you pull it back to cross over your stomach and cling to your right side. You feel hot and tight all over, and your lungs feel like burst balloons, barely inflating before the air seems to dissipate and sink inside you, pressing down painfully. You screw your eyes tight shut but the tears drip down your cheeks anyway. Your brain seems to be thinking both too much and not at all; nothing registers but fear, ineptitude, and panic. 

The car slows to a halt and you hear the click of a seatbelt unfastening. Then another click, and the feeling of the belt being carefully unravelled around you, Wanda’s arm reaching over to safely guide its retraction, protecting your arm.

“I’m here,” Wanda says softly. “I’m going to take your hand, okay?”

Your whole body racks with the force of your gasping breaths and jerking sobs. But you somehow manage a nod, in the midst of it all. And then you feel an arm reaching around you, brushing against the fabric of your t-shirt. And a hand, which is cooler than your own, encloses yours and carries it away from your waist, travelling leftwards until it is placed on top of something warm, and held in place gently. You can feel fabric, and beneath it flesh and bone. 

“Just breathe with me, baby, okay?” Wanda guides you, and you feel her body rise beneath your hand. Your eyes flicker open, looking over to see how she’s holding your hand to the base of her ribs, just beneath the swell of her chest. At the same time, you take a shuddering breath in. Holding it shakily until you feel your hand sink in on her exhale, and you can release yours in tandem. You close your eyes again, and just focus on feeling. 

“That’s it,” Wanda whispers. “You’re doing so good, miláčik. Just keep going.”

And you do. Your breaths slowing down, in time, and finally meeting Wanda’s in perfect harmony. You wait for more perfectly matched breaths, checking it’s not just a fluke, before you tentatively open your eyes again. At first, you just look at your lap. Readjusting to the light, and building up the courage to face her. 

Two panic attacks in a week; one with each of them. At least last time you managed it alone, holed up in a bathroom until you’d recovered enough to show Natasha your face again. This time, however, Wanda has been subjected to it all. You look up at her, horrified by how you’ve conducted yourself, unable even to find comfort in her gentle gaze.

“Wanda… I… I’m so…”

“No, sweet girl,” she interrupts you, lifting your hand from her ribs and bringing it up to her lips, pressing a kiss on your knuckles. “I don’t want to hear any apologies. You have nothing to say sorry for.”

Your hand trembles, frightened by the affection you don’t feel you deserve. Wanda moves your hand to her lap, where she strokes it gently, like she’s ensuring the kiss can be absorbed into your skin.

“I know you’re scared, sweetheart,” she tells you. “And I know it’s overwhelming. But I’m going to be here with you all the way, and I can give you whatever help you need.”

You blink at her a while, trying to collect your thoughts. You can feel that now-familiar fuzziness creeping in, like she’s wrapping you in a blanket, muffling your senses. But you can’t let it cloud your mind; you need to be alert and attentive in the hospital. You need to be able to answer questions and advocate for yourself.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you whisper, and your fingers begin to bend, moving to hold her hand in return. Inside your shoes, your toes curl up tightly, the tension running up your legs and holding your body steady, holding the tears back.

“Do what, darling?”

“Anything. Talking to the doctors… Organising the insurance stuff… I still don’t feel fully like myself. I mean, I keep thinking I’m getting better, but then my mind just switches off and I can’t think properly; I can’t manage anything.”

“Then I can help you,” Wanda asserts, squeezing your hand gently. “Myšička, I can handle it all, if you need. I can talk to the doctors, and sort out the paperwork. You just say the word, or give me a signal, and I can take over.”

“But they’ll think I’m so weird and useless. All they’ll see is this adult who can’t take care of herself. It’s pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic.” Wanda’s voice is more serious now. Still soft, but with an edge of authority. “My darling, you just need some help right now. That’s not wrong, or weird.”

“But that’s what they’ll think,” you demur, and you’re whining now, but you can’t stop. “That I need a chaperone; that I can’t manage.” Your voice cracks, and the next bit is said quietly, shamefully. “They’ll think that I’m immature and completely inept, like a child.”

“What if someone came in with a family member?” Wanda prompts, reaching out with her other hand and brushing away a tear that drips down your cheek. “Would you think that was weird, if an older man came in with his wife, for example?”

“No,” you admit, pouting a little at the way her question has disarmed you. Your brain whirs with the effort of defending your panic against her logic.

“Well darling…” Wanda says quietly, moving her hand to cup your cheek. “What if we just pretend, while we’re in the hospital?”

You stare at her, confused.

“What do you mean?”

Wanda bites her lip, and the action stills you. She seems hesitant, unsure. You’ve only seen her like this once before, very briefly. Yesterday morning, when she asked if you’d prefer Natasha. Her fingers twitch slightly, her grip of your hand briefly loosening, before tightening again as she finds her resolve and begins to speak.

“Do you remember what happened last time we were there?” she says slowly. You frown and shake your head.

“I... I’m not sure?”

“The doctor assumed I was your mom,” she reminds you, pausing a moment to let you take this in. When the memory registers, you give her a little nod, and she continues after giving you a cautious smile. ”So what if we just let them assume? And we pretend, just a little?”

Your heart flutters, and you hear the tiny stutter of air as your breath catches.

“You’d still be an adult,” Wanda tells you quickly. “And everyone would see you like that. But they would maybe just think I’m a worried mother, insisting on being there. It could take the spotlight off of you, a little.” She waits a moment, then adds a question. Quiet, tentative. “Does that sound like something you want?”

You can hear your heart pounding, the blood thudding in your ears. Every part of your body feels hot and alight with adrenaline. Logically she’s just offering you an out, offering you a solution to your anxieties. But the question feels charged. It’s like your body has noticed something your brain can’t quite comprehend.

Wanda breaks eye contact first, and you notice the slight flush of her cheeks. Is she finding this slightly strange too? And if so, does that mean you should be more worried, or less?

Her eyes return, and she simply studies you for a while. Looking at her reminds you of everything she’s done so far, every bit of help and affection she’s given you. Some things necessary, and some not, but all things she’s done from the goodness of her heart. And you’ve never been made to feel uncomfortable, or unwanted. She’s listened to you, both when speaking and silent. She’s ameliorated your worries and soothed your woes. She’s treated your body with softness and respect. And she’s welcomed you into her home, and allowed you to feel some sense of belonging in the strangest of situations.

You trust her. You trust her to choose, to direct. You trust her to think for you, because she’s done it time and again, and always kept you safe.

Maybe that’s all you need to say. 

You nibble your lip, trying to find the words to express it. Her thumb strokes your cheek, and her head tilts in that gently expecting way. You begin with a nod. Tiny, twice-repeating.

“Please, Wanda,” you whisper. “I — I want you to help.” You swallow, and you give breath to the words; you speak the soft admission which feels like you’re offering something up of yourself. Like holding out a key, granting entry. Granting everything.

“I trust you."

A/N: Thank you for reading. I really hope this was okay ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @bishovapls ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 5

Previous Chapter: Part 4 | Next Chapter: Part 6

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: Shoto Todoroki x Fem Reader! 💋

Genre: Fluff, Romance, S*xual Tension, Making Out, Smut

🚫🔞THIS IS AN ADULT BLOG CONTAINING EXPLICIT CONTENT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, A18+ ONLY.🔞🚫

CW: MDNI!, A18+, kissing, romance, sexual tension, spicy scenes, lemon, hand job, vague references to Shoto being abused by family, reader experiences anxiety

Link to My Master List

Your alarm wakes you from a restless sleep. You blearily slap at your phone until it stops beeping and you sit up in bed.

Deep in your bones, you feel upset.

But why? Your fuzzy brain can’t seem to put all the pieces together from the night before. Then in a flash you remember – the text. The sweatshirt. YaMomo.

Oh, right. You had drifted off around 4 am after hours of agonizing and pacing around your tiny dorm room.

Maybe it was all just a weird dream? You reach out your hand and grope along your side table until you find it – Shoto’s phone. You scoop it into your arms and tap it to reveal his bland blue-sky screensaver. There are two texts on the screen – one from you, and one from Momo Yayarozo.

Momo: “Hey Shoto, you left your sweatshirt in my dorm room yesterday evening. Come pick it up tomorrow? Good night.”

Okay so this is really happening. For what feels like the billionth time, you review the facts in your head.

Fact #1: Shoto and Momo are friends. They have always been fairly close and supportive of each other.

Fact #2: Shoto left some clothing in Momo’s room. And it’s a sweatshirt – not a super strange piece of clothing to leave in a friend’s room, right? But regardless, the text indicates that Shoto has physically been in YaMomo’s room.

Fact #3: Momo is hot. That feels relevant to list out here. But you don’t know if Shoto personally finds Momo hot, which is an important detail in this investigation.

It’s probably nothing…but you can’t help the way that a nervous knot forms in your stomach as you re-read the text message for the umpteenth time. Momo and Shoto have always been…close? But how close?

An image forms in your mind of Momo, her beautiful curvy figure leaning over Shoto during a seemingly innocent study session….You shake your head. No! These are your friends! You can’t assume the worst of them. Also, didn’t you seduce Shoto during a “study session” just last night? It seems a bit hypocritical to look down on someone else for doing the same.

You resolve to confront Shoto about this in the morning, to ask him for an explanation as to why Momo is currently in possession of a Todoroki sweatshirt. As you get ready – putting on your uniform, doing a quick skincare regimen, and brushing your hair - your mind swirls with questions and more than a little doubt.

You open your closet and reach for a box of protein bars that you’ve stashed at the bottom, breaking open the box and grabbing a chocolate chip bar for your breakfast.  You toss the snack into your bag alongside Shoto’s phone. Your emotions are all twisted up in the worst way. You’re simultaneously anxious and angry. But what exactly you’re angry about, you can’t put your finger on – are you angry about the situation, about Shoto’s potential two timing? Or are you angry at yourself for agonizing over the whole thing? You’re not completely sure, but you know for a fact that your lack of sleep isn’t doing anything to help.

Scowling, you march out of your dorm room and through the common area, ignoring the various “good mornings” of your friends as you go.

“Damn what crawled up Y/N’s ass and died this morning?” you hear Sero say loudly to Mina and Ochaco as you trudge down the stairs and out onto the quad. You’re too sleep deprived and pissy to care.

As you walk, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out and look at the screen where a barrage of texts alerts take up residence on your bright lock screen. It’s your group chat with Toru and Mina, appropriately labeled “Girlie Squad.”

Toru: Y/N! What’s the deal!?

Mina: Is everything okay?

Toru: So totally rude of you to ignore us!

Mina: You look like death.

You ignore them; you don’t have the wherewithal to make up an excuse for your sour mood. You make a mental note to respond before class so they don’t suspect that anything too crazy is going on with you. Your phone buzzes again, and you’re about to text the group to back off when you notice that – oh! It’s Honenuki this time.

You open the message and see that he’s linked you to a new song. You click through and it brings you to “This Must Be the Place” by the Talking Heads. You type out a quick text.

Y/N: You moved on to the 80s?                    

Honenuki: Ha. Yeah, 80s New Wave is the vibe this week. You like the Talking Heads?

Y/N: Yeah I’m a fan. “And She Was” is a favorite of mine.

Honenuki: A woman of taste! How’s you’re week going Y/N?

Y/N: Eh kinda crappy. Classes have been crazy, and I’m in a bad mood. You?

Honenuki: *typing*

Honenuki: Yeah the hero course has been tough lately. Maybe this will help.

He sends you another song, this time its “I’m Walking On Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.

Honenuki: A serotonin boost. Don’t let a tough week take away your sunshine, ‘kay? Hope the day gets better!

Y/N: Thanks dude, hope you have a good one too.

You smile down at your phone. Huh, Honenuki’s actually kind of cool. You’ve got a sneaking suspicion that Class B isn’t as bad as Monoma’s immature behavior has lead you to believe. As it turns out, they’re all sort of normal. The anxiety is still bubbling around in the pit of your stomach, but having so many friends be concerned about you lessens it a tiny bit. Mina, Toru, Honenuki. It’s nice to have people looking out for you. You hope that after the conversation you’re about to have that Shoto can be a member of that list.

You have a feeling you know where Shoto is this morning, and you’re determined to confront him there.

You walk across campus in the early morning sun, dew sticking to your shoes as you plod across the damp, freshly mowed grass. You come to one of the training gymnasiums and let yourself inside. The ground floor is comprised of a gym entirely dedicated to the peers in your year. It has a ton of exercise equipment and training gear, and is open most hours of the day.

You push open the big double doors to the gym and find Todoroki in the far corner. It’s extremely early and it looks like Shoto is the only guy from your year who chose to get some reps in this morning.

He’s wearing athletic gear – basketball shorts and a tight fitting tank top – and he’s covered in sweat. He shines in the lowlight of the gym, skin glowing as he bicep curls a massive free weight in each arm. He looks like a Greek god, his physique is glorious and his muscles flex with practice skill. If you weren’t so upset, you’d worship at his feet.

He hears the door open and looks up with a start, uncurling his arms in a way that shows off his workout pump. Fuck his body should come with a warning label like: Caution: Extremely hot, do not approach unless you’re prepared to drop your panties.

“Y/N?” He says with wide-eyed surprise. He moves to put down the weights and reaches for a small white towel. He wipes the sweat off of his gorgeous brow and looks at you, confusion in his eyes. You don’t typically lift in the mornings, and you’re already in your school uniform.

You approach him briskly, your steps precise and sharp as you maneuver around various machines and pieces of workout equipment. Your steps echo in the expansive space.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, tilting his head to the side like a dog. He’s so cute you almost forget that you’re mad at him. Wordlessly, you reach into your bag and pull out his cell phone.

“Oh, my phone.” He says blankly. “That’s right, I left it in your room, didn’t I?” He reaches out and accepts the cellular device from you. “Mr. Aizawa caught me on the staircase, so I couldn’t come back to get it. I got a detention, but I don’t think it will be too bad. Thank you for bringing this back to me.” He slides the phone into his short’s pocket without a second glance.

“Did you come to workout with me?” You see there’s a hint of eagerness in his face. He slowly turns around and looks to a pile of free weights in the corner. “What weight would you like to start with? I can go get some for you.”

Before he can turn to walk away, you reach out and grab his shoulder. You feel the definition in his muscles and it makes your knees weak for a moment. Goddamn, girl. Get yourself together here. Cut to the chase.

“Why is YaMomo texting you?” You ask, trying to keep your voice level. “She said you left your sweatshirt in her room.”

Shoto doesn’t seem phased by this. He calmly removes his phone from his pocket and opens up his messages.

“Oh, she did text me. Thanks Y/N.” He types something back to Momo and hits send before pocketing the phone once more. You stand there in disbelief as he acts like nothing odd has happened.

“You’re in your uniform. Do you want to go and change? There’s still plenty of time before homeroom if you want to get a few reps in. I can spot you if you want to do some deadlifts.” He says helpfully, using the towel again to wipe off his perfectly formed shoulders. “I never see you workout in the mornings, did you come just to see me?” He smiles mischievously, but you can tell that he’s genuinely thrilled that you’ve joined him.

“Shoto.” You say, ignoring his offer. “Why did you leave your sweatshirt in Momo’s room?”

“Hmm.” His expression crinkles a bit as he thinks back. “I guess I must have taken it off while we were studying. Her room is pretty stuffy. She has way too much furniture crammed into her dorm. I told her she should get a smaller bed.”

“So when you were with her…you were just ‘studying’?” You prompt, annoyed that he doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation here. Is he trying to pull one over on you?

“Yes. We did a short review of the quadratic equations we’ve been working on in class this month. YaMomo put together a review session for Kaminari, Jiro and I. Well mostly for Kaminari, but I still found the material helpful.” He stretches, hands behind his head. “Would you like to join our next math review? Momo makes quite a good teacher. She’s a great friend for organizing so many study groups.”

You look at him in disbelief, your jaw hanging open. Oh my god. OH. MY. GOD. Did you stay up half the night blowing A TEXT completely out of proportion!? Holy crap did you just spend hours worrying and agonizing and imagining fake scenarios over absolutely NOTHING!? You’re enraged with yourself. How could you let one tiny text absolutely destroy you like that? You’re supposed to be a level-headed hero! And right now you’re acting like some kind of lovesick middle schooler. Grow the fuck up Y/N! This is not how a normal person acts!

You’re absolutely spiraling inside, ashamed of the way you’ve been absolutely tearing yourself apart worrying that Shoto had two timed you with Momo. How silly. How ridiculous. Shoto and Momo are both you’re friends and somehow your horny Neanderthal brain made them both into enemies at the drop of a hat. You feel like an awful person for thinking of Shoto and Momo in such a horrible light.

“What’s wrong?” Shoto says slowly, bringing you back to reality. Your head is absolutely spinning. You’re exhausted and shaky, anxiety still coursing through your veins. Shoto shuffles forward to get a closer look at you, concerned. He reaches out to put a hand on your waist. “Are you not feeling well?” His voice is tinged with concern and he’s looking at you with such warm eyes it makes you want to die.

“I’m feeling fine.” You snap, and Shoto instantly flinches away at your sharp tone. He recoils almost like a child that’s been admonished. His exposed fear at your harsh words makes you feel even sicker to your stomach. It makes you wonder again at how he’s treated at home. You have so many emotions flowing through you at once that you aren’t sure how to respond. Embarrassed, exhausted and unsure of yourself, you turn and walk away.

“Y/N – wait! What’s wrong?” He calls after you as you quickly weave around the gym equipment.

“I’m fine.” You say again in a clipped tone, not having the strength to look back at him.

You leave Shoto confused and alone in the large space.

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You stomp your way to the classroom building. Your stomach is riling and you have too many emotions to count.

You text Mina and Toru in your group chat. You send them a vague excuse about waking up on the wrong side of the bed or some shit. Mina responds that she didn’t sleep well either and Toru sends a heart emoji. You assume all is forgiven.

Much to your class’s surprise, Recovery Girl is standing in Mr. Aizawa’s usual place when you all arrive.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Toru whispers as she takes her seat. You ignore her, still stewing. You can’t make sense of your feelings right now…why are you so damn angry? You’re certain that Shoto is telling the truth – it was just a study session in Momo’s room. You could easily ask Kaminari or Jiro to corroborate his story.

It’s not the study session that’s making you angry though…it’s the way you stayed up all night obsessing about Momo and Shoto’s friendship. The potential hookup. What it would mean if Shoto was seeing other people, despite your discussion about keeping the intimacy monogamous.

You’re embarrassed and ashamed. And now you’re even more abashed of the way you spoke to Shoto.

“Hello class. Aizawa had to take the morning off to attend to some personal matters, so we’re going to dive into our first Sex Ed lesson today ahead of your English class.”

The class groans.

“Don’t worry everyone, this one is quick. It’s just a stepping stone to our larger conversations.” She says kindly, peering up at them through her thick glasses. “Today we’re just going to chat about interpersonal relationships, specifically about how boundaries and strong communication can lead to stronger relationships. This is going to play directly into your friendships, into your hero work, and, eventually, into intimate relationships as well.”

“Who knows what a boundary is?” She looks around expectantly, but no one raises their hand. Everyone is too nervous to engage. She sighs. “Alright, well to start: when we set a boundary, we establish clear limits or guidelines about how we want to be treated. We may define what behaviors are acceptable to us or not. Can anyone think of a good example of what a boundary may be?”

Uraraka raises her hand. “Could a boundary be asking someone not to call you a certain name? Like if Midoriya told Bakugo that being called ‘Deku’ was crossing a boundary for him, it would be wrong of Bakugo to continue using the name, right?”

“Keep my name out of your mouth, pink cheeks!”

“Sounds like Bakugo is crossing the name calling boundary already!” Mina calls out mockingly, and Katsuki looks at her with eyes full of fire and brimstone.

“Settle down! Yes, Uraraka. That’s a good example of a boundary. Boundaries can also be physical or emotional. I’ll give some applicable examples: during training you may feel the need to tell your sparring partner that you aren’t comfortable with your face or chest being touched. In a friendship, you might set a boundary with that person requesting that they not share private personal information about you with other friends. In a dating relationship, you may set boundaries surrounding physical intimacy. The boundaries you set depend on your feelings and needs, as well as the relationship. The most important part of boundary setting is clear communication. Be direct about your feelings and need for a boundary, and don’t be afraid to verbally reiterate to reinforce the boundary. Any questions?”

You see Shoto’s hand lift towards the ceiling. You look over at him and your stomach rolls.

“Yes, Shoto?”

“Say a friend is mad at you, and you’re not sure why. Can I set a boundary in the future requesting that they be direct with me and communicate their feelings as clearly as possible?” He looks straight ahead, careful not to meet your eyes.

Recovery Girl’s mouth quirks a bit. “That is…an oddly specific question.”

She thinks about it for a moment then smiles at Shoto. “But yes, setting clear boundaries surrounding your communication needs is perfectly reasonable. A good step would be to meet this friend in a neutral area and to request that they have an open and honest conversation with you about how they are feeling and why. Tell them that in the future, you would like to have an open line of communication with them and that it upsets you when you don’t understand their feelings. Be sure to underscore that you want to understand them better, and you care about them. Of course, it is important to note that sometimes your boundaries will not be considered or respected. Your friend may not be willing to sit down with you and have a conversation. All relationships are complex and everyone has their own needs that they want met. The best we can do is be respectful of one another and try to approach difficult interpersonal situations with as much empathy and grace as possible.”

Shoto considers this, and nods with understanding.

“Does anyone else have a question about boundaries?”

Mineta raises his hand but begins speaking without being called on. “I think we all know that my boundaries are to see as much of the girls’ boobs and butts as I can. If the ladies of the class could all respect my boundary by having their assets on display as much as possible, it would be much appreciated.”

The lesson ends there.

Mineta is sent to the Principle’s office and Recovery Girl gives them a long lecture about respect and body autonomy. Present Mic comes in halfway through to start his English class. One look at Recovery Girl’s angry face is enough to send him packing, and he doesn’t pluck up the courage to come back and begin his class until 15 minutes have elapsed.

You think about Shoto’s question and feel a stab of shame. Shoto isn’t the best at understanding people, and he comes from a volatile home life where it sounds like his father’s anger is often weaponized. Of course he’s hurt and confused at your seemingly mysterious anger towards him. You wonder if he’s full of anxiety as well. You really shouldn’t have just left him in the dust this morning.

You glance over at Shoto, but he’s still staring straight ahead. His eyes are focused on Present Mic and the chalkboard, but they look a little glazed over. He’s not taking notes. He’s clearly deep in thought about something. You wonder if he’s thinking about you.

Crap, you really screwed this one up.

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The rest of the day goes by pretty fast. There is the usual blur of classes, training, sparring and lunch. Mr. Aizawa reappears for combat training later in the day. He does not share an explanation as to where he has been. Instead, he doubles down on training and makes everyone work twice as hard as usual.

Shoji lays you out on your ass during said combat training and you’re absolutely sure your legs are going to bloom with bruises later on. He apologizes profusely but you shake it off and tell him it was a great throw. The way you had flown through the air must truly have been a sight to behold, as other students are taking a break from their work to come and check that you are okay. Shoji, still incredibly embarrassed, offers to take you to Recovery Girl for a quick once-over.

You catch Shoto’s gaze watching with concern from across the room where he’s sparring with Tokoyami. The momentary lapse in his attention allows for Dark Shadow to hit him square in the chest. He falls back on his own ass and blinks up at Tokoyami with wide-eyed shock.

“You’ve been woefully distracted lately, Todoroki.” You overhear Tokoyami say to Shoto as he pulls the fallen hero back to his feet. “Is everything okay?”

You feel a mixture of shame and embarrassment pool in your stomach as you realize that you’ve been ruining Shoto’s focus. An anxious, terrible thought creeps into your brain…maybe Shoto is better off without you tangled up in his life. You’re a distraction from his hero training, and he from yours. Plus, you’ve most definitely hurt him with the way you jumped to conclusions and then left him to sit with your angry vibes. Maybe for Shoto’s sake…maybe you need to break this off sooner rather than later? You shake your head in an effort to clear the thought from your mind.

“Y/N…are you sure you don’t want to go to Recovery Girl? You’re definitely going to have some nasty bruises from the way you hit the ground.” Shoji tries one more time. You wave him off, starting to get annoyed at the way everyone is dotting on you. Your nerves are absolutely fried.

“No, no. It was my fault for not breaking my own fall. I need to be more careful. Let’s go one more time – but give me a second or two to practice my counter move so we can see if it would be effective against your dupli-arms.” Shoji nods and squares up to you, giving you a moment to collect yourself and get into a position with more leverage. You train together for a few more rounds of sparring before Mr. Aizawa comes around and adjusts your posture to better protect your body from damage. You’re annoyed at the correction, but grateful for the advice.

After combat training, you shower and roll back to the classroom for your final lesson of the day – math. Ugh. You settle back into your desk, taking out your notebook and pencils and trying to convince your brain to cooperate for one last hour.

During the class, Mina passes you a hot pink post-it note that has two quick sentences scribbled out in her neat script: “Stage Two: Rendezvous in the Library at 8pm. Be sure you aren’t followed.”

You roll your eyes at her and tuck the note into your book bag. Mina’s flare for the dramatic could be the thing that blows this whole party operation; you need to keep her in check. You pull out your planner and scribble a quick reminder to meet up with Mina, Toru and Nieto in the evening.

You’re tired and angsty and anxious – to be perfectly honest, you’re not in the mood for a dose of party planning and strategy tonight. In fact, you’d rather take a second, longer shower and spend the evening brooding in your room. You need to figure out how you’ll make things right with Shoto. And you need to determine if hooking up is posing for too much of a distraction to you both. You return to your quadratic equations, morale low and enthusiasm for math crumbling.

The day ends unceremoniously. You pack up your bag, stuffing your notebooks and pens into the small book bag as best you can. Your math textbook peaks out at the top and you can’t zip it all the way. You want to throw it at the wall, you’re so frustrated. What a shitty day it’s been.

Your phone buzzes as you walk through the door. You open it up to see a text from Shoto.

Shoto: Y/N. I don’t understand why you’re upset with me. Will you walk with me back to the dorms so we can discuss your feelings?

Ugh. You totally knew this was coming. You turn and see Shoto packing up his own bag back in the classroom. There are a few other stragglers from Class A – you watch as he attempts to hang back. He looks up at you and finally catches your eye. He looks sad, his expressive eyes shining with more than a little hurt. You nod at him before turning back down to your phone.

Y/N: Of course, I’ll wait for you outside of the classroom.

You loiter outside the classroom door for a moment, nodding at your classmates as they pass through the threshold and make their way back to the dorm building. Shoto is the last to exit; his fine brown leather backpack slung over one shoulder. The bright afternoon sunlight shines through the hallway windows and dances upon his fair face. It highlights the bright scar that encircles his left eye, giving it an almost fiery glow. He’s so gorgeous he could be a model.

“I saw you got your ass kicked by Tokoyami today.” You try to joke, but the comment just comes out lame. The two of you start making your way towards the exit, the sunlight streaming across your bare arms and wrapping you in a glow of warmth. The feeling is oddly comforting. You take a few steadying breaths as you prepare yourself for a tough conversation.

“Yes. I was distracted. I saw Shoji throw you to the ground and I was worried that you were hurt.” Shoto says, straightforward as ever. He fixes his gaze on the hallway ahead, not daring to look over at you.

A flicker of anger and madness licks at your insides. You try taking a deep breath to keep your emotions at bay, but you almost can’t help yourself when you snap out: “You can’t worry about me like that. I can hold my own in battle. I got into UA on my own merits, after all.” A beat. “You need to trust that I can handle myself.”

You’re on edge and upset at yourself, and once again today you’re taking it out on poor Shoto. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I’m going to be a hero.” You say with feeling, adjusting your backpack so the straps don’t dig into your shoulders as much. Damn, you’ve got too many books crammed into this thing.

Shoto is silent for a moment. He turns to stare out one of the large sunlit windows, gathering his thoughts. You give him some time. He takes a deep breath before he turns back towards you, his eyes bright.

“You’re right. I’m sorry Y/N. Is that why you’re mad at me – do you feel that I’ve been underestimating your abilities? Because I assure you its quite the opposite. I hold you in such a high regard, you are nothing but impressive to me.” He turns so he can focus his full attention on you, his mismatched eyes fit to burn a hole through your heart. The kind words roll off of his tongue sweet like honey, and you believe him. He thinks so highly of you. You’ve always known this. And yet, you needed him to repeat it. You need to be reminded, or else the anxious thoughts will have you in a chokehold.

“I truly think you are amazing.” At his words, the prickly anxious energy surrounding your heart and mind dissipates a bit.

“Shoto…I’m not mad at you. I’m not even sure how to explain why I was so dismissive of you this morning.” You say, trying your best to pin down a few of the swirling thoughts in your mind.

“Can you try?” He asks softly. “Recovery Girl said that I should be direct and ask questions. I would like to have an open line of communication with you, because I care about you and it has been hurting me all day that I can’t understand the way you’re feeling. Are you willing to discuss this?”

“Of course Shoto.” You say, trying to come up with the right words to describe your feelings. Your whole body aches from your sparring session with Shoji, and you’re so tired you feel like you could shut your eyes and fall asleep where you stand. Talking about feelings is the absolute last thing you want to do right now, but Shoto deserves an explanation and an apology. You try to adjust your backpack straps again, but it does nothing to alleviate the stiffness in your back.

“Here, Y/N. I know you’re a strong hero and that you can hold your own, but please let me help you with your backpack. It looks uncomfortable.” Shoto reaches out and slips the backpack strap off your shoulders. You feel instant relief – you lift your arms high over your head and feel your shoulders crack as you stretch out the muscles.

“Thank you. I’m not feeling my best.” You continue to run through some basic stretches and roll out your muscles as you explain how shocked you were to see the text from Momo come through the night before. “I wasn’t snooping on your phone, I promise. I would never violate your privacy like that. But I flipped it over and saw the message. I misinterpreted Momo’s text…I thought that when she said you’d left your sweatshirt in her room…well I thought it implied that the two of you had hooked up.”

Shoto’s eyes grow round with surprise, his eyebrows shoot up into his neat two toned hair. “You thought that Momo and I…?”

“Yeah. My imagination and my anxiety went into overdrive and I was up all night wrecked with worry.”

“But Y/N, I told you that I only want to be intimate with you. What reason would I have to lie to you?”

“Anxiety is a brutal thing. I spiraled out of control and assumed the worst. And then when you had a perfectly reasonable explanation for why your sweatshirt was in her room…I was ashamed at how upset and needy I let myself get over the whole thing.” You hang your head in shame, unable to look him straight in the face. “I was up most of the night anxious about the situation and I let it consume me. I was mad at myself, and I took it out on you. I’m so sorry Shoto, that was wrong of me.” Your eyes focus on the floor beneath you.

“Y/N.” You feel Shoto’s hand reach out to take your own. It’s his cool hand – it feels refreshing to have your fingers wrapped around each other in the sunny glare of the wide UA windows. “It’s alright. I’m not upset with you. That makes a lot of sense, and now I understand why you feel the way you do. But I hope you believe me when I say I only want to be intimate that way with you.” He rubs his thumb across your hand lightly, the gentle touch sending goose bumps up your arms. “I like Momo as a friend – but that’s all. I promise.” He squeezes your hand lightly, a physical manifestation of his assurance.

You look up into Shoto’s face and his gaze is open, warm. He repeats: “I’m not upset with you.”

“But you should be!” You burst out, nerves still buzzing. “I was so cold to you this morning, and I clearly hurt your feelings.” You pause, your emotions welling up and bubbling too close to the surface for comfort. “And…and I’m too much of a distraction to you. Ever since we started hooking up, you’ve been less engaged in class and in training. I just can’t stomach the thought of holding your hero training back because you’re too focused on me.”

This is clearly not what Shoto was expecting you to say, because his mouth hangs open in surprise. He stands in the hallway, flabbergasted.

The hallway is silent, save for simple notes of birdsong wafting through a nearby open window.

Shoto looks at you now, narrowing his eyes. “Hey, Y/N…I am going to ask you a question and I don’t want you to think I’m being demeaning here. But…when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep? You look exhausted.”

You blink at him, confused for a moment. But then you realize its true – you’re utterly drained and you haven’t gotten a good nights’ sleep all week. In between late night study sessions and your hookups with Shoto, you’ve really been burning the midnight oil. And then, of course, there’s the way you’d kept yourself up the night before agonizing over the text from Momo…

“It’s been a while.” You say slowly.

“I think that maybe you need to relax a bit. I’m not mad at you. You’re not distracting me. In fact, you’ve done nothing but enhance my life since we’ve started seeing each other more…intimately. You let me just be myself around you. I can’t convey to you how much that’s helped me lately. I need you to believe that.”

You nod. He’s being far too kind to you.

Shoto uses his free hand to check his phone for the time. You see his boring blue sky phone background light up briefly before he re-pockets the device.

“It’s 4:00 right now. Do you have time to rest before dinner?” He asks gently, squeezing your hand again.

“Yes. I don’t have anything planned until 8 o’clock tonight.” You say, thinking back to Mina’s note.

“Good. Then I’m escorting to your room and enforcing a mandatory nap.” He uncouples your hands and marches forward towards the dorms. You follow behind; head foggy with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Shoto isn’t mad at you.

Within minutes, you’re back in the Class A dorms. Most of your classmates are scattered across the campus – fitting in some last minute training in the gym or working through homework in the library. You feel guilty – you should be in one of those places, too. You need to work towards your goal of becoming stronger, becoming a hero. You voice these concerns to Shoto as he leads you through the empty hallway and towards your dorm room.

“Heroes need rest, too.” He says simply, dismissing your worries with a wave of his hand. “How can you become stronger if your exhausted?” He has a point there.

You turn your key in the lock and push your door open. The two of you enter the tiny dorm and you lock the door behind you. Shoto places the two backpacks on the floor near your desk and turns to you expectantly.

“Where do you keep your comfortable clothes?”

“Um, in the second drawer on the right.” You direct.

He moves to your dresser and opens the aforementioned drawer, drawing out a pair of cream-colored sweatpants and a grey tank top. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the pieces are not a matching set. He tosses the outfit in your direction and tells you to change. Meanwhile, he grabs the water bottle off of your nightstand and walks to your tiny bathroom to fill it for you. You hastily change in his absence and throw your worn uniform in your hamper for washing.

Shoto returns with a full water bottle and a damp cloth. He sets the bottle back on your nightstand and tugs you to your bed. You pull down the covers and climb up into the fluffy monstrosity, tucking your cold feet under the covers.

Shoto climbs up with you and sits next to you. He brings the cloth to your face – it’s damp with warm water. He lightly dabs at your cheeks, eyebrows and forehead, refreshing your skin in an insanely sweet gesture. “My mom used to do this for me before I went to bed.” He mumbles under his breath. “It always helped me sleep better.”

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You flush at the tenderness of his actions, overwhelmed with gratitude but feeling unworthy of his gentle attention.

“Drink some water.” He says before sliding off the bed and moving to ring out the cloth in the bathroom sink. You oblige, grabbing your water bottle and taking several large gulps of the cool liquid.

You feel ten times more relaxed than you had in class today. The loose clothes feel comforting on your aching body, and your face feels fresh and clean from Shoto’s attention. You lay your head down on your soft pillow and exhale deeply.

Shoto exits the bathroom, shaking the excess water from his hands.

“I’m sorry to be such a burden to you, Shoto.”

Shoto looks at you with a piercing gaze, almost angry.

“Y/N. I care about you – it is not a burden to take care of you when you need it. All I ask is that you are more open with your feelings next time. Don’t bottle things up and keep me in the dark.” He walks over to his book bag and reaches inside to grab one of your English class books – The Great Gatsby.

“Alright…I can be more open with you for sure. I’m sorry I was so harsh and mysterious this morning, I was processing too much and I got myself all worked up thinking that you and Momo had…well, you know.”

“Momo and I are good friends. You and I are also good friends but we have a more intimate relationship. There is nothing to be jealous about. As I said - I don’t care for Momo in the same way that I care for you.” He states simply, climbing back up beside you with his book in hand. “Here, turn onto your side and I can use my quirk as a heating pad on your back like last time.”

“You sure? I don’t need you to go to all this trouble…” You trail off as you feel his calloused hand works its way under your tank top. He spreads his fingertips wide as he cradles your lower back in his powerful hand. You feel him slowly start to modulate his temperature and the heat feels delightful against your aching muscles.

“Let me do nice things for you. I want you to relax. Now close your eyes and take a nap – I’ll wake you up before dinner.” He settles in next to you and you turn onto your side to give him better access to your back. He adjusts his position and props himself up against a few of your plushies. He flips his book open with his free hand and starts to read, brow furrowed in concentration.

You drift off, drawing comfort from the heat of Shoto’s left hand. You feel your muscles relaxing into his warm touch, the pains of the day melting like butter on a hot plate. You stretch out your legs into a more comfortable position and bury your face into your pillow.

“Thanks Shoto.” You sigh, letting your heavy eyelids drop. You feel so comfortable and safe; it’s not hard to let yourself fall into a soft, dreamless sleep.

True to his word, Shoto wakes you up two and a half hours later with a gentle shake of your shoulder. You blink up at him, bleary eyed. He smiles down at you, eyes soft as ever. It’s funny that you’ve never really noticed this – his face can be so blank and stoic, but all of the emotion shines through his pretty mismatched eyes.

“Did you have a good nap?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your brow before getting to his feet.

“Yeah…I feel like a totally new person.” You say. And its true – you feel refreshed and 90% better than you had earlier this afternoon. Your training aches and pains are still present, but have subsided a bit under Shoto’s gentle heat. Shoto hands you your water bottle and encourages you to take a few more gulps before getting out of bed. You indulge him, making a show of draining the bottle before you slide out from under the covers. You stand and wrap your arms around him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder. “Thank you Shoto.”

Shoto returns the hug, taking care to run his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture. “We take care of each other.” He says simply.

“How’s the book?” You ask as he breaks the hug and walks to his backpack, tucking his copy of The Great Gatsby amongst his notebooks.

“I finished it.” He says, scooping the bag up and onto his shoulders. “I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, but I’ll say this – it’s not a happy book.”

“Oh. Well I wasn’t really looking forward to it anyway. I much prefer sci-fi to the classics.” This seems to surprise Shoto, his eyebrows quirk up into his bangs in a gesture that’s rapidly becoming familiar.

“Sci-fi? Wow, I learn new things about you every day.” His tone is filled with surprise. “You’ll have to lend me one of your favorites sometime.” He checks the time on his phone, his factory default background glowing in the lowlight. “I should get going so I can drop my bag off in my room before dinner.”

“Hold on a sec – can I see your phone?” You hold out your hand, palm open. He looks at you for a moment, curious.

“Is this something to do with YaMomo again?” He asks, handing you the device.

“Not at all – I just noticed you have a basic-ass phone background. I think we need to change it to be more you, ya know?” You say, opening his Internet browser app and going to Google images.

“Oh, I’ve never really thought about that before.” He says, leaning to look over your shoulder curiously. “What are you thinking?”

“I feel like lately when we talk you’ve revealed that you like ocean creatures. That whale pillow on Pinterest? The Squirtle plushie? You seem to really like the sea vibe.” You say, typing a quick prompt into the search bar under Todoroki’s watchful eye.

“Huh, that’s true. I find the ocean to be very calming. And the creatures are usually cute.” He wraps his arms around you from behind as the image results populate on the screen. “Oh – I like that one a lot.” He points at a tiny thumbnail image and you click to expand it. It’s an old Lisa Frank design depicting two dolphins leaping out of crystal blue water. The art features a rainbow background of colorful corals and palm trees. It’s vibrant and filled with energy, and seems to fill Shoto with excitement as he buzzes behind you eagerly.

“Oh, I like that one too! All the colors are really nice. Let’s see how it looks as your phone background.” You smile as you save the image and set it as Shoto’s phone screen. He gives you a brief squeeze around the middle as he hugs you, bringing his chin down to rest on your shoulder as he watches you work your tech wizardry. You feel warm and fuzzy inside – Shoto is truly opening up to you. It feels like each day you chip away at his stoic exterior to reveal bits and pieces of his true self.

You hold up the phone and he unfurls an arm from where he’s holding you. He brings the phone to his face and smiles down at his new technicolor dolphin lock screen. You reach up a hand to cup his cheek tenderly and he leans into the touch.

“Thanks, Y/N. I really like this.” He says, turning his phone every which way to admire the artwork. He’s always surprising you. You’re happy he’s starting to get comfortable showing off his true self.

“Of course, Shoto. You should surround yourself with things that make you happy!” You feel your stomach growl and you remember that dinner is only minutes away. “We should really get going, shouldn’t we?” You both laugh as your tummy rumbles again.

Shoto unwinds his from around your stomach and gets to his feet. “Mind checking to see if the coast is clear? I’ll drop off my bag in my room and then see you at the common area.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You slide off the bed, unlock the door and peer out into the hallway. Thankfully, there’s no one in sight. You have a feeling that most of the class is already down in the common area assisting with dinner preparations.

“All clear.” You give Shoto a goofy little salute before opening the door wide for him to exit. He smiles and leans down to place a kiss on your cheek before booking it down the hallway. He hits the staircase and he’s out of sight in a blink of an eye.

You smile and head back inside your room, moving to change into a top that better matches your sweatpants. It feels nice to be taken care of. You wonder how Shoto knew exactly what you needed in order to feel better. Sometimes he seems so…out of touch. And yet, as soon as you need something he seems to lock in and know just what to do. You suspect that’s the true mark of a hero – seeing someone in need and figuring out a way to help. Who would have thought that Shoto Todoroki would become your own personal hero!?

In the dorm, Class A takes turns cooking with everyone rotating meal prep responsibilities. Tonight, Bakugo, Kirishima and Ida are handling the meal and you know it will be delicious. For some reason, Katsuki has some insane cooking skills. The smell of cooking vegetables wafts up from the kitchen and your stomach growls again in response. You leave your room, ambling down to meet the rest of your class in the kitchen area.

You feel much lighter, much happier. Shoto Todoroki is a goddamn prince of a man.

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“Alright, Mineta. We need you to do this for us.”

It’s 8:05 pm and you, Toru, Mina, Nieto Monoma and Minoru Mineta are all holed up in a study room within the Geography section of UA’s oversized library. Nieto purposefully chose this location for your clandestine rendezvous because “no one at this school studies goddamn geography, so it’s the perfect secret meeting spot.”

Mina had invited Mineta with a secret post it note as well. She had passed him a hot pink note in between classes. The note had implied that the two would be having a private meeting to discuss the “raw romantic tension between them.” Needless to say, Mineta had been extremely disappointed to find you, Toru and Nieto all waiting alongside Mina in the geography study room.

After a few not-so-sincere apologies, Nieto and Toru had gotten right to the heart of the matter and explained their master plan and Mineta’s potential role in it. The small purple classmate had listened intently; nodding as Toru unrolled schematics and Nieto explained timing and strategy. He seems genuinely interested in the party plot, and for a moment you think that he might say yes and help you all pull this off.

“What’s in it for me?” Ah, there’s the kicker alright. He looks around at you all expectantly.

Mina crosses her arms and stares him down. “The gratitude of our class and the joy of knowing you helped out your classmates.”

“No way. I want something out of this.” He rubs his hands together, scheming. “If I’m going to participate in this crazy ass plan so that you all can throw some stupid party, I better get something out of it. So here’s my price - 7 minutes in heaven. With each of you.” He looks at Mina challengingly.

“First of all – that’s 21 minutes in heaven. And second of all – majorly GROSS!” Toru bursts out, turning to you for confirmation. You shake your head in disgust as well, ready for Mina to jump in and negotiate terms.

“Absolutely not.” Your pink friend says, her antenna bristling.

“You’re not really in a position to be negotiating, are you?” Mineta leers up at you all. “After all, you need something from me. You should be grateful I’m even thinking about helping out with your crazy scheme considering how much trouble you got our class in last time.”

Mina makes a sour face. Honestly, he kind of has a point.

“7 minutes in heaven is off the table. Name something else.” She spits out, her dark eyes murderous.

“Fine. I get a kiss from each of you. And I get to grope Hagakure’s ass at least once.”

“What!! Why my ass!?” Toru explodes, waving her arms in upset.

Mineta salivates. “Because I have no idea how juicy it is. Just give me one good squeeze so I can truly know.”

“You absolute perv!” Toru roars, reaching out to grab Mineta and give him a good thrashing. You catch your friend’s invisible hands before she can rain down terror on the little miscreant.

“Hey you’re the ones who want to play Spin The Bottle and watch our classmates kiss. You’re just as pervy as me.” Mineta levels you all with a superior look. “I bet Monoma here is getting something good out of this deal, so why shouldn’t I?” He gestures up at Monoma, who up until now has stayed completely silent. This is all part of Mina’s strategy. Ahead of the meeting, she had advised Nieto to keep his talking to a minimum since its likely Mineta wouldn’t trust him.

“What are they promising you in exchange for your help?” The little creep asks Nieto.

“That’s none of your business.” You say, squaring up to your classmate. You decide to play into his insecurities. All’s fair in love and war, right!?

“Look, Mineta. We need your help to get this party off the ground. You’re the only one who can do this job, and it would mean the world to all of our classmates if you went through with it. You’d literally be hailed as the coolest guy in our class. Isn’t that enough? You don’t exactly have the most social clout at the moment.”

Mineta looks at you for a long minute, clearly weighing all of his options. He seems unfazed by your comment about his “coolness” factor.

“Nope. I want whatever he’s getting.” He points at Monoma, who gives him an unhinged look.

“You Class A stooges are so entitled!” He booms, laughing a bit maniacally. Mina smacks the back of his head to give him a hard reset.

“Stay with us, Nieto.” She turns back to Mineta. “Okay in the spirit of transparency, we are helping Monoma get a kiss during Spin The Bottle. To keep things fair, we can guarantee one kiss for you as well. Tell us who you want to kiss, and it will be delivered upon successful completion of work.”

“Heh.” Mineta smirks evilly. “Fine, I accept your terms. For my kiss I choose…Y/N!” He points directly at you, blood dripping from his nose.

You look at your friends and shrug. Unenthusiastically you say: “Fine. Why not.”

“My ass thanks you.” Toru squeaks out, covering her behind with invisible hands. Nieto glares down at Mineta in disgust, but lets you continue to do the talking.

“If this will get our party off the ground, I’m willing to do it.” You look down at Mineta. “Here are the conditions – It’s gonna be a single kiss. Lips closed, no tongue. No groping. No touching. Lips only. Got that?”

Mineta nods eagerly. “Don’t worry. Once you get one taste of these lips, you’ll be begging for more.” He turns back to Mina, awaiting instructions. “So what do you need me to do?”

You all return to the dorms forty minutes later, with plenty of time to get back to your separate rooms before the curfew takes effect.

A battle plan has been drawn out, and commitments have been made. You have a sour taste in your mouth at the thought of your eventual kiss with Mineta, but sacrifices must be made. After all, the fate of the party of the century hangs in the balance.

You make a mental note to make sure that Shoto is cool with all of this – after all, it would be super hypocritical for you to be jealous of Shoto’s non-existent relationship with YaMomo, and then to turn around and give another guy a peck on the mouth.

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When you finally make it back to your dorm, you’re riding an absolute high. You and your friends are planning the biggest secret party in UA history, and with the kickass strategy you all have developed, you anticipate the whole thing going off without a hitch. Monoma truly is a genius – you can’t wait to see his tightly orchestrated plan come to life. The man truly loves pulling all the strings behind the scenes.

Thanks to your nap, you’re feeling a bit more rested and energized. You text Shoto.

Y/N: Hey Shoto, you up?

Shoto: It’s only 9. Of course I’m awake.

Y/N: Have time to come through? I want to properly thank you for taking care of me earlier.

Shoto: I just finished some homework, I can come over for a bit before curfew.

Y/N: Perf! I have the perfect idea of how I can return the favor and TAKE CARE OF YOU! 👀

Shoto: I’m nervous. The all caps coming from you is aggressive.

Y/N: That was supposed to be cute and flirty 😉 Don’t be scared!! ☠️

Shoto: Ok. I’ll be down in 5.

True to his word, Shoto arrives in a timely fashion. He slips through your unlocked door like a ghost in the night.

“Hey, Y/N. How was your meeting with Mina and…?”

His jaw drops in surprise when he looks up to find you in nothing but your bra and panties. It’s a matching set – midnight blue and lacy around the edges. You’re feeling bold.

“I was trying to think of a way that I could properly thank you for taking such good care of me earlier…” You trail off, reaching behind him to turn the lock to your door.

“…And I came up with an idea. Get on the bed?” You ask sweetly. Shoto wastes no time obeying your request. He hurriedly scrambles onto the bed with the speed of a teenage boy who’s been promised a sexual favor. You climb up after him, lifting the hem of his t-shirt suggestively.

“Clothes off.” You say, tugging at the shirt a bit to see a flash of his perfect stomach before dropping the fabric from your fingertips.

Shoto doesn’t need telling twice – he strips, pulling the shirt over his head with lightening fast reflexes. His perfectly toned abs glow under the fairy lights, and you lick your lips at the sight. He hurriedly slips his sweatpants down his hips and takes them off one leg at a time, still managing to look graceful despite his frantic energy.

He throws his pants out onto the floor, out of sight. He’s wearing a pair of loose grey boxer shorts, his hardening cock already visible through the thin fabric. You reach out a hand to trace along the outline of his pulsing member, causing him to get even stiffer under your teasing touch. He looks down at you with that heaven-piercing gaze. Perfect.

You lean towards him, ghosting gentle kisses along the curve of his pale neck.  “What do you want Shoto?” You breathe wetly into his ear, running your hand down his bare chest. “Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.” You hear Shoto’s breath catch in his throat at the implication. An open ended offer is a valuable thing – you wonder how he’ll use it?

“I’m thinking…maybe you could do that thing with your hands again?” He says sheepishly, pupils blown wide as he watches you palm at his dick over his boxers.

“You mean a hand job? Are you asking for a hand job?” You say, laughing, as he blushes crimson as his hair.

“I guess I am.” He says, breathing shakily. He leans down into your hair and mumbles “It feels so much better when you do it. I’ve been trying to replicate it on my own but…it’s just not the same.”

You smile. “I can definitely do that for you. Tell me, how badly do you want it?” You ask in a tone that’s barely above a whisper. You squeeze his package lightly over the boxers. He almost moans at the touch.

“I want it…so badly Y/N. Please.”

The light begging sparks something in your core and you’re already so wet you fear you may soak through your panties. Again. Wow, this is becoming quite a bad habit of yours.

“Take off the boxers.” You command softly, and Shoto accommodates – stripping down to nothing. Once again, here is thisa beautiful man buck naked in your bed. It’s enough to make you see fireworks behind your eyes.

He sits there, fully exposed, his cock hard and laying flush against his taught muscled stomach. You long to reach out and take him in your hand, but you know you know you need to be patient.

“Shoto, you said you’ve been trying to replicate the hand job I gave you?” You ask amiably. He nods. “I want you to show me how you like to do it on your own. Show me how you touch yourself, Sho.”

He glances up at you uncertainly through thick lashes, looking between you and his cock with trepidation. “Are you sure? Would that not be…weird?”

“Not at all!” You reassure him. “It’s the best way for me to learn how to pleasure you. I want to see what you like so I can add it into the mix. It’s like hero training – we need to learn from each other to be the best we can be.”

This analogy makes perfect sense to Shoto, who understands the importance of training. “Alright. If it would help. But I feel pretty self-conscious right now.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.” You say, placing another string of kisses to his jawline. “Try not to be too nervous. Remember - we’re just having fun and exploring, right?” You pause. “Plus…it would be really fuckin’ hot to see you jerk yourself off in my bed. So know that I’m completely and totally into this. If that helps.”

This makes Shoto smile. “It actually does help.” He laughs softly, turning his head to capture your lips in a brief smooch.

“Right.” Shoto says, drawing in a shaky breath. He looks at you nervously, before glancing down at his erect cock once more. He reaches for it, wraps his fingers around himself and gives a light tug. You watch as he slowly starts stroking at himself, concentrating a bit more on the head here and there. He glances up at you from time to time, letting his eyes roam across your breasts and the gentle curves of your hips.

You move the straps of your bra off your shoulders, giving him a bit of a show before you reach behind you to unclip the bra all together. You toss the fabric to the floor in what’s rapidly becoming a familiar gesture with Shoto. His breath hitches in the back of his throat as his eyes take in your perfect breasts. He picks up his pace, jerking himself off in a succinct rhythm as his eyes devour your chest.

“Come here.” He groans. You scoot towards him in the bed.

“What do you want?” You ask, voice soft but demanding.

“I want your breasts in my mouth. Right now.” He says, not breaking stride as he continues to work at his rock hard cock.

You reposition yourself so that you’re slightly above him and you lean forward. He can’t help himself – before you’ve settled into a comfortable position, he’s captured one of your nipples in his mouth. He suckles on it, using his tongue and teeth to tease the delicate flesh. The pleasure that shoots through you is unquantifiable. You lean into his mouth and your eyes flutter shut as he uses his free hand to give attention to your other tit. The gratification is so good you hope he never stops.

But then you remember – you have a goddamn plan here. You should be watching and learning to see what Shoto likes. Your eyes fly open and you try to ignore the absolutely incredible things this Todoroki blessing is doing to your breasts.

“Shoto…” You try to get his attention. He looks up at you from down where he’s sucking on your tit and cocks and eyebrow questioningly.

“Mmm?”

“Shoto, this is fucking hot, but I’m trying to concentrate. Please – show me what you like and talk me through it.” You try to keep your voice as level as possible, even as he pinches a nipple and rubs the pad of his thumb over the delicate nub with his free hand. After a quick moment, comprehension dawns in his eyes and his mouth releases your boob with a wet “pop!”

“Sorry, I got carried away.” His face is red with embarrassment as you slide to sit next to him.

“Don’t be. I like it when you get carried away. You’re so goddamn hot Sho.” You plant a kiss on his cheek. “Now get back to it – and talk me through what you like.”

Shoto looks down at his cock and resumes stroking it. “So I hold my hand like this around it, see?” He demonstrates how he keeps a loose closed grip around his dick, sliding his hand along the base for a few deep strokes before concentrating around the head. “This part is the most sensitive, so when I want to finish I concentrate a lot here. But first I work myself up by starting down here.” He moves his hand down to the base of his dick to show you. “And I’ll tease myself a little as I work back up to the top.”

“Sometimes, I like to touch my…um…testicles a bit. It feels really nice to kind of…uh this is super awkward to explain…it feels good to move them around?”

“I think I understand.” You say, watching as he shows you how he likes to be played with. You let him work at himself until you see shiny beads of pre-cum form at the head of his cock.

“Okay, my turn to drive.” You say, reaching to shoo Shoto’s steady hand out of the way so that you can replace it with your own. “There we go.” You wrap your hand around his hard cock and start at the base the way he explained. You slowly roll your hand midway up his shaft before bringing it back down to the base. Shoto sighs at the motion, his hips flexing in a way that implies that he’s dying to thrust up into your hand.

You continue to tease him that way, coming closer and closer to the sensitive tip of his cock without truly touching it. You can tell by the expressions stretched across his face that he simultaneously loves and hates what you’re doing to him. You grin; enjoying the control you have as you edge him.

With your free hand, you reach down to fondle his balls, trying to mimic the motion he showed you. There’s a sharp intake of breath when you start to shift his package around, and you can tell from the way he bites back a moan that it must feel so, incredibly good to be touched this way.

Finally, you release his cock and bring your small hand to your mouth. You make a show of licking the palm of your hand before spitting cleanly into it. Shoto’s eyes widen in surprise at the crude gesture, but his cock twitches in anticipation.

You bring your spit-filled hand down to his dick and resume jerking him off – this time starting low at the base and continuing all the way up to the tip. Your saliva allows for your hand to slide and glide in a delicious way that it hadn’t previously. Shoto lets out a curse followed by your name at the feeling.

“Fuck, Y/N. Holy fucking fuck.” It’s the most you’ve ever heard him curse, and the lilt of his lust filled voice is absolutely sinful. You grin like a Cheshire cat as you stroke him the way he showed you, focusing on the sensitive head. His breathing is ragged, and he’s absolutely wrecked as you continue to run your lubed up hand along the very tip of his rigid member. “Shit. Y/N. I’m going to - ”

Shoto orgasms hard - thick waves of hot cum shooting up and flowing over your delicate hand as you continue to work at him. His legs jerk with the suddenness of his climax. His breath hitches in his throat and you fear that he’s stopped breathing as his hips roll up, thrusting his cock into your grip over and over and over. You use your hand to milk him for all that he’s worth, being sure to mimic the way that you had watched him grip his dick earlier in his demonstration. The expression on his face is priceless – his eyes are wide and filled with an expression of rapture, his mouth caught open in a small “o.”

Whatever you’re doing seems to be doing the trick, because it is quite a bit before he catches his breath and politely removes your hand from his spent, pulsing cock. He’s over stimulated and panting, looking at you with wide eyes.

“Y/N, that was…” He’s still breathing heavy.

You reach across him to grab a conveniently placed washcloth off of your nightstand (you had a feeling that you’d be needing some cleanup supplies tonight). You wipe the sticky mess from your hand before giving him the cloth. He gratefully accepts, wiping the cum that’s pooled along the defined planes of his stomach and in the well of his bellybutton. “That was incredible. You take direction so well.” He says, his voice a bit fuzzy around the edges as he drops his head back to rest on your pillow.

You lay back with him, moving your clean hand to stroke his hair slowly. He leans into the touch, eyes heavy and half lidded as he comes down from his high.

“I’m a fast learner.” You say, enjoying the soft texture of his fluffy hair as you flutter your fingers through his dense locks. You lay there for a few minutes, playing with  Shoto’s hair and letting him bask in the afterglow. He’s completely naked and gorgeous in the glow of your fairy lights, his pale skin rippling with muscle.

“It’s almost curfew…you’d better get going in case Mr. Aizawa makes a bed check appearance.” You say with regret, wishing Shoto could stay with you through the night.

Shoto turns his head and groans into your shoulder. “But I want to stay here forever. It’s so comfortable here with your hands in my hair. And I’m so tired now.” He almost whines. You smile – a month ago you would have never thought Shoto Todoroki capable of whining. 

“I wish you could stay, too.” You coo, continuing to card your fingers through his mismatched locks.

“I like it here. Maybe I’ll move in. Stake claim on all of your plushes.” He reaches out and grabs his favorite plush from behind your head. He holds it close to your face and waves it up and down a few times, pretending to make it dance. “Squirtle, Squirtle.” He says in a strained, warbley voice. You giggle at his goofy attempt at mimicking the water Pokémon.

Afterglow Shoto sure is chatty. He looks so open and relaxed, his facial features at rest.

“Oh my God Shoto…did you finally look up Pokémon!?”

He hugs the plush to his bare chest and laughs. “I watched 12 episodes. I had to keep watching until Squirtle showed up. I would give my life for the Squirtle Squad.”

This cracks you up. You laugh even harder when you look up and see the way that Shoto is sprawled across your bed – completely naked except for the large Squirtle plush clutched to his chest. You point at him and make a little choked squeak. He realizes how ridiculous he looks and soon you’re both in hysterics, gasping for breath. It’s a wonder that no one has knocked on your door yet and asked you to quiet down.

After a few minutes you both calm down enough to catch your breath. You slide off the bed and scoop Shoto’s grey boxers off the ground and toss them in his direction. He drops Squirtle for a moment so he can shimmy into his underwear. Partially clothed once more, he flops on his back and pulls the covers up to his chin. He tucks Squirtle in beside him. You move to get back into the bed and join him, but he holds up a hand and puts on a serious expression. “Sorry – there’s no room for you. This bed is for card carrying members of the Squirtle Squad only.”

You smile and then paste a theatrical pout on your face. “You goof. How does one apply for Squirtle Squad membership?”

“Hmm.” Shoto brings his hand to his chin as if deep in thought. “You need to pay our membership dues. It’ll cost you a kiss.”

“That’s pretty expensive.”

“Squad Membership is well worth the fee, I promise.” He nods stoically, looking over at the Squirtle plush beside him. “Squirtle can confirm.” He gestures at the plush, which stares up at you blankly with its large embroidered eyes.  

“What does Squad Membership include?” You ponder aloud, pretending to think it over.

“If you join up now, I’ll act as your official heat and ice pack.” Shoto holds up both hands above his face as an offering. “And I’ll make you cum whenever you want.”

“Whenever I want?” You repeat. “Now that’s an intriguing offer. I think I’ll take it.” You lean down and cup his soft cheek in your hand, bringing his mouth to yours. Your lips melt into his and you kiss him soundly. He moans into your mouth, moving his lips softly against your own.

It’s wonderful to be with him like this – so open and having fun like regular teenagers. There’s no pressure to put on a brave face and to be strong heroes in training. In these stolen moments, its okay to just be. You break the kiss and pull yourself up into he bed and under the comforter. Within seconds, you’re wrapped up in Shoto’s arms and he pulls you against his bare chest.

“Welcome to the Squad. Your membership is approved.” He places a kiss on your forehead and you snuggle into him. You take a deep breath, letting your tired body relax against Shoto’s solid warmth. 

You lay in silence for a bit, just enjoying each others company. Shoto’s breathing is slow and even. You can tell he’s feeling comfortable and relaxed after his orgasm. He nuzzles his face into your shoulder and huffs into the curve of your neck. After a bit, Shoto gets too warm and uncouples himself from you so he can pull down the comforter a bit.

“You know, I was thinking…” Shoto rolls over onto his back and crosses his arms behind his head. He’s partially naked and gorgeous in the glow of your fairy lights, his pale skin rippling with muscle. He looks up at the ceiling. “Summer training camp is coming up. I heard that this year we are going for 2 weeks. They plan to put us through a week and a half of training, and then we’ll get a few days just to have fun and enjoy being outside. There will be hiking, and campfires…maybe the two of us can sneak off and just have some time together? No curfews, no whispering. No hiding away.” He turns his head to look at you.

“That sounds really, really nice.” You say, reaching over to give him a big boop on his nose. He smiles at the contact. You love seeing him like this – usually he is so closed off and stoic. Every smile you can get out of him is a prize in itself. “I doubt we’ll truly be able to sneak off given how large and damn nosy our class is…but we can definitely try.”

Shoto closes his eyes, a blissful expression etched across his features. “I just picture the two of us on a moonlit hike, just able to enjoy the scenery together. We can listen to the cicadas and the crickets in the quiet of the dark. It’s such a calming thought in my mind. I’d like to share that moment of peace with you.”

“Orgasms make you talk nonsense.” You joke, trying to ignore the way that your heart is squeezing at his words.

He opens his eyes and scans your face. “You’d like that, though?”

“Of course I would, Shoto. It would be nice to get out of the city and to see some greenery. To be together outside of our dorm rooms. I wish that we didn’t need to sneak around so much…I wish that we were older and that we could just do whatever we want without consequence.” You say wistfully, reaching to grab your phone and check the time. “Crap, it’s nearly 10.”

Shoto pulls you into another embrace, shifting his hands around you so he can cradle your breasts. He plays with your nipples a bit, swirling his fingertips around them delicately. You gasp at the contact, your pussy instantly responding to the touch.  “I can’t go yet – I haven’t made you cum.” Shoto whispers thickly into your ear, pinching a nipple with each hand. You make a strangled sort of noise, sliding a hand down between your legs to give your clit a brief pulse to sate the hungry way its pulsing beneath the smooth fabric of your panties.

“Shoto…if you stay any longer and Aizawa comes around, we’re gonna get caught.” You say in a pained voice as he continues to play with your tits. You can’t let this go any further or you both are done for. “Shoto, you’ve gotta go.”

“But it’s not fair if I don’t make you - ” You move to regretfully remove his wandering hands from your boobs.

“I can take care of it myself this time.” You say, in a sultry tone. “And I’ll think of you the whole time.” You turn to look over your shoulder to see Shoto’s face has gone beat red at the implication that you’ll be spending the rest of the evening masturbating to thoughts of him.

He lets out a shaky breath, still clearly uncomfortable with the thought of leaving you hanging. “Alright, Y/N. But next time, the focus is all on you to make up for it. Okay?”

“I think I can live with that.” You smile, and reach behind you to give him a light shove to leave.

Shoto grins softly as he untangles himself from you, climbing over your body to get out of the bed. His feet hit the ground and he stretches languidly before reaching for his abandoned clothes. He pulls his shirt and pants on unceremoniously as you watch, laughing at the way his soft sweatpants stretch back into place over the smooth curve of his ass.

“You’re too cute.” You say, reaching to pull him back to the bed so you can give him one more quick kiss. He smiles into the smooch, wrapping his arms around you in a warm, steady embrace.

“I’ll text you?” He says softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure I take my phone back with me this time.” This earns a laugh.

“Please do.”

“Well, goodnight then.” He kisses your cheek and then makes his way to the door; he peaks out into the hallway before making his usual fast exit. You pray he doesn’t get caught by Aizawa again – he would probably demand an explanation from Shoto.

You lay in your bed, relaxed, staring up at your ceiling. Life sure has been complicated lately – between school, training, an unexpected romance, and the illicit party planning, you sure are having an adventure.

You allow yourself to replay a scene from earlier in your mind: “Fuck, Y/N. Holy fucking fuck.” Shoto curses as you stroke his cock mercilessly, bringing him to the brink of climax. “Shit. Y/N. I’m going to…”

You feel arousal twinge between your legs once again and you bring your fingers down to touch yourself over your panties. You wish Shoto was still here to help – all you can think of is the loving way that he sometimes uses his wet tongue to play with your nipples. You roll over onto your stomach so you can increase the pressure of your fingers against your clit. Mmm. You replay the image of Shoto’s pretty “O” face over and over again as you bring yourself to the brink of climax.

Before long, new thoughts are blooming into your brain. You imagine what it would be like to have Shoto’s fingers on you instead. What would it be like to feel that pretty cock slide inside of you - to be physically filled to the brim with Shoto Todoroki? You’ve never really fantasized about actual act of intercourse before, and you wonder how it would feel to be that connected with Shoto. You picture his voice pitching and sighing as he slides in and out of you, his strong hands bracing on your hips. The thought of Shoto’s thick cock sliding against your wet pussy causes your breath to stick in your throat. Your heart pulses impossibly fast as you use your fingertips to push yourself over the edge, gasping into your pillow. Oh fuck that’s good.

Shoto Todoroki and his hot body are truly going to be the death of you. You can picture your epitaph in your head – “Here lies Y/N. She was brought to the gates at heaven by Shoto Todoroki’s hard cock. May she rest in peace, having known what true ecstasy feels like.”

You smile at that unhinged thought. Your phone buzzes next to you and you flip around the screen to see a text from Shoto.

Shoto: I made it back to my dorm room. Did not get caught this time.

Shoto: Typing.

Shoto: Did you…take care of things?

Y/N: Haha yeah. I just finished. Was thinking about you the whole time.

Shoto replies with a single word.

Shoto: Fuck.

Shoto: Next time, I’ll take care of you myself. I promise.

Y/N: You've already taken care of me so much today, but I’ll hold you to that. ☺️ Goodnight, Shoto.

Shoto: Goodnight Y/N.

You put your phone back on your bedside table and snuggle up in your bed, pulling the Squirtle plush close to you and wishing that it were Shoto Todoroki.

End of Chapter.

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Previous Chapter: Part 4 | Next Chapter: Part 6

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Author's Note:

HOLY GUACAMOLE!! This chapter ended up being 30 pages - I know in my last chapter post I said that Chapter 5 would focus on The Party - but y'all all of your reactions to the Chapter 4 cliff hanger made me want to create a more satisfying plot line surrounding the YaMomo text. In short - the comments you leave influence the story a lot more than you'd think! So I hope you enjoyed this chapter and Shoto's sweet way of taking care of the Reader. I try to make The Reader a pretty general character so that it's easy to self-insert, but she's kind of developing her own personality which is fun too!

Part 6 is already in the works and partially written. I have most of THE PARTY scenes drafted and typed out, and I'm really excited for you all to see what I've been cooking up for this story arc. I also want to lay the ground work for future arcs as well - I don't anticipate this tale ending any time soon! It seems to take me a month/month and a half to churn out each chapter, so please feel free to check out my other work on My Master List as you wait!

I have been so locked in on this Todoroki story that I've been neglecting one shots lately. I hope to finish a little Kirishima focused fic soon, plus I have an idea for a tale surrounding All Might (the working title is gonna be something like "United States of Smash that Ass" idk its gonna be goofy and All Might is gonna have a huge cock or something stupid like that). TLDR: Keep an eye on my blog for more fun content surrounding our other favorite heroes as you wait for Chapter 6!

As always, thank you thank you thank you for all of your positive comments, messages and reblogs of my work. This passion project has brought me so much joy and I love how much joy it seems to bring all of you. Thanks for joining me on this wild ride, excited to see all that happens next!

XoXo, Red Riot Unbreakable Heart ❤️

❄️🔥THE ICYTHOTS🔥❄️

Want to join or be removed from the tag list - let me know! Once again, this is an ADULT ONLY blog. The IcyThot club is exclusively dedicated to the Shoto's First Kiss series and will only include A18+. Do not request to be added unless you are over 18. I'm also adding the "sexual content" label/tags.

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[alilixx]

Heyy could u write a greg house x reader

Shes a doctor or prob a surgeon and its like season 1 ep 13 , she gets sick and needs a heart transplant or something like that but she doesn’t want to then house convinces her coz he likes her and house lies for her so she can get the transplant and they used to flirt before and all but after that they confess about liking each other and start dating ☺️ thanks

IM SOO SORRYYY SCHOOL STARTED AGAINNN SOO LESS TIME FOR WRITE FANFIC BUT I WILL TRY WRITE FOR EVERY WEDNESDAY AND WEEKEND <33

Surgeon!FemReader x Gregory House

You had already noticed unusual signs for several weeks. At first, it was just fatigue. Nothing more. You convinced yourself it was due to your endless hours in the operating room, those sleepless nights that kept piling up. Just a bit of exhaustion, something every surgeon knows well. But the palpitations intensified, followed by slight dizziness, then that crushing sensation in your chest, as if your own heart was fighting against you. You eventually ran a series of tests, discreetly, hoping it was nothing.

But the results didn’t lie: severe dilated cardiomyopathy. Your heart, your most precious instrument, the one that allowed you to save lives day after day, was betraying you. But you refused to believe it.

Today, as you sat in House’s office, surrounded by his diagnostic team, you were desperately searching for a way out, an alternative explanation. Something that would prove this was all a mistake. After all, you were a doctor, you knew diagnoses were never infallible.

"I want your opinion," you finally said, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from what was coming next. "I did my own tests, but I want to be sure. Maybe I'm too involved to see things clearly."

House looked up, intrigued by your direct tone. "Too involved? You mean, too much in denial."

Cameron stepped forward to review your results, her eyes scanning every detail. "The echocardiograms clearly show dilatation of the heart chambers. You already have a heart murmur, you’ve felt it, haven’t you?"

You frowned, hesitating to respond. Of course you had felt it. But admitting it would make everything more real.

"I want to believe it’s something else," you murmured, your voice betraying, for the first time, a hint of vulnerability. "I’m a surgeon. I can’t... afford to have a failing heart."

Foreman shook his head, pragmatic as always. "You can’t afford not to act either. If you let this get worse, you won’t even have the chance to enter the operating room next time."

You looked away, your throat tight. Fear was rising inside you, a fear you hadn’t felt in a long time. You had always been able to control everything, every incision, every move. But now, it was your own body slipping through your fingers.

House, as always, wasted no time twisting the knife.

"It’s fascinating. You’d rather believe that all this will resolve itself, as if your heart is just going to miraculously decide to heal. Spoiler alert: it won’t." He tilted his head, scrutinizing your face. "But I’m curious. Why consult my team if you’ve already done the tests yourself? Looking for validation or an excuse to do nothing?"

His sarcasm irritated you, but you knew he was right. "Because I want... I want to be sure."

"Sure of what? That you’re dying? Let me confirm it for you, you are. Now that’s settled, we can move on to the next step: you’re refusing the only solution that could save you because you’re afraid of losing control. Interesting, but not surprising."

"I’m not afraid," you retorted, more to convince yourself than to answer him.

House didn’t believe you for a second. He moved closer, leaning his cane against the edge of his desk.

"You’re lying to yourself." His gaze pierced through yours, as if he could see past all your defenses. "You’ve seen how many transplants fail. But you’ve also seen how many succeed. So why condemn yourself when you know you have a chance to make it?"

Silence fell over the room. His words struck you deeper than you wanted to admit. You had spent months running from this reality, pretending it was just a passing episode. But here you were, sitting in front of specialists who left you no escape. That’s when House chose to play his final card.

"I’m going to ask you a very simple question." He sat back behind his desk, tapping the file of his favorite patient: you. "Do you want to die just to stay loyal to your own arrogance? Or do you want to live long enough to annoy me even more?"

You felt a strange warmth rising to your cheeks. House hadn’t spoken those words with his usual cynicism. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you knew he genuinely cared about you. And that thought unsettled you more than anything else.

You lowered your eyes to your trembling hands. You were a surgeon, a strong person. Yet, for the first time in a long while, you felt vulnerable. And House had seen it from the very beginning.

The silence in House’s office was heavy after the intense discussion about your condition. The diagnosis was now certain: a heart transplant was your only chance. Yet, one question remained, one that had been haunting you. If you were really going to undergo this operation, there was only one person you trusted enough to put your life in their hands: House.

So, in a rare moment of vulnerability, you took a deep breath and asked the question you had been dreading from the start.

"I want it to be you. You’ll be my surgeon."

The team exchanged stunned glances. House, however, remained silent for a moment, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you. Then he let out a dry laugh.

"Me? No. Bad idea. Very bad idea."

You frowned, stung by his reaction. "Why? You’re one of the best doctors I know."

House straightened up, pressing his cane against the floor before fixing you with an unusually serious look. "I’m not a surgeon. I diagnose. I play with ideas, I take risks, but I don’t hold a scalpel over living patients. I don’t do surgeries."

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He was so confident, so skilled at solving impossible cases, and yet, here in front of you, he seemed hesitant. You stepped closer to him, determined to understand.

"Are you afraid of messing up?" you asked, your voice low but sharp.

House let out a sarcastic laugh, but you sensed a certain nervousness behind his tone. "No, I’m afraid of killing someone because of my damn leg and my trembling hands. If you want someone to do this surgery without screwing it up, ask a real surgeon."

His rejection hurt you deeply. You had opened up to him, and he was pushing you away without a moment’s hesitation. You felt anger rising within you, mixed with the pain of a feeling you didn’t want to name.

"I thought I could trust you," you whispered, your eyes burning with disappointment. "But I see I was wrong."

Before he could respond, you turned on your heels and left the office, leaving House and the team behind. The sound of your footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as you walked towards your own uncertain future. Your heart was pounding painfully, both physically and emotionally. He had rejected you when you had offered him your fragile trust.

A few days later, you found yourself in the pre-op room, your face calm, but your mind in turmoil with conflicting emotions. You had finally accepted the transplant, even though it terrified you. Another surgeon had been assigned for the operation, a competent colleague, but not House. His refusal still haunted you, the abrupt way he had pushed you away, as if your life meant nothing to him.

The medical team busied themselves around you, but all you could hear was a dull hum, lost in your thoughts. An anesthesiologist approached, and as you lay down on the operating table, a strange sense of calm washed over you.

Then, in the haze of preparation, something caught your attention. A voice, familiar, behind the masks and caps.

"Start the anesthesia. We’re going ahead with the transplant."

You weakly opened your eyes. It was House.

Your heart skipped a beat, as if, even before the surgery, he already knew how to unsettle you. You tried to move, to speak, but the anesthesia was already taking effect. Everything became blurry, but you heard his voice clearly, that deep, slightly rough voice that comforted you despite yourself.

"Sleep now, it'll be fine. You’ll be alive to yell at me later."

Then total darkness.

You woke up in a hospital room. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, and you felt a dull ache in your chest. But more than that, you felt your heart beating. A new heart. A strange sensation, both comforting and unsettling.

You slowly turned your head, and to your surprise, you saw House sitting in the corner of the room, his gaze fixed on you. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes locked on yours with a new intensity, almost worried.

"I knew you were stubborn, but you really outdid yourself this time," he said, without a hint of humor.

You looked at him, still too weak to speak. Then, slowly, you remembered what had happened before the surgery. He had refused. You had been hurt. But now, he was here.

"You... operated on me?" you finally murmured, your voice hoarse.

House gave a slight nod, avoiding your gaze for a moment. "Yeah. I didn’t really have a choice, apparently. Everyone’s incompetent except me." But there was something else in his voice, an unspoken admission.

You tried to sit up, but the pain in your chest made you wince. House immediately stood up and moved closer to you. "Take your time. Don’t be stupid."

You stared at him, still in shock from what you had just discovered. "Why? Why did you do it when you said you didn’t want to?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because..." He paused, searching for the right words. That wasn’t like him. "Because I couldn’t let another surgeon kill you. If someone was going to save you or lose you, it had to be me."

He looked straight into your eyes, and this time, you saw the fear behind his usual cynicism. The fear of losing you, the fear of failing. It wasn’t just about the surgery, it was about feelings, the ones he didn’t want to admit, but which were so clear in that suspended moment.

"You were scared," you said softly, a slight smile on your lips. House looked away, grumbling. "I’m not afraid of anything. I’m just smarter than everyone else."

But you knew. You knew he had taken this risk because he cared about you, even if he would never say it outright. You placed your hand on his, a simple gesture, but one that spoke for you. And, against all odds, he didn’t pull his hand away.

The days following the surgery were filled with moments of uncertainty and relief. Each steady beat of your new heart was a promise that life would go on, a victory against fate. But something lingered, like a palpable tension between you and House. He came to see you almost every day, always with his usual sarcasm, but something had changed.

That morning, you woke up with the same familiar pain in your chest, but this time it was different — the pain of healing. You slowly sat up in your bed, observing the soft light filtering through the hospital curtains. Your body was still weak, but each day felt like a small victory. And despite the fatigue, you were more clear-headed than ever.

The door to your room opened gently, and of course, House walked in, leaning on his cane with that familiar limp you knew so well. He stared at you for a moment, as if assessing your condition, then casually remarked:

"How’s my favorite patient? Still alive, apparently."

You managed a smile, even though part of you still wondered why he could never be serious for more than a few seconds. "I’m doing well, Greg. And you know it."

He raised an eyebrow at the sound of his name. That wasn’t something you used often. Usually, you always called him "House," like everyone else.

He came closer and sat in the chair next to your bed, letting out a sigh. "Well, that’s good news. I would have hated to explain to the team that I messed up my best patient. That would be bad for my reputation."

You knew he used humor to mask something deeper. A silence settled in, almost comfortable, but filled with unspoken words.

"Why did you decide to operate on me?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. "I hurt you when I asked, but you did it anyway."

House looked away, as he often did when faced with a question that was too personal. He tapped his cane against the floor, searching for words or perhaps a way to sidestep the answer.

"It was a challenge. I couldn’t let another surgeon handle such a complex operation, especially on someone as annoying as you." He smiled, but his gaze betrayed something else, something more sincere. "And I guess I was a little afraid you’d slip away from me."

This confession took you by surprise. You knew House wasn’t the type to openly express his emotions, especially not with such direct words. You watched him in silence, your thoughts swirling. He had taken a huge risk by operating on you, not just medically, but emotionally.

"I’m not going to slip away from you, Greg," you murmured. "Not now."

His eyes settled on you, softer than usual. "Not now," he repeated, almost to himself.

Initially, it was supposed to be temporary. Just long enough for you to fully recover from the surgery, for your body to adjust to the new heart, and for you to be closely monitored, "just in case." House had insisted, almost casually, on this option.

"It would be stupid to leave you alone. If something goes wrong, I’d rather have you in my sight, not on the other side of town," he had said, as if the decision was purely pragmatic.

You had hesitated. Living at House's, even temporarily, seemed risky, given the complexity of your relationship. But somewhere, you felt that beneath his usual cynicism, he genuinely cared about you. So you had agreed, thinking it would last just a few days, maybe a week or two.

The first night at his place was strange. His apartment, which you had visited a few times before, felt more welcoming than you had imagined. A blend of old and modern, of perfectly organized chaos, typical of House. Medical books stacked everywhere, piano sheets scattered about, whiskey bottles casually left on the coffee table. You felt like an intruder in his space, but he made no effort to make you feel otherwise.

"Make yourself at home. I don’t have silk pillows or almond milk, but there’s unlimited Ibuprofen," he had said, settling onto his couch with a glass of whiskey.

That first night was calm. House kept an eye on you from the corner of his gaze, even though he pretended to be absorbed in an old documentary. Despite the strangeness of the situation, a certain serenity had settled in.

The next day, as you began to get used to this new arrangement, someone knocked at the door. You weren’t expecting visitors, especially not this early in the morning. House, already up (for once), went to open it, and you immediately recognized the familiar voice of James Wilson.

"Hey, House, I brought donuts. I wanted to talk to you about a case..." His voice cut off abruptly as he entered the living room and saw you sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in hand.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Wilson looked at you, then at House, then back at you, as if he had stumbled upon a scene he couldn’t quite comprehend.

"What the... ? What are you doing here?"

You gave a slight smile, a bit embarrassed, while House, completely unfazed, grabbed one of the boxes of donuts that Wilson had brought.

"She lives here. Well, temporarily," House replied before taking a bite out of a donut, as if the situation was perfectly normal.

Wilson stood there, speechless for several seconds. "You... you let her live with you? You?"

House shrugged. "It’s easier for post-operative monitoring. And besides, she’s not unbearable. Well, not all the time."

Wilson blinked, still in shock. He slowly sat down on a chair, setting down the other box of donuts. "That... that’s so unlike you, Greg."

"Well, maybe I’ve changed. Or maybe it’s just convenient." House made a dismissive gesture, but you could see that even for him, this situation was still new.

Wilson gave you a questioning look, searching for answers. You simply shrugged, an amused smile on your lips. "It’s temporary, really."

Wilson shook his head, clearly disturbed but also amused. "If you tell me he let you choose a movie last night, I think I’m going to faint."

You laughed lightly, and even House cracked a small smile, despite himself. The tension slowly faded, and Wilson relaxed, even though he continued to shoot you incredulous glances from time to time.

Days passed, and what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement stretched on longer than expected. There was no specific date for your departure, and House didn’t seem in a hurry to see you go. In fact, he even seemed to enjoy your presence, even if he categorically refused to admit it.

One evening, as you settled into the couch with a blanket over your knees, House sat down next to you without a word. He turned on the TV and flipped through channels until he found an old black-and-white movie. It had become a routine: you spent the evenings together, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging sarcastic comments about what you were watching.

It was in this tranquility that Wilson made his second appearance at House's place.

"I brought wine," he announced as he walked in, looking noticeably more comfortable with the situation this time.

You smiled, shifting a bit to make room for him. House raised an eyebrow. "Wine? Since when do you bring wine to my place?"

Wilson shrugged. "I thought we could celebrate... I don’t know, this strange normality?" He glanced at you as if to make sure everything was okay.

The evening went off without a hitch. The wine flowed, sarcasm flew, and Wilson, despite his more serious habits, allowed himself to be caught up in the relaxed atmosphere. The movies changed on the screen, but soon it was the discussions that took over.

"I have to say, I’m still surprised you let her stay," Wilson remarked, casting a glance at House.

House, lounging casually on the couch, responded without really looking at Wilson. "It’s not so bad. She doesn’t bother me too much. Unlike you."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I bring you wine, I do my best not to invade your space, and this is how you thank me."

You laughed, shaking your head. "He doesn’t know how to do anything else, James. You know him."

"That’s true," Wilson replied with a smile. "But anyway, I’m glad you’re recovering well. He seems to be taking good care of you."

You turned to House, who was clearly avoiding your gaze. "He’s doing what he can," you said softly, but with a smile in your voice.

House pretended not to hear, focusing on the television. But in his silences, you could feel that he was getting used to this new life.

Days passed, and what was supposed to be a temporary living arrangement quietly settled into a routine. Little by little, you had begun to integrate into House's daily life, and he, without a word, had allowed you to do so.

One evening, after a long day at the hospital, you got home before him. House had sent you a terse message: "I’ll be late. Bistro operation in the kitchen." You smiled at his words, already imagining what that meant.

Tired but determined not to let it get you down, you began rummaging through House's kitchen cabinets. He had everything, but nothing was in its place. A controlled chaos that, surprisingly, made sense to you. You grabbed some vegetables and an old skillet, determined to prepare something before his return. The kitchen was a place where you could lose yourself in simple tasks, away from the complexities of your work as a surgeon.

A few dozen minutes later, as you were focused on a sauce you were preparing, the door opened. House entered, looking tired but intrigued by the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

"Are you pretending to be a chef now?" he said as he approached you.

You smiled without turning around, continuing to stir the sauce. "I thought it would be a change from pizza boxes and whiskey."

House leaned in slightly to smell what you were making, nodding his head in approval. "I suppose that works for me. But if it’s bad, you’ll hear me complain for days."

You chuckled softly, knowing very well he meant it half-seriously. He made no attempt to push you away from the kitchen; on the contrary, he grabbed a knife and started slicing the bread, his movements precise despite the cane that always lingered nearby.

The scene was almost domestic. House, with his usual sarcasm, and you, focused on your sauce. You didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a certain peace in these simple moments. You sensed that he was getting used to this new dynamic, even though he was still incapable of admitting it out loud.

"I have to admit," he finally said, slicing a piece of bread, "you’re not doing too badly for a surgeon. Maybe it’s time to change careers."

You gave him an amused look. "You say that now, but just wait until you taste it."

"Oh, I fully intend to critique every bite."

He was smiling slightly, but you could feel the bond growing a little stronger with each shared meal, each simple task completed together.

It had been a long time since you had left the operating room, but you didn’t miss your home at all, and House understood that... well, House is House.

A few weeks later, after several similar evenings, you had finally made official what was happening between you. It hadn’t been a grand romantic declaration, far from it. As with everything involving House, things had evolved naturally, in a sort of unspoken agreement that was becoming clearer and clearer. One evening, as you were both settled on the couch, he had placed his hand over yours, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do you mind if we drop the ‘temporary’?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

You felt your heart race, even though the question was posed in that casual tone that characterized him. You squeezed his hand slightly in response, your smile overshadowing the answer you didn’t even need to say. Indeed, it was his way of asking you to be his girlfriend.

The following Monday, things were different, but not enough to shake up the universe of Princeton-Plainsboro. You had decided to keep nothing hidden, but without making it a topic of conversation. After all, it was impossible to hide anything from House’s team.

Wilson, of course, was the first to react. When he saw you enter the hospital together that morning, he furrowed his brow, an expression somewhere between amusement and surprise.

"So, it’s official? You finally made it official?"

True to form, House simply rolled his eyes. "Officially? If it makes you happy to label it that way, then yes."

Wilson smiled, a little too pleased with himself. "I knew this would happen, but I have to say, it’s impressive that you held out this long before admitting it."

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, amused by the dynamic between the two friends. "He has his moments of resistance," you added jokingly.

But the real test came when you arrived in the diagnostic room, where House’s team was already gathered. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman were discussing a new case, but they all looked up when you walked in together.

Chase was the first to react, his eternal smirk in place. "Oh, I see. That’s why we all stayed until midnight last week. You had ‘personal’ plans."

House stopped, crossing his arms with a piercing look. "You’re right, Chase. And if you keep talking, you’ll end up with the chore of sanding the autopsy room again. Unless, of course, you want to find yourself a social life."

Foreman cracked a playful smile while Cameron seemed half-surprised, half-envious. "So... you’re together?" she asked with a mix of shyness and curiosity.

You exchanged a glance with House. You hadn’t discussed how you were going to handle this with the rest of the team, but it seemed it was already out in the open.

"Yes," you replied simply, with confidence. "We’re together."

Without missing a beat, House added with a smirk, "But don’t worry. It’s not going to affect my desire to make your lives miserable."

You had gotten into the habit of cooking together from time to time, even though House continued to tease you about your culinary skills. You also spent many quiet evenings talking about everything and nothing or simply watching movies in silence.

One evening, as you were chopping vegetables in the kitchen, House approached you and set a glass of wine on the counter.

"Looks like we’ve become boring, huh?"

You laughed softly, setting down the knife. "If that’s what you call boring, I’m perfectly fine with that."

He looked at you, a smile softer than usual on his lips. "Well, as long as you’re okay with it, I guess I can get used to the boredom."

It was the first time he admitted, without sarcasm or dark humor, that he enjoyed this new life together. And you knew that behind his facade was a man deeply attached, even if he showed it in his own way.

[pieandflannel]

Hi, your angst hit me hard, not gonna lie, and I was wondering if you are able to write like a part 2 of it where they reunite in heaven, maybe make it a little bit fluffy, idk, what ever your up to, it was so good, I literally had to look in a different direction so I won't cry, thank you 🥰

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ stairway to heaven

pt.2 to talking to the moon

pairing: dean winchester x gn!reader

summary: due to an unexpected accident you reunite with dean quicker than you expected

cw: angsty fluff.ᐟ themes of death.ᐟ cliche idea of heaven.ᐟ mention of car crash.ᐟ reference to season 15 [spoiler alert!] .ᐟ special guests [sam, bobby].ᐟ

word count: 2k

julia yaps: i am so sorry it took me ages to answer your request, my brain refused to work on this sad topic, hope you enjoy this tho!

────────── ☁️ ──────────

you slowly open your eyes only to be greeted by the blinding brightness of nothingness. you squint and rub your eyes in an attempt to get them used to the light that surrounded you.

you managed to get up, wobbling a bit in your tracks before dusting yourself off. where the hell were you? you thought to yourself.

curiosity got the best of you so you started walking ahead of you, trying to explore the place, the bright seemingly empty place with nothing but fluffy cloud-like mist or fog. as you move forward your eye caught a glimpse of something shiny but in order to get to it you had to go up a flight of stairs.

“hello?” you called out, hoping to find someone with some kind of answers, any explanation as to what this place was. there was no response whatsoever, dead silence.

the first step you took onto the stairs felt elevating, and then the rest of them was a piece of cake. as you reached the top, you were welcomed by an enormous golden gate, the excruciatingly gorgeous details carved into every single inch, immediately catching your eye.

you tried to have a closer look at it all, lifting your hand up to gently caressing the gold with your fingertips. at that motion, the pearly gates started opening up with a tiny creaking sound, as if they needed a bit of oil on the hinges.

the sudden movement of the giant gate startling you slightly, but as they open up enough for you to walk through them, you took your chance in trying to explore the place further. as you took a step inside the scenery suddenly flipped.

it’s as if you were teleported to another place. a very beautiful place though, this must be a dream obviously, you thought to yourself. which would explain your chill attitude towards all the exploration without feeling the need to hold a knife or gun in your hand. that feeling of freedom and safety felt so refreshing, considering that most your existence you fought for your life or others lives, as a hunter.

the sound of leaves and twigs crunching under your boots echoed throughout the mountains. birds cooing and crickets chirping, the fresh but warm breeze tickling your face as the golden rays of sunlight shined through the trees. you stopped for a second to enjoy the beautiful landscape in front of you, the different shades of greens and browns all combined into an amazing view that contrasted with the clear blue sky with barely any clouds.

you started hearing a familiar bark in the distance, the sound getting closer and closer until you noticed miracle, dean’s dog that you took care of after his death, running towards you.

“miracle?! come here boy, c’mere!” you called out to him in your high pitched voice that you always used on dogs, patting your thighs encouraging him to run towards you. you knelt down with open arms and before you knew it miracle was all over you, licking your face, jumping up and down with happiness that he’s seeing you. you couldn’t help but giggle, ruffling his hair. “oh what are you doing here all alone boy?” you asked him as if he was going to answer. a big smile on your face, it felt like you haven’t seen him in years. odd.

you were so occupied with petting and playing with miracle that you didn’t even notice someone standing in your line of vision. you wondered who the boots belonged to, maybe this certain someone could help you find out where you were?

your eyes slowly scanned up their body. biker boots, jeans, green jacket, burgundy flannel, black tshirt and then– there it was, the face of a man that owned your heart. none other than dean winchester himself.

dean had a big ol’ smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he was clearly as happy as miracle to see you, if not more.

“dean?” you exclaimed as you got up from your knees and jumped into his arms, nearly tripping him over while at it. he buried his face in your hair, inhaling your sweet scent. his embrace was tight, you could feel all those years of longing spill into the hug. and of course you returned with the same energy, your grip on his jacket making your knuckles turn white, you didn’t want to let him go, especially if it was a dream that would eventually come to an end, and you’d have to wake up.

“is it really you?” you asked in disbelief, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked up at him. dean nodded with the smile you missed oh so much. you let out a sigh of relief before pulling him in for a soft but passionate kiss, your hands cupping his jaw, all these years of yearning and longing spill into the kiss, from both sides, not just yours. you pull away with a smile “i can’t believe i’m finally having a dream about you”

dean’s smile slowly disappeared at your words, and a worried expression replaced it. you noticed his sudden shift. “what is it?” you asked with a small head tilt. dean looked away for a second before meeting your eyes again.

his expression soft and empathetic, “i don’t know how to tell you this but-“ he started off but before he could finish you cut him off.

“oh my god, sam?!” you squealed running up to him and giving him a big hug, he wrapped his arms around you tightly, “thank god you’re okay, i was starting to get worried that-“ sam started but dean give him a quick hand sign to shut up. you frowned at his words, this dream is getting a little weird, you thought.

you pulled away from the hug, looking at sam confused. “worried that what? guys.. why are you acting so odd?” you began to question. you turned to look at dean who had a mixed expression, he sure as hell was glad to see you but concerned about how you’ll react to what they were about to tell you.

“dean!” you whined softly trying to get him to talk.

dean looked at sam and gave him a nod, “i think it’s best if sam told you..”

you frown in confusion, getting slightly scared. “tell me what?” you gave dean a glance before turning to face sam. now you demanded an answer.

sam shifted slightly on the spot, he took a deep breath, “do you remember what happened?” he looked into your eyes with a deep emotion that you couldn’t quite read. you squinted your eyes a little, “no.. i-“ you tried to go back to what happened before you arrived here. you assumed this was dreamland so you tried to remind yourself where did you fall asleep.

the two men let you figure it out on your own, at it would have been best for you to. your frown turned into a face of panic, not being able to remember the part where you lay down in bed or rest your head on the leather seat of the impala.

“i don’t-“ you started tearing up as the sudden flash of memory came back to you. the memory of two bright headlights of a transportation truck getting closer and closer to the side of the impala. “we were in the car..” you explained what you finally remembered.

“and.. a big truck was heading too quick on a crossroad..” as you say that out loud it all hits you like the truck did. you gasped, looking up into sam’s eyes with devastation in yours. you covered your mouth in pure shock. “we got hit.. on the side, the car tipped” your voice trembling.

sam nodded, “we.. didn’t survive to impact, i’m sorry..” he added with an empathetic tone as if he didn’t die himself, you let out a soft sigh as a stray tear rolled down your cheek. you felt dean’s hand gently rubbing your back in an attempt to sooth you. “we died in a car crash..?” you asked in disbelief, deep down hoping that you misheard or maybe misunderstood, sam gave you a hesitant nod. “..wow” was all you could vocalise as the information sank in.

you cleared your throat, “so this is..” you tried to say it out loud but you couldn’t spit it out, denial creeping up on you.

“you’re in heaven sweetheart” dean stepped in, he knew this was a hard pill to swallow and that you’d need time to accept that you’ve died, along with sam and miracle. you let out a broken chuckle as tears filled your eyes. dean pulled you back into a hug, his hand rubbing your back in a slow, calming motion. his chin resting on the top of your head.

for a long minute, you say nothing. you just let dean hold you.

“honestly didn’t think we’d end up here after all the shit we’ve done” you broke the silence with a joke, trying to distract yourself with lighthearted humour. you heard the two men chuckle softly at your words.

you sniffled and wiped your tears away with your sleeve. “at least we are all together now right?” you tried to see the positive side of it all, even if it was hard.

“yeah, we are” dean mumbled into your hair, a soft smile on his face. once he felt your body gradually relaxing, tension disappearing, he slowly let go of you. and instead he intertwined his fingers with yours, holding your hand.

“now how bout we go say hi to bobby” he suggested as he gently shook your hand in his, a smile curving on his face. he couldn’t take his emerald green eyes off you, his heart thumping in his chest at how happy he was to finally reunite with you, his true love.

you nodded enthusiastically.

dean whistled, “come on boy, let’s go” he called to miracle, and then the four of you walked towards bobby’s cabin.

you had so much questions to ask about this place, but you knew not to throw them all at once at dean. “so.. this is how heaven looks like, huh? so not what i expected”

dean smiled, the corners of his eyes scrunching slightly, looking up at the mountains and trees. “yeah, jack made sure to make this place as peaceful as possible, and where everyone could be together, not just isolated in their own little memory for eternity” dean explained.

“jack did a terrific job with this place” sam added, casually admiring the nature scenery as you walked down the path that lead to bobby’s place.

“he really did” you agreed, you glanced at dean with a smile before looking around, taking in the beauty of this place.

“you three idjits better not walk all over my petunias, or i’ll rock salt you with my shotgun” you heard bobby yell from his porch as he sat in his rocking chair. his threat lacking the hostility, your giggle making bobby smile.

“well i’ll be darned..” bobby stood up from his chair, looking all happy to see you. you strolled quickly towards him to give him a hug. “hey bobby”

“so.. gardening, huh bobby?” sam teased with a cheeky little grin.

“what? it’s calming, clears your head and it lowers your blood pressure” he explained seriously.

“bobby you know you can’t die from high blood pressure in heaven, right?” dean chuckled, joining into teasing the older man.

“shut up” bobby muttered.

the interaction felt like you got taken back in time, back to bobby’s house during the festive season, teasing and bickering like a family at a table full of home cooked food with a football game or shitty hallmark movie playing in the background.

you had a feeling you’ll be okay, and you were. because now you were all together. safe and retired from the dangerous job that brought you guys all together in the first place.

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3

tags: @jensino @emeraldcrs @soldiersgirl @jensenacklesballsack @missus-ackles @littlesoulshine @deanswifeyy @slut4jackles @h8aaz @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @rositaslabyrinth @deanspookiebear @tinas111 @bejeweledinterludes @miss-marmalade @pinksatinpanties @multiversefanfics @cupidzbunny @heartrendercastiel @sunnyteume @mrsanakinwinchesterpoldark @krabog @that-stanford-girlie @pwin098 @tendertulip @honeyyxxbee @rerejunebug

𑁥౿ check out my masterlist for other works!

♡ see this post to be added to the taglist!

© pieandflannel – do not plagiarise or repost any of my work!

© reserved for photo/gif owners! (pinterest)

© diver by @cafekitsune <3

[shiny-jr]

VERY IMPORTANT!

THE EVIDENCE.

This announcement pertains to the recent plagiarism incident that I've been dealing with behind the scenes. This announcement will contain the explanation in the form of a timeline, along with evidence (as much as I can provide given that Tumblr has an image limit) of the plagiarism and interactions, as well as what you can do to help. This post will be the evidence post, and you can find the other post of the interaction here:

Interaction post.

If you choose to help, thank you, and please make sure you read the entirety of the two posts for all the information and as I'd like to set some boundaries.

I'll be trying to word things like a court case, but that's really to calm the jitters and make things sound a bit lighthearted as this is currently making me extremely anxious. Do keep in mind that even if I sound relaxed, I'm really not. This is a serious issue, and the first time I've ever had to deal with this type of problem.

Before I go into details, let me say two things. These are IMPORTANT!

Firstly, and most importantly, I do not want anyone to be harassed over this. It is why I have avoided sharing details entirely thus far, as I understand that I have a large following and I do not want to abuse it. This is why I have tried to deal with the issue in private until now. As a great man once said, "with great power comes great responsibility."

Secondly, should anyone find another work of mine being plagiarized, please, please, please, let me know and do not act without informing me. I want no one's feelings to get hurt, but copying others is NOT OKAY.

The accused: user Christyna and the story In The Right Time.

FIRST EVIDENCE

At first, this was a scene I glossed over. In both stories, the MC is transported to a world based off the Lion King and end up awaken by the character, Ruggie, only to learn that they are the chieftain of the hyenas. The MC travels up a cliffside to meet the neighboring prince, Leona. Of course, I thought this was strangely familiar, but it didn't raise any alarm bells for me.

For reference, I used the first ten or so pages of my story Damnation [ The Hyena Chieftain ]. Which is the beginning portion of the story, until Leona first appears. I compared this the other story, In The Right Time, chapter one: a strange awakening.

However, seeing this similarity, I thought to myself it could've been a strange coincidence. Afterall, if it's based on the Lion King, it could happen. It is a popular franchise, but further evidence proved that it couldn't have just been the odd coincidence.

SECOND EVIDENCE

Here is where I will start to share screenshots, again, when I can since I might be limited by Tumblr. From here on out, all image comparisons will be highlighted in either red or blue. The red will be from In The Right Time, while the blue will be from my story.

In The Right Time, chapter two: intriguing negotiations. Paragraph two, reads the following which I will compare side by side with Damnation. This is a line of dialogue said by Leona in both stories:

THIRD EVIDENCE

FOURTH EVIDENCE

At this point, any thought of coincidence it dashed.

There are too many similarities from the word choice, to the roles, to the thought processes and actions of the MC, everything is far too suspiciously close to have been just a mistake.

Also, what may also be noteworthy, at the very end of this chapter, the accused user leaves a note. Implying that they wrote the story, which if we go by the evidence, seems harder and harder to believe. Here is the note:

FIFTH EVIDENCE

The following can be compared to Damnation: The Hyena Chieftain, roughly about the halfway mark when the MC wakes up as Ruggie alerts them of an intruder. This is a scene where Jack has a lot of time as well, but it's important to note that Jack isn't present in the other story.

This scene about the poisoned water is something that wasn't even in the movie, it was something that I created to fill out more pages for characters such as Jack and Ruggie. That, and along with the cans of food, is another detail that was never in the movie.

SIXTH EVIDENCE

This is a continuation of the last scene. I do think it's important to point out the inspiration I took to create this scene. This was a scene I had struggled with for a while, as I wanted to give Jack Howl some more pages of content.

Until one day, the idea came to me. I based this specific scene on a scene in The Mandalorian, chapter nine: the marshal. Don't believe me? See for yourself. The scene where Din Djarin captures a man outside a fight club. That's what inspired this scene for me. Not sure about the accused though.

After this point, the instances of copied scenes thins to only a few more sparse occurrences that I will present below.

For the moment, I do want to say that I acknowledge the differences, but that doesn't excuse the fact that they have copied numerous scenes thus far. An amount that total to a majority of the first half of Damnation: The Hyena Chieftain.

With that said, I leave another note left by the accuser at the end of chapter seven:

Ah, yes. I imagine copying the story is much easier than actually making your own. Believe me, it's difficult writing your own story. Not sure if you can relate though.

SEVENTH EVIDENCE

Believe it or not, the similarities do not stop at just the end of Damnation: The Hyena Chieftain. They also extend into Damnation: The King of Hearts.

Similarly to how my story Damnation: The King of Hearts starts, the MC wakes up on a bed in royal garbs, confused and disoriented as they recognize the surroundings immediately as that of the setting of Alice In Wonderland. And, like in my story, Riddle is the king that appears out of the blue and lays a heavy accusation.

EIGHTH EVIDENCE

Just like in my story, the plot proceeds to the MC joining Riddle with Trey and Cater in the throne room where a prisoner is presented. A prisoner that failed to capture the protagonist, which I named Ellis after Alice. Unsurprisingly, the other story also has a very similar scene with a prisoner being presented in the throne room and the mention of a protagonist named Ellis.

A name which, by the way, I picked randomly because it sounded a lot like Alice.

EXTRA

That is all the evidence I can present so far, as the story had not been updated. But before I end this point, I would like to show additional screenshots I took of comments I discovered on In The Right Time.

The reason I blocked out these names is because I did not know the users and I don't have their permission to show their usernames. But here you can clearly see the dates during which this brief conversation took place, far before I even knew of the existence of this story.

If you have fully read both this evidence post and interaction post, and you are wondering if there is a way to help, yes, there is.

However, I want to remind everyone that I do not want anyone to spam or send outright hate. That is not what I want nor will it be useful.

If you would like to help, then please report the story and comment discouragement. Especially comment on the story, as I feel that this would be the most efficient method. If you wish to reblog, you may. Again, I stress this, DO NOT send any hate or spam! I am entirely serious on this point. I will block any users I find that are clearly hating or spamming the user on my behalf.

All I want is this to end as quickly as possible, so I can just get back to writing in peace. Please, and thank you for your time.

Where can you find the story and user: Wattpad

The user: kristynaka1

The story: In The Right Time

[venusianpulp]

6th House & Your Perfect Morning Routine...

The 6th house in astrology represents daily routines, health, and work habits. The sign and ruler of the 6th house can provide insights into the ideal morning routine for an individual. Here's a detailed explanation of the perfect morning routine based on the 6th house sign and its ruler for each zodiac sign:

Aries (Ruled by Mars):

With Aries in the 6th house, the perfect morning routine involves physical activity and energizing tasks. Start the day with a brisk walk, a jog, or a quick workout session to get the blood pumping and the energy flowing. Prioritize tasks that require initiative and decisiveness. Make a to-do list and tackle the most challenging items first. Incorporate activities that stimulate mental alertness, such as solving puzzles or reading something thought-provoking.

Taurus (Ruled by Venus):

With Taurus in the 6th house, the ideal morning routine focuses on creating a sense of stability and comfort. Begin the day with a nourishing breakfast and a few minutes of quiet contemplation or meditation. Engage in activities that promote physical and emotional well-being, such as gentle stretching or yoga. Prioritize tasks that involve organizing and beautifying your surroundings. Take time to appreciate the simple pleasures of life, like savoring a cup of tea or tending to your plants.

Gemini (Ruled by Mercury):

With Gemini in the 6th house, the perfect morning routine involves mental stimulation and varied activities. Start the day by reading the news, listening to a podcast, or engaging in a lively discussion with a loved one. Prioritize tasks that require communication, multitasking, and adaptability. Break your routine into shorter segments to maintain interest and prevent boredom. Incorporate activities that promote learning and intellectual growth, such as studying a new language or solving brain teasers.

Cancer (Ruled by the Moon):

With Cancer in the 6th house, the ideal morning routine emphasizes emotional well-being and self-care. Begin the day with a nurturing activity, such as taking a warm bath or preparing a comforting meal. Prioritize tasks that involve caregiving, whether it's tending to your own needs or supporting loved ones. Create a cozy and inviting atmosphere in your workspace. Take breaks throughout the morning to check in with your emotions and practice self-compassion.

Leo (Ruled by the Sun):

With Leo in the 6th house, the perfect morning routine involves creative expression and self-confidence. Start the day by engaging in a hobby or passion project that brings you joy and satisfaction. Prioritize tasks that showcase your unique talents and abilities. Dress in a way that makes you feel confident and empowered. Incorporate activities that promote self-expression, such as writing in a journal or practicing a musical instrument.

Virgo (Ruled by Mercury):

With Virgo in the 6th house, the ideal morning routine focuses on organization and productivity. Begin the day by reviewing your schedule and prioritizing your tasks. Engage in activities that promote cleanliness and order, such as tidying your workspace or meal prepping for the day. Break larger projects into smaller, manageable steps. Incorporate activities that promote physical and mental health, such as practicing mindfulness or taking a nature walk.

Libra (Ruled by Venus):

With Libra in the 6th house, the perfect morning routine involves balance and harmony. Start the day with a calming activity, such as gentle stretching or listening to soothing music. Prioritize tasks that involve collaboration and teamwork. Create a visually appealing and aesthetically pleasing workspace. Incorporate activities that promote social connection, such as reaching out to a friend or engaging in a group hobby.

Scorpio (Ruled by Mars or Pluto):

With Scorpio in the 6th house, the ideal morning routine involves intensity and transformation. Begin the day with a challenging physical activity or a deep meditation session. Prioritize tasks that require focus, determination, and problem-solving skills. Engage in activities that promote personal growth and self-improvement, such as reading a self-help book or attending a workshop. Take time for introspection and self-reflection.

Sagittarius (Ruled by Jupiter):

With Sagittarius in the 6th house, the perfect morning routine involves exploration and expansion. Start the day with an adventurous activity, such as trying a new breakfast recipe or taking a different route to work. Prioritize tasks that involve learning, travel, or philosophical pursuits. Engage in activities that promote personal growth and spiritual development, such as attending a lecture or practicing yoga. Embrace spontaneity and be open to new experiences.

Capricorn (Ruled by Saturn):

With Capricorn in the 6th house, the ideal morning routine focuses on discipline and structure. Begin the day with a structured activity, such as following a specific exercise regimen or reviewing your long-term goals. Prioritize tasks that require perseverance, responsibility, and practicality. Create a functional and organized workspace. Incorporate activities that promote self-discipline and mastery, such as learning a new skill or working on a challenging project.

Aquarius (Ruled by Saturn or Uranus):

With Aquarius in the 6th house, the perfect morning routine involves innovation and humanitarianism. Start the day with an unconventional activity, such as trying a new form of exercise or volunteering for a cause you believe in. Prioritize tasks that involve problem-solving, technology, or social activism. Engage in activities that promote mental stimulation and originality, such as brainstorming ideas or exploring cutting-edge concepts. Embrace your unique quirks and eccentricities.

Pisces (Ruled by Jupiter or Neptune):

With Pisces in the 6th house, the ideal morning routine involves creativity and intuition. Begin the day with a spiritual or artistic activity, such as meditating, journaling, or creating art. Prioritize tasks that require imagination, empathy, and adaptability. Create a serene and inspiring workspace. Incorporate activities that promote emotional well-being and connection to something greater than yourself, such as practicing gratitude or engaging in acts of kindness.

Remember, these are general guidelines based on the 6th house sign and its ruler. Each individual's ideal morning routine may vary depending on their unique birth chart and personal preferences.

[secretlywritingstories]

Running to Onychinus | LaDS Sylus one shot

Summary: You come back from Skyhaven and find yourself at a loss. Caleb isn't dead and you feel like you might be further away from untangling the Aether Core's mysteries.

And there's only one man you feel comfortable to confide in right now. Even if he is on the Hunter Association's Most Wanted List.

Tags: Post-Homecoming Wings, canon setting, MC&Caleb are childhood friends, sparring/boxing, heart-to-heart, Sylus is still the enemy (technically), use of Evol

Warnings: Grief, mentioned dead grandmother and thought to be dead Caleb, brief bloody flashbacks to origin story

Word count: 7.5k

Read on AO3 or below

You are tired.

Tired of everyone’s shit. Right now, Caleb is at the top of your shitlist after everything he pulled after his magical re-entry into your life.

It still doesn’t quite feel real that you’ve seen him. It is him, despite whatever has turned him away from the kind-hearted boy you grew up with. His protectiveness turned possessive after his fake-death. You wanted there to be an explanation for it all. You wanted for him to be controlled by a chip. You wanted to fight back with how he would still treat you like a child and lock you away from the action.

You’re a full-fledged hunter. You’ve gone toe-to-toe with some very fearsome Wanderers. You have survived being kidnapped by the leader of Onychinus. You have an Aether Core in your heart that can resonate with others and display incredible power.

You are not the same helpless little girl that he knew. You’ve both changed.

And now the asshole has gone off to fight in the Deepspace Tunnel, and you’re just expected to go back to Linkon City. Back on the job while you try to untangle more of this mess that no one will fucking tell you about, despite the fact that you’re at the very heart of it.

You can’t just go back home. Not again. It was the same after your extended stay in the N109 zone. You just… went back home. Like nothing had changed. Like you weren’t inexplicably linked to a man wanted by the Hunters Association. Like your heart hadn’t somehow absorbed another Aether Core fragment and gone haywire.

No, you needed to talk to someone.

Going to the Hunters Association is a no-go. Even if Jenna approved your extended leave to go to a “wedding” in Skyhaven, it doesn’t mean that it’s safe to unload all of this at your work. They don’t know the full extent of your own involvement and you’d like to keep it that way. You aren’t naïve enough to think you can tell the story of Caleb without spilling too many personal details.

Zayne knows about your heart, perhaps better than anyone as your primary care physician, but you just saw him at Skyhaven. On the Fleet’s payroll, even if he was the one who alerted you to the fishiness about Mia’s death. Besides, you’d need to actually confess to him that Caleb is somehow not dead. You couldn’t find the words then and you can’t find them now.

Xavier would be an option if you thought that you’d actually get a straight answer out of the man. The same way that Caleb knew much more than he let on, lying straight to your face about details he didn’t deem important for you to know. Xavier would find a way to talk around it. It would just leave you more frustrated.

Likewise, you have a hard time seeing how you might squeeze an answer out of Rafayel, if he is even aware of everything that’s been going on lately. You were much closer than just bodyguard and client, but you had a feeling that he might just get involved himself and make everything more complicated.

It only really leaves on option.

One man who might be able to provide some kind of solace.

Someone who knows about your Aether Core heart and who knows about the Ever research because his district is literally built on top of their laboratories’ ruins. He’s still the enemy technically. Even though the times that you’ve met since leaving the N109 zone have been nothing but playful pestering, and him seemingly trying very hard to be caught by your colleagues, much to your dismay. It always hangs between you whenever you meet, a tension you can almost see with the visible eye, and yet you like when he shows up, even if it brings chaos.

He's enigmatic and you’re too curious for your own good.

You are dropped off in Linkon City with orders from the Colonel to take good care of his adjutant. It had been a very strange protection to be pardoned and then promoted like that. You didn’t like what it said about Caleb’s power.

Though, right now you’re driving into the N109 zone with the crow brooch pinned to your shirt. It felt like another mark of sorts, but this one you’d earned. Well, sort of. Sylus had kind of just given in towards the end but you fought for it all the same! And you and Sylus had made a deal, you had both used each other. You’d wanted to get into the auction and he’d wanted to resonate. It had been quid-pro-quo.

You had a feeling that this particular visit might also come with a price but it was worth it just to talk to someone who might grasp everything that was going on. You knew that Sylus had eyes and ears everywhere, and he might know more about this. He might be willing to tell you for the right kind of incentive.

You don’t go directly to his house. You are all too aware about the bracelet that Caleb had strapped to your wrist before he’d left. It won’t come off. It is welded on somehow. You don’t doubt that it could be used to tracking you.

You would probably have been offended more if he was the first one person who’d done it to you. And if you hadn’t gone and planted a tracker on him right back. Payback and all that. It has always been that way when you were growing up too.

Once you’ve parked near the bar where Sylus almost had gotten you killed, you look around for a familiar mechanical bird lurking somewhere nearby. You are in his domain now. He will know that you’ve arrived.

Caleb is not the only one keeping track of you.

“Mephisto, I know you’re out there somewhere,” you call out into the night. “I need to talk to Sylus.”

The night echoes nothing back. You can’t hear any flap of wings. You can see nothing as you stare into the darkness. The bird has flowing red eyes, he really shouldn’t be able to hide this well. Unless Sylus actually did back off on the surveillance of you.

But that seems unlikely. You’re locked in some temporary truce, but things are far from squared up between you. And you’ve seen how he looks at you, like he never wants you out of his sight.

“I’m serious,” you say, a bit more subdued now. Firsts clenched hard enough to hurt when nails bite into the skin. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Another moment passes.

And then…

Your phone. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to get it out of your pocket. On the screen is that one photo, you snapped of Sylus when he wasn’t looking. Relaxed in his own home. It had been such a strange sight to know that this was the dangerous criminal that everyone wanted to bring down. And he wore glasses to read in his library. It had felt so strange and forbidding to see it, so you had to take a photo to remember it.

“Sylus?” you say into the phone.

You sound breathless and more than a little desperate, but you don’t care. Your walls are crumbling and holding onto them right now would prove too difficult. Let him see it. He’s too observant for you to hide it entirely anyway.

“Who do you need dead?”

It’s not the greeting you’d expected, but of course, he’d answer the phone like that. It’s strange but a slight surge of warmth curls around your heart. That’s wrong. Your heart shouldn’t flutter at the thought of someone being willing to commit murder for you.

“You think I’d only come to you for your murdering skills?” you ask, and your words cling a little hollow. A little too worn, even as your mouth fights a smile. Caleb might be a different man but Sylus is evidently exactly the same man that you left behind.

“Well, kitten,” he says, voice turning into more of a purr, “are you calling for any of my other skills? I didn’t know that you were interested in those.”

His suggestive tone is enough to clue you in on what he’s insinuating. You expect yourself to snap at him, to tell him to focus, but again, it’s rather comforting. From the moment you met, he was always a bit of a flirt, his words often underlying with innuendo, but he has never actually acted on it. Always kept a polite enough distance, and save for when you just met him, your first couple nights under his roof, you stopped worry that he might do something like that against your will. You know him better now.

It's really an unfortunate thing that the man can literally see your desire, but that is a worry for another time.

“I am in the N109 zone and I need your help,” you say, trying to get him back on track.

The line goes suspiciously silent. Sylus doesn’t seem like a man to weigh his words carefully. He’s always been speaking quite frankly with you, straight to the point with no bullshit, and the quiet hanging between you leaves an unsettled feeling in your stomach.

Maybe it was a mistake to come here. You are still enemies after all. Fuck, you’ve wandered right into the most dangerous district to meet up with the leader of Onychinus. Just a year ago, you would have labelled yourself a lunatic for this kind of behaviour. But things have changed since then. You’ve come face to face with him many times and never once has he left you feeling scared. He’s more than his title and your whole world has been upended.

It might not be so surprising that you find yourself crashing down.

“Come to the house,” Sylus says and his voice sounds strange. Like there’s a haunting echo to his words. “No one will bother you. You’re under my protection.”

Protection.

Right. Another man trying to protect you. Another wild card ready to take your health and safety into his own hands. You bristle, much like you were the animal like the nickname that Sylus keeps calling you. You take a deep breath before you snap at him. It won’t do anything good. You think this protection of his comes from a place of care.

But you’re also worried that you’re just naïve to think so. This is your life. You can be reckless with it if you want. You’ve always been like that, throwing yourself head first into situations. Your career is a dangerous one, especially with your heart condition, even before you knew about all of the further complications with the Aether core.

It’s still your life. Your choices. And you’ve trained well. You’re strong. You’re not only some little damsel in distress.

“I can’t do that,” you say and try to keep the chipped tone out of your voice. “I am probably being tracked, and I wouldn’t want to lead these people to your home”.

“I feel compelled to repeat my first request,” Sylus says, his voice dropping down low. “Who do you need me to kill?”

He would probably try to kill Caleb if you told him to do so. It would be nothing to him. Another name on a list that needed to be taken care of. This is the kind of man that you’re dancing around. You’ve seen the power of Sylus’ Evol. But Caleb is strong too, and he might be able to hold his own but there’s equal risk that they’d just destroy each other. And then you’d lose them both.

Besides, there’s one important thing.

“I don’t want anyone dead. Stop asking,” you say with a growl. “I just need to… talk to you, okay? Somewhere private.”

“I’ll send you an address for one of my safe houses. See you in a few minutes.”

The lack of nickname is almost as jarring as how quickly he ends the call. But only seconds later, your phone lights up with an address.

It’s not far from here. You get moving.

You still aren’t familiar enough with the N109 zone to be comfortable moving through the streets. This is a lawless place and while Linkon City deals with a lot of wanderers, at least the citizens are not a threat in most cases.

You stay on guard as you move through the dark streets, but the few people you pass don’t seem to spare you a second glance. It takes a while to find the exact entrance to the building once you reach it. It seems to be an old gym that abandoned long ago by the looks of it.

Scouting and canvassing for wanderers and safe houses aren’t that different though. You find a side door that is left unlocked, which leaves you a little unnerved. You have a moment to consider that this might be a trap, but you dismiss the thought out of hand. If Sylus wanted you dead, he has had amble opportunity to make that happen while you were staying under his roof.

Under his protection…

You close the door behind you and you even click the lock back into place. You don’t want anyone else following you in, even if you did try to make sure that you weren’t followed. You aren’t sure that it’ll matter with the tracker on your wrist, but at least you’re only compromising a safe house location. You warned Sylus about that and he told you to come here.

You advance further into the building and you find him out in the open area that is still littered with various exercise machines that have seen better days. He stands there clouded in shadows, back turned to you even though he must have heard or sensed you.

You stop for a moment to consider if this is truly the right cause of action. Before you have a chance to change your mind, he turns around.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, like you’re meeting for coffee and not in a suspicious gym turned safe house in the N109 zone.

You stand there for a moment, and you have the overwhelming urge to throw yourself into his arms. It feels like weakness to admit it, even within the comfort of your own mind, but you crave physical touch. It’s reassuring and grounding, and you aren’t sure who you could even turn to right now.

You know a few people who would accept it but they would all have questions. And they probably wouldn’t like the answers that you have to give.

Sylus closes the distance between you. His height should be intimidating. He probably can use it to be intimidating, you’ve seen him stare down enough powerful players that kind of fold under his gaze. It’s more about attitude than height and bulk, but it still helps him out when he wants to be intimidating.

It doesn’t seem to be the case now. He moves smoothly, but more like he’s approaching to ask for your hand for a dance.

It’s still overwhelming to be near him. Your heart picks up without your permission and you see the red glint in his right eye shine just slightly. It nags at something in the back of your mind and for a moment you remember the feeling of blood on your hands, and wispy black smoke all around you. A haunting vision that felt entirely too familiar.

He stops too close to you. You stand frozen. It’s stupid. He could reach out and slid a knife across your throat. Of course, he doesn’t even need that. His Evol could have you dead even faster, from a greater distance. You’re only alive because he wants you to be.

He leans in close, brushing your hair back over your shoulder. It makes you shiver and let out a shuddering breath. He has the audacity to hum right into your ear, and you feel the sound like a caress itself.

“I want to be alone with you,” he says, and at this, you definitely do shiver even if you try to keep control of your heart. “Where?”

It takes you a moment to realise what he’s asking. It’s a reasonable question, considering you told him that you’re being tracked.

It feels a little bit like betrayal to Caleb but you lift your wrist. The cursed bracelet that might or might not be a tracker. You realise belatedly that you don’t actually know if it’s capable of recording as well.

Sylus takes your wrist in his hand, his palm folding around it so easily. It’s far from the first time he’s grabbed you. He did it a lot at the beginning, reaching for your hands or arms all of the time. But he hasn’t done it that much since you managed to resonate on that damn rooftop.

You noticed that his grip is almost always warm, like heat just radiates off of him.

He raises your arm to take a look at the bracelet, and you see how his eyebrows pinch up with something that might be worry before he smoothest out his expression.

“You’ve been a naughty little kitten?” he asks.

“I didn’t do shit,” you hiss back.

He laughs. It’s a deep, pleasant rumble and it makes his eyes go a little softer.

And then it’s not just the feel of his hand on your skin, it’s his Evol manifesting and reaching out.

The spike of fear is instinctive. You’ve seen what this power can do to both wanderers and people. You’ve felt it grab and hold you before and it feels entirely immobilising. Yet it curls gently around your hand and wrist, not unlike how you’d imagine the feel of a snake winding itself around your arm. Only, there’s a faint buzzing and at the contact your mind goes to that dark place again and the nagging thought that you know this man in a much more intimate and violent way.

The Evol is gentle as it moves against you. So much like a caress that your breath catches in your throat. You wonder what it would feel like to be wrapped up in it if it was being gentle like this. Suspended and utterly at Sylus’ mercy. He would probably like that. And you find you maybe wouldn’t be entirely opposed to the idea, which is frightening in itself.

The Evol curls around the bracelet, and the shifting colours of black and red seem to flicker faster now. It grows hotter too, almost hot enough to be uncomfortable and for a moment you wonder if you’re about to be burned.

But then the bracelet snaps open and it is retrieved in the tendrils, lifting the shattered remains into Sylus’ hand.

He lets go of your wrist and you fight yourself not to follow him to keep his touch on you.

“It’s dead now,” he says as he examines it. “But you’re made some powerful enemies, kitten. Should I be offended?”

He keeps his playful tone and normally you might play along, but right now you’re too exhausted, raw and confused.

Sylus knew about the explosions that were said to be done by Onychinus. It had made it a whole lot easier to hate him in the beginning when you thought he was the reason that you’d lost your grandmother and Caleb.

You now knew it wasn’t true. In fact, Caleb hadn’t even been lost in that fire.

“Did you know that he was alive?”

Sylus’ eyes move up slowly from the ruins of the bracelet to find your eyes. You aren’t sure what he sees in your now. You hope that determination and resolve can shine through as desires as well. Maybe he’ll be able to see how important this is to you.

He let out a hum. “Your childhood friend, yes?”

Your breath catches. You clench your jaw. “Yeah.”

But to your surprise, he shakes his head. “I didn’t know, but I had my suspicious that something had gone down with that explosion that burned your grandmother’s house.”

Anger is bright and hot in your chest.

“So, you suspected,” you say, throwing venom into his own word, “and you didn’t tell me?”

He didn’t owe you an explanation. You were nothing to each other back then, but you want to be mad. Really, you want to be mad at Caleb but you can’t do that, not when you’re scared of losing him again.

This with Sylus feels more stable. Like he’ll be able to handle your anger without disappearing. He spoke to you as if you were intertwined in a way that couldn’t be unravelled. You still owed him that curtain call.

And while he might not have told you back then, you have been getting closer. Every seemingly accidental encounter where you’ve been dancing around each other has made you more familiar. He’s always showing up in your life, you’re not strangers anymore.

“Come,” he said, waggling his fingers and walking over to the wall.

“Sylus, I’m being-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says. “But you have frustrations. Best to get them and the words out at the same time. It doesn’t do well to be pent up.”

He comes back with something that looks vaguely like gauze. It takes a moment to recognise that it’s probably boxing tape.

“What?”

“Hands,” he requests, unwinding the tape.  

It’s a ridiculous thing. He should just be able to answer your questions. You came to him because you thought he might be the one person able to give you a straight answer and now he wants to spar?

But… it’s tempting. You do feel pent up, all full of frustrations and hurt and anger. Maybe sparring would help you settle a little. Besides, you don’t have to pull your punches with Sylus like you would do if you were training with another hunter. He can handle himself, and he can handle you.

You lift your hand, and see the faint hint of a smile on his lips as he starts to wrap up your hand.

“I still want answers.”

“You can have them,” he says and his tone is sincere. “You know you can have anything from me.”

That catches you off guard. He shouldn’t be offering himself up like that. You try to convince yourself that his tone is light. Some kind of joke, but it’s painfully sincere and that makes your chest ache a little, in a way that you can’t quite understand.

His touch is gentle too. These hands can snap someone’s neck but they are careful as they move across your skin, securing the tape around your hands. You find yourself glancing up at him, and it feels like you’re allowed a moment to just study him as his eyes are focused on your hands.

The sharp lines on his face seem to soften a little when he’s this close. You can see some of the texture of his skin where it’s not all smooth and perfect. His brows are a little overgrown. His mouth purses just slightly, like his concentrating, and his lips are slightly chapped.

His eyes snap up to meet yours and he’s got eye crinkles when he smiles like that. You’re too mesmerised by them to remember to look away in time.

“Admiring me, sweetie?”

“N-no,” you stutter out in a way that’s not very convincing, and you pull your hands back from him, and flex them to test the tape. It feels good. Secure but not too right. “Let’s go.”

This time is a different laugh of his. More like giggles, coming out like dancing. “Can’t wait?”

He moves to do his own hands up as well, and you wonder if you should offer to help him, but his movements are practiced and fast. He did say that he boxed before. He’s much more efficient and fast putting the tape on himself.

“Are you going to answer my question now?” you ask, as you follow him into another room which reveals an open area with a mat on the ground.

“Like I said,” he says slowly, and jumps a little in place, shaking out his limbs. “I didn’t know. I just suspected that foul play was at work because how it had gone down. My far reach is far but it doesn’t extend to Skyhaven.”

You take a reckless swing at him, just for the heck of it, but you haven’t prepared it well and he dodges out of range effortlessly.

“You knew he was in Skyhaven then.”

You should want to wipe that smirk off his face, but instead your heart skips a beat.

“No, but I know you have been in Skyhaven until tonight. And you must have found him to come asking me such questions. I’m flattered really.”

You take another swing, a little more calculated this time, but he’s still too quick. Your heart is beating too fast in your chest. It’s just the adrenaline, gearing up for a fight, only that.

“Spying on me?” you ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m clearly not the only one.”

“Still makes it wrong,” you say, and it really is too hard to focus on the sparring while talking about this but you start to circle him and it feels good to move.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, and makes his first attack.

You barely stumble back out of the way and he grazes your shoulder. But the punch was way too light. He’s pulling his punches with you. If he wanted to make you angrier, he’s doing so.

“Don’t hold back, I’m not fragile,” you spit out the last word like a curse, and you see how he falters for a moment, mouth falling slightly open.

You strike and manage to get him right in his stomach before he can move to block it or get away.

He groans and moves around you, creating distance once again.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, in a teasing lilt.

“Doesn’t seem like I have a lot of choice regarding tracking and overbearing men,” you grit out, and try to hit him again, but he’s watching you closely now and block it.

Still, it feels good for your fist to connect, even if it’s just his forearm.

“Kitten, you’ve always been the one with all of the choices,” he says, and again you listen for anything in his voice to give away the joke. Again, you are unable to find it.

“Caleb is alive,” you say and for a moment, it feels like all of the air is sucked out of your body.

He was dead. You mourned him. For months on end.

You were supposed to always have him in your corner. He was the one you could count on. You’d cried on his shoulder when Zayne had just disappeared out of your lives, and he’d held your hand when grandma had been in the hospital and he had promised to never abandon you.

And then he had.

Not through death but through choice. It hurts even more.

Sylus checks your shoulder and jolts you back into the presence. “Keep your guard up.”

It’s an order, and those can make you bristle at the best of times. It almost feels like a kindness for him to give you this instead of letting you get lost in your emotions. It spurs you onto focusing on analysing how you can get a hit in on him. It’s hard because that man is all fluid movement and he’s unreasonably fast too.

“And I’ve been learning a lot of things,” you say, even if you wonder how much might be wise to reveal to Sylus.

“About your heart?”

But of course, he knows it’s about the Aether core. He’s seen you absorb some of an Aether core and maybe he even knows how the fragment stabilised it. He’s been hiding one of the last scientists that might know more things about your heart. Everyone else seems like they’ve been wiped out by Ever. You wonder how much Sylus might have learned from the last scientist standing about your condition. Perhaps you could ask to speak to the scientist about the research he did with your grandma.

“Yes and no. It’s… complicated. But the Farspace Fleet is up to no good and Caleb is right at the heart of it all. They took… this child who had an Aether core fragment and brainwashed him somehow. I was going to save him but… I couldn’t, and his sister died in the hospital and afterwards he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.”

Your breathing is coming out too erratically but it’s still haunting to physically see how that kid’s brain was just fried and overwritten. And you didn’t like exactly like the parallels to your own life.

You are stuck in a complicated web, being weaved all around you and it feels like it is just going to keep expanding around you, while you sit there, helpless and trapped without any choice.

It burns in you and you try to channel all of that outward. Sylus has made himself your punching bag for tonight, so you take the offer as the kindness that it is. The other hunters don’t like sparring with you. They say that you play dirty, even if you never actually break any rules. You just skirt along them and try to look for any and all openings, like one shot if it was a real battle. Facing the complaints, you argued that it’s what keeps you alive out there.

Even so, you try to hold back with training with others now. Keep yourself contained.

But not here, not with Sylus.

You strike him, almost right at the centre of his chest. He’s fast enough to move a little to make you off-kilter but he doesn’t fully break the momentum from the punch. Your knuckles hurt where they make contact with him, even if the tape dulls it slightly and protects your wrist.

“Nice work, kitten,” he says, jumping back.

He really does look like a proper boxer right now. So light and spry on his feet. Like nothing could catch him, like nothing could hurt him. Not behind those sharp intelligent eyes and that unending smirk on his lips.

Of course, if he was to bring out his Evol, you’d have no chance of landing a blow on him.

“They’re just kids, Sylus,” you say as you step back. Flat and unprotected on your feet. You cannot make your guard stay up right now. It’s in shambles on the floor. “They didn’t ask to be part of it, and now one of them is dead and the other is brainwashed. I’m supposed to protect people. It’s why I became a hunter in the first place. And my childhood friend is wrapped up in it all. I don’t… I can’t go to anyone with any of this. I just have to sit with it and stew and wait until it tears me apart.”

Your eyes are wet. You didn’t mean to start crying but you feel the wetness on your cheeks, the sting in your nose. You drag an arm across your face, probably just making the mess worse, but you raise your fists again. Try to bounce a bit on your feet.

Sylus is watching you so carefully but his face is blank. Back in poker mode where he’s not letting anything shine through.

You move for another hit, to just do something, but you’re trying the same trick twice and you should know that Sylus is smarter enough not to fall for the same thing. He twists out of the way and grab your body as you swing past.

With the momentum, he’s sending you both sprawling onto the training mat.

It should hurt. He’s a big guy to have crashing down on you, but your landing isn’t bad and you feel none of his weight on you. If anything, you could swear that his hand goes to the back of your head to break the fall.

You can’t be sure though because as soon as you catch up, your instincts kick in. Fighting has to be instinctual for hunters or you get killed. Getting pinned by a Wanderer is a death sentence and it’s the very reason you practice train so much back home. Your profession is a dangerous one but you can take measures to make it less so. Being able to handle yourself in close combat is one thing. 

Being quick with your gun is another.

That’s how you end up twisted around, slipping out of Sylus’ grasp and on top of him instead. With your gun aimed right at his head. You stop shy of pulling the trigger just in time, but the shock of it all comes out as a shaky breath.

Besides, Sylus is not some mindless Wanderer. He could have stopped that from happening, you’re absolutely confident. You believe yourself capable enough to get a couple of hits in if you’re smart and fast but flipping him over and getting him at gunpoint is a whole other story.

His Evol could yank the gun out of your hand before you could shoot. He could throw you off him just as easily. But he does none of these things.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you say, as you lower the gun, trying to calm your heaving chest. He should have put you back in your place. This is not how far he should let you go.

Why is breathing so difficult?

“My favourite kind,” he says, reaching up to close his hands around yours, still holding the gun. “Besides, we’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

He sits up, pushing you properly into his lap with the movement but keeping you close, gun now aimed at his chest again.

Much like how you shot him when you first met. Your hands had shaken then and you hadn’t known what to make of it all. You had wanted him dead. He was on the Hunter Association’s list for a reason and you thought he’d gotten your family killed. You should have wanted him dead without question, but you’d needed a push to do it. He’d put his finger on the trigger for you.

But it had shot and for a moment, you thought that he was dead.

And it had felt wrong.

“I’m not shooting you,” you say, flicking the safety on and tossing the gun off to the side before he gets any idea about more shows of fake-death.

His body had jerked like the Wanderers do. Blood had spewed out on your hands. It had felt real for a moment too long.

Sylus doesn’t stop you from tossing the gun, but he closes his hands fully around yours that are newly empty. Keeping you right there.

 “You are wrong about what you said before.”

“What?” you bark, and anger wants to burst forward again, but you’re also so tired. Sylus’ body is warm underneath you and he’s cradling your hands with such care and your eyes are still red-rimmed with tears.

One of his hands let go of yours to touch your face. His thumb swipes across your cheek, catching what must be a wayward tear.

Your heart feels like it’s stopped working entirely. You hope he isn’t looking at you with that eye of his. You aren’t sure you can handle whatever desire that he might be seeing strumming through you right now.

“You don’t have do it all on your own.”

It cracks your heart right open. He means it. You can see it in his eyes, you can feel it in the way he cradles your cheek, and you know it deep within your heart. This stupid dangerous man who should be wary of a hunter at his door means every word that he says to you.

He doesn’t lie.

It’s the reason you came here. To him. To unload on the one person who you thought might give you answer. He treats you like an equal. And whatever outside circumstances might surround you, whatever anyone else might say about the two of you, you do feel safe with him. You trust him.

“It’s a mess,” you say, and you can feel the tears wanting to come forth again. You try valiantly to push them down. Crying makes you so angry. It’s a loss of control and it just hitches your breath, prevents you from properly saying what you know to be true. “My life is such a mess. It’s dangerous and unpredictable and I don’t know how…”

You can’t finish the sentence. You don’t know how to finish it. But Sylus isn’t talking, he’s watching you with observant eyes, one hand still holding yours while gently stroking a thumb across your pulse point on your wrist. He’s giving you time to talk.

“I need to get to the bottom of all of this. I didn’t ask for any of it, but I’m involved now. My grandmother got me involved before I was even grown. I… I think I lived when I wasn’t supposed to, but it’s a chance and I’m going to take it. I’m tough, I’m strong, I should be able to do this, but I’m just so… terrified,” the word leaves your lips unforbidden. “What if it isn’t good enough?”

What if you are not good enough? What if you do everything you can and it still isn’t enough?

 “Sweetie,” Sylus says while looking right in your eyes. “You are enough. You will figure this out.”

It sounds easier to believe it coming from his lips. His Evol’s red shadows rise up around you, and you feel them move in closer. They bracket you in the darkness and you feel the press of them against your skin. He still likes to use them on you on occasion but he’s careful with them. Right now, they press you up against him, almost like a hug encompassing you both. Your breath catches a little, your heart jumping at the contact.

“Sylus,” you whisper.

“You will, kitten. No one can stop you when you’ve decided on something. But being strong is also allowing people to help you.”

You want to protest. If you do that, then more people will be in the firing line. You don’t want to lose anyone else. You aren’t sure that you could handle any more grief right now. It feels like it would pull you apart at the seams and you’re not sure if you’ve got the strength to put yourself back together again.

Smoke and blood on your hands. Death. An urge to defy the very universe. To call him back, so that you’d never lose him. You’d curse him if need be.

It is that flicker of something again.

How much grief can hurt and change you. You want to curse it so far away, but you know that grief is born from something else. It’s love. And what would this world be without love?

“I wish that you’d told me sooner,” you say as you sit with Sylus, wrapped up in his Evol with him underneath you. “About the explosions, about your suspicions. I hate that it hurts that you didn’t.”

And you didn’t quite realise how true the words were before they were out in the open. You didn’t think that you were hurt, you’re not even sure that you have the right to be hurt about it, but there the feeling is all the same.

You hear the sharp intake of breath, almost feel it against your skin. But you’re not done. It is becoming increasingly obvious that it will be good to get all of this out.

“I understand why you didn’t. You guard secrets for a living and we didn’t know each other well. We’re still technically on opposite sides. I’m meant to hunt you down after all. But things are different between us now. We’re… I don’t know, but something. And if you want… me to ask you for help, then I need to know the relevant secrets. You have to let me in too.”

It feels like an impossible ask. It feels like Sylus should laugh, harsh and mocking and toss you to the side. Or maybe let his shadows become dark and piercing. Cut into your skin, set you bleeding on the outside to match the insides.

You have no business making such a demand of him. He is famously shady with his business. He succeeds because he plays his cards close to his chest. It is what keeps him alive and in power.

But Luke and Kieran have let slip time and time again that he’s different with you. That he’s never been like this with anyone else. At first, you thought it might be some sort of strategy to get you to let your guard down, but you don’t believe that anymore. Sylus has let you much closer than you could understand.

And now he’s offering to help you. So that you wouldn’t have to do it all on your own. So, you would have someone, just like now, that you could come to. Someone who’d understand and help.

The shadows recede and with them, you get your vision back. You blink a couple of times, still a little disoriented, when you feel how he take your hands and press them both against his chest. His heart beats fast but steady under your touch.

His red eyes seem brighter with the shadows still swirling around you, just a bit further away.

 “You think I haven’t let you in?” he asks, and there’s no judgement in his voice, just stunned wonder. “Kitten, you’re already in here. You’ve always been here. If you want to know my secrets, I’ll divulge them. I can make that promise easily. To you. You just need to ask.”

“And what do you want for them?”

His mouth curls a little and he hesitates. For a moment, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Somewhere out on a meadow in a lost time. “Anything you’re willing to give me.”

And you can tell that it isn’t quite the answer that he wanted to give you, but you can’t find it in yourself to push. You are not sure what might happen if you do. The haunting memories that won’t leave you alone feel like a box that you’re not quite ready to open.

You can tell too that it is not a demand, not really. He won’t be asking anything for this. Oh, if the rest of the world could see him now. But selfishly, you are glad that it seems that you bring out a special side of him. Just for the two of you.

But this helped. You made the right call running here to the leader of Onychinus. No, you made the right choice running here to Sylus. He is more than his title. He’s proved that to you again.

And despite your hurt at being left in the dark in the beginning, you do trust him. You might not have known it on a conscious level before but you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t. You wouldn’t have been bearing your heart like this. It the biggest sign of trust that you can think of.

You’ve figured out how to take care of yourself, but when you needed someone to lean on, you came here. You came to him.  

You move to stand, and Sylus lets go of your hands, so you can get up. You swear that you feel the shadows reach out and steady you a little as you get up on tired legs, but they retreat before you can confirm it.

Sylus sits on the floor, looking up at you with something akin to hope shining in his eyes. It should not be possible for him to look so small and tender but you feel the urge to try and scroop him into your arms and squeeze him until it’s almost painful.

You’re pretty sure that he would let you.

You feel more settled, more at home in your body and your head feels a little less messy. Talking to him didn’t fix your problems, and you’ve still got a long journey in front of you, but maybe he’s right. Maybe you don’t have to do it alone.

You extend a hand towards him.

“Let me help you up?” you say, voice tilting up like it’s a question, when it really feels more like a promise.

Sylus’ smirks, and reaches out to take your hand. His hand feels like it fits perfectly with yours and you want this moment to linger. If you could, you’d capture it in a photograph to remember forever.

 You pull him back up to his feet.

[002yb]

Suspension with no pay is a generous punishment, given how severely Dick knocks another officer's lights out. He's lucky no charges will be pressed. His 'colleague' probably isn't keen to air the dirty details of his provocations to the police commissioner; to have them put on paper.

Dick isn't too eager to discuss it, either. Just thinking of it tests his temper and his resolve not to tear through the precinct to the infirmary the bastard hides away in; to grab him by the collar of his uniform again and wail on him for being a sick fuck.

Gordon wants an explanation. Because he knows Dick. Because he knows Dick doesn't do shit like this without reason.

Dick keeps his mouth shut. He sets his jaw, clenches his teeth. He wants to scream, but he swallows it down. Looks just over Gordon's head instead, and waits to be dismissed.

He takes his punishment. He slams the door on his way out.

The only thing he wants is to go home, but he doesn't want to bring his bad mood past the threshold. So Dick sits outside, back to the wall, and makes himself breathe.

His knuckles are still red and swollen, but they'll bruise in the coming hours. He picks at split skin, smudging away blood that beads up.

There’s no cleaning up the mess he is, so Dick settles in. Dropping his head back against the wall beside the door. Breathing. Meditating. Glaring off at nothing as he sits, stews, and broods. Hands clenching periodically because he still wants to hit something.

Someone, specifically. Because Dick wasn’t done fucking them up before other officers stormed in to intervene. Alerted by shouts and familiar sounds of a scuffle. Baffled, probably, that good boy Dick Grayson can lose it worse than any of them ever could.

So Dick sits there. For a long time, until he feels numb. Until he can compartmentalize and put all his anger and irritation and hurt behind him. Because he’s not bringing it home.

Not this.

Not with Jason there.

Jason who, after some hours, comes up the stairs and startles at the sight of Dick sitting just outside their flat, quiet and unnaturally still.

Jason who sees the damage to Dick’s hands and the storminess to his expression with just a quick glance, and who takes that ugliness in stride and sits beside it anyway. Because it’s Dick.

Somehow it’s both easier and harder to breathe with Jason there beside him.

Mercifully, Jason doesn't pry. Not yet. He just sits there with Dick, quietly shuffling through the mail he must have grabbed on his way up. Ads, bills, notices.

It's so normal, so mundane that Dick feels winded by it. The easy slope of Jason's shoulders, the quiet contentment in his expression. They're outside their flat, sorting through mail; when they go inside, they'll debate on eating in, going out. They'll talk casework, get distracted by their own banter. They'll go on patrol, come home and tend each other's hurts. And they'll go to sleep together, same as any other day. One of many.

Fuck. Dick looks skyward. Blinks. Breathes.

Then he turns to look down at that pile of mail. Distracts himself with the cluttered ad that shows deals at a nearby grocery that Jason scans and scoffs at or stops to consider.

'Are you happy?'

'Depends who won the fight.' Is the cheeky reply.

Dick snorts, but doesn't comment. Doesn't trust his voice, or what words might pour out of him. Despite the lack of bruises anywhere but along his knuckles, Dick doesn't doubt it looks like he's the one that got fucked up.

Apt. Because to Jason, Dick doesn't look upset - he seems hurt.

And Jason isn't going to badger Dick. Or chide him. He trusts Dick's judgment, his reasoning, even if Jason likes to be contrary and challenge Dick at every turn.

But he's a Robin at heart, always curious. And he's also a street kid in soul, nosy because intel is an invaluable resource. He's also Jason, who worries even if he's prickly about it.

'Must've been fucked to get under your skin so bad.'

The words are there, but they're ugly. Dick swallows them down and deflects:

'Got suspended.'

'With pay?'

'Without.'

'How long?'

'A week.'

Jason clicking his tongue and scoffing about it, but he doesn't care about the lost income. It's a line of questioning to gauge the severity of the fight.

When Jason asks about on a scale of Damian to Jason, how mad will B be about it, Dick can't help the quiet laugh that bubbles up in him. He considers, then shrugs, 'Tim levels, maybe?'

Jason sitting with that, puzzling it over until something seems to click and he grimaces. Because, 'what the fuck would you be fighting over me for?'

Dick can't talk about it: about how an officer implicated themselves in the solicitation of a 'back alley whore,' a child, at the time. Provoked by the picture Dick keeps of Jason as his lock screen. Unable to resist the temptation of mocking, ridiculing Dick 'perfect golden boy' Grayson by going after his boyfriend, 'How much is that running you? Used to be dirt cheap, back in the day.' , 'Gotham's sloppiest seconds, or mine at least. Does he still cry pretty when you--?' Etc. Etc.

So maybe Jason figures it out for himself and makes an accurate guess. Because since Jason came back, he hasn't dealt with the police in any notable way. Not as a civilian, at least.

Jason would know that if someone saw Dick's lock screen and talked shit about Jason's appearance or other superficial bullshit, Dick wouldn't be so quiet about it. He'd be ranting and raving, incensed because he insists Jason is handsome, gorgeous (and it's sweet, because Jason isn't anything to write home about; a fun fight to provoke, some days, if only because Dick gets so up in arms over it).

And if it's not anything to do with present!Jason, that only leaves all the shit of his past, which is...

They haven't talked about it. Jason doesn't doubt that Dick knows, it's just - Jason doesn't want to talk about it.

Just Jason recognizing Dick's kindnesses for what they are. How Dick defended him. How he hurt enough for him that Dick risks it all. And then he comes home and waits outside because he won't bring that anger home like Jason's dad would. And he goes so far as to bite his tongue because he won't corner Jason into talking about shit he doesn't want to.

Just Jason, breathing steady and changing the topic entirely: 'I'm happy.' So happy. Happier than he's ever been. It's jarring, sometimes, how happy he is. Because there was a time when he didn't think he'd be allowed it. But here he is. With Dick. At their flat; a shoddy home, but theirs. Where they'll make dinner together and complain about romance not existing in the kitchen, get outta my way )< ; and where they'll talk circles around case work before they start bantering, gossiping, laughing. And where they'll leave for patrol but still flirt over comms and come back and hide their hurts only for the other to poke at them because they know. And they'll sleep. And it's warm. And of course Jason is happy.

It's a simple life, but it's theirs.

Oh, Jason looking at Dick's bruised hands and feeling overwhelmed at just how happy he is - to be loved and cared for so much. ;////////;

Getting all bashful as he tells Dick again, 'I'm really...really happy.'

And because it feels a little too heavy, a little too raw, Jason would cough and deflect in his own way. Grumbling because, 'Would've been happier with an expulsion, but...' Shrug.

Dick laughing under his breath. Taking the out. 'On my way. It was a 'formal reprimand'.'

Then Jason snickers because, 'Could I give you more names? Speed up the process.'

Which oops. Too dark, too soon. But after the initial grimace is a brittle laugh because wow.

Then something something Jason standing up and offering Dick a hand to pull him up, too. And they go about their routine. When Dick settles down, Jason starts prompting for details on the fight. How fucked was the officer's face? How many men did it take to tear Dick away from him? (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

Dick teasing him about it sounding like Jason likes that Dick lost his shit. And Jason owns up to it fully. Of course he likes it; it was for him. (ᴗ͈��ᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

Jason makes it easier for Dick by teasing him about it. Taking some of the weight away from it. Because this is how they look after each other. ♡

[risestarkiss]

Huge changes are coming to my Rise Ramblings…

Hey yooo!

So as the title suggests, there will be some major changes to the RiseStarKiss blog going forward.

The full explanation is below but I also included a TLDR version at the end of the post.

○○○○

Instead of continuing to post my long form “Rise Ramblings” on Tumblr, I’ll be taking them to the small screen…In other words, my larger Rise Ramblings will be in video format from now on. I also want to go back and adapt my older/more popular Rise Ramblings to video as well.

And for that reason, I’m starting a YouTube Channel!

As a more detailed explanation, I’ve found that creating the long form posts on Tumblr just doesn’t allow for the freedom and flexibility that I need to fully express myself. Even in my older posts I had to leave so much content on the chopping block in order to facilitate readability.

But not anymore!

So, what is the plan?

Well for starters, my channel, RiseStarKissStudios, is now live.

Also, I plan on creating ONLY Rise of the TMNT content on this channel.

Why? Mainly because from what I’ve seen, usually when Rise is addressed by large channels it’s generally looked down upon. Other than that, Rise is ignored completely!

*tsk* So I’m going to give ROTTMNT the spotlight it deserves.

😒💅

But I can’t do it alone…

That’s where you come in.

All I ask is for your support and patience.

Support comes in the form of:

• Heart and Reblog this post • Subscribe to the channel and Hit the Bell to be alerted to when videos drop • Spread the word about my channel and the amazing ROTTMNT content I’ll be creating there

And lastly, if you are so inclined, you can support my Kofi.

I’ve added better payment methods and monthly contribution options.

As thanks, the username of every monthly contributor will appear at the end of my YouTube videos as a part of the “Mad Dogs!”

It’s the least I can do. 😣😌💜

Also, the reason I ask for your patience is because I’ll be writing, editing, and creating the content all on my own, as well as continuing my “Don the Fashionista” comics in tandem. I also am writing/composing the music for the Rise Rambling series, of which is all Rise inspired.

I know it will be a lot of work, nonetheless, I’m excited for this new frontier, and if things go even slightly to plan, my best ROTTMNT content is yet to come…

So, let’s have some fun, shall we?

❤️🧡💙💜

○○○○

Here’s the TLDR!

This is my brand new YouTube Channel, RiseStarKissStudios, that will be Rise Content Exclusive!

Subscribe & Hit the Bell so you don’t miss a video!

Reblog this post to show support and spread the word!

Support my Kofi if you are so inclined.

Let’s have some fun with Rise, shall we?

[kathaelipwse]

Guarded By You | C.Seungcheol

Chapter 5 — “Still Watching”

Word Count: 2,508 words

<< previous chapter | next chapter >> M.LIST OF THE SERIES {Guarded By You}

Warnings: sleepwalking, mild sexual tension, suggestive physical closeness (non-explicit), reference to past sexual encounters (kind of-), stalking behavior, anonymous threatening, emotional vulnerability, unspoken romantic tension, protective!cheol, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Warm light, the color of melted butter, seeped through the expensive hotel curtains, painting a soft, inviting glow across the unfamiliar room. You blinked awake slowly, a languid stretch rippling through your limbs, only to be abruptly halted by a startling realization.

This definitely wasn't your ridiculously comfortable, slightly lopsided mattress. These weren't yours. And the warm, solid weight pressing against your side? Absolutely, unequivocally, not your stuffed animal you sleep with.

Your eyes snapped open, widening with a jolt of pure, unadulterated panic. Slowly, cautiously, like defusing a very delicate, very attractive bomb, you turned your head.

Seungcheol.

Asleep beside you, his usually sharp features softened in slumber. His lips were parted just so, a delicate puff of air escaping with each breath, and his face held a peaceful serenity you’d never witnessed in his waking hours. It was… surprisingly endearing. But the truly alarming detail? His hand, large and undeniably warm, was resting possessively on your waist, his fingers gently curved against your skin as if they belonged there, as if you belonged there.

Your heart decided to stage a frantic drum solo against your ribs. This was… a situation. A deeply, profoundly awkward situation.

With the stealth of a highly trained ninja (or at least, what you imagined a highly trained ninja’s movements to be, probably involving a lot less internal screaming), you gently, painstakingly, tried to lift his hand. Each millimeter felt like a monumental effort, your breath held captive in your lungs. Just as you were about to wiggle free, to extract yourself from this bizarre, potentially dream-altering predicament—

He shifted.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, and then, with a speed that belied his sleepy demeanor, his body reacted. In one swift, almost predatory motion, he grabbed your wrist, his grip firm and undeniable, and hovered over you. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but a spark of alertness, a primal readiness to defend, flickered within them. He looked every bit the formidable bodyguard, even half-asleep.

Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between surprise and a sudden, inexplicable thrill. His weight pressed down slightly, caging you in with his arms, the proximity making the air thick and charged. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of his soap clinging to his skin.

Then… his eyes focused, the sleepiness receding as recognition dawned. The taut lines of his body softened, the defensive posture melting away, replaced by a look of utter confusion. He released your wrists as if burned and sat up abruptly, raking a hand through his tousled hair, making it stick up in endearing disarray.

“The hell are you doing in my room?” His voice was rough with sleep, a low, husky rumble that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You scrambled to sit up too, pulling the unfamiliar sheets around you like a shield, completely mortified and yet… a tiny, rebellious part of you couldn’t ignore the lingering warmth where his hand had been. “I— I don’t know!” You sounded as bewildered as you felt.

He stared at you as if you’d sprouted a second head. “You don’t know?”

“I must’ve— I sleepwalk sometimes,” you blurted out, your cheeks burning with mortification. “It’s… a thing. I seriously don’t remember. I swear, Seungcheol, I have absolutely no recollection of how I ended up in your bed.” You punctuated your frantic explanation with wide, innocent eyes, hoping he bought your flimsy excuse.

He blinked, clearly processing the absurdity of the situation, before groaning and muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Stubborn sleepwalking… just my luck.” You jumped out of bed as if the mattress had suddenly burst into flames.

“I’m so incredibly sorry! I’ll—I’m going back to my room—god, this is so unbelievably embarrassing.” And then you practically sprinted out the door, not daring to meet his gaze, the image of his surprised, slightly disheveled face burned into your memory.

Later That Morning

You descended the stairs with a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach, bracing yourself for awkward silence, maybe even a hint of judgment in Seungcheol’s usually stoic expression. You’d rehearsed a dozen different apologies in your head, ranging from overly dramatic to vaguely nonchalant (you hadn’t quite settled on the best approach).

What you definitely didn’t expect was the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen. Or the sight of Seungcheol himself, standing by the stove, expertly flipping what looked like perfect golden-brown pancakes.

He was wearing a loose black t-shirt that clung to the broad expanse of his shoulders, his hair still slightly damp from a shower, dark strands falling across his forehead. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the strong, capable lines of his forearms. The whole scene was… domestic. Unexpectedly, domestically appealing.

You blinked, momentarily forgetting your mortification. “Are you… making breakfast?”

He glanced up, a small, almost shy smile gracing his lips. “You’re welcome.”

A grin tugged at your own lips, despite the lingering embarrassment. “Wow. You really are the full package, huh? Stoic, strong, cooks… Your future girlfriend—or boyfriend—is gonna be very lucky.” You couldn’t resist the little jab, a playful attempt to diffuse the remaining tension.

He gave you that look again, the one that could melt glaciers and silence even the most persistent paparazzi. “I’m straight.” The statement was firm, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes, a fleeting intensity that made your heart do a little flutter-kick.

You smirked, grabbing a plate from the counter. “Noted. Though, you know, never say never.” You couldn’t help the sassy little dig.

The two of you settled at the table, the air surprisingly light, considering the morning’s bizarre events. The pancakes were fluffy, the bacon crispy, and the coffee strong. It was almost… normal.

Still, your curiosity, a persistent little gremlin, got the better of you. “So… what’s your type?” You asked casually, swirling the remaining coffee in your mug.

He paused mid-chew, his gaze flickered to yours and then away, a hint of something unreadable in his expression. “That’s personal.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling a little too forward. “Sorry if that was too much.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Then, softly, his gaze meeting yours again, he said, “Someone supportive. Patient. Someone who understands me… and likes me as I am.” There was a vulnerability in his tone that caught you off guard.

You looked up, a little surprised by the unexpected sincerity. “That’s it?”

He nodded, his eyes holding yours. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”

You blinked, a strange warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah, I guess. Just… you didn’t mention looks or anything.”

He shrugged, dismissing the superficial with a flick of his wrist. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

You smiled to yourself, quietly pleased by his answer, the corners of your lips tilting up in a way you couldn’t quite suppress, until he noticed.

He narrowed his eyes, a hint of suspicion in his gaze. “What?”

“I just didn’t expect that. Most guys are all about the visual.” You couldn’t resist teasing him a little more.

“If you thought I’d say something shallow,” he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that sent a shiver down your spine, “you clearly don’t know me.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “All women are beautiful in their own way. We don’t get to mess that up with our bullshit expectations.”

You felt something in your chest shift, a subtle but undeniable pull. It was like a tiny seed had been planted, something unexpected and potentially significant.

You murmured, a genuine warmth in your voice, “Your girl’s gonna be really lucky.”

He lifted his gaze, his eyes dark and intense, and said, almost too softly, “…Or I’d be lucky to have her.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The air between you crackled with a sudden, palpable tension.

There was something undeniably vulnerable in the way he said it, a fleeting glimpse behind the stoic facade. And it stayed with you long after the silence settled again, a lingering echo in the comfortable quiet.

“Have you dated before?” you asked quietly, the question hanging in the air between you. “I mean… seems like a shame if no one ever got to be with you.”

He shrugged, a hint of something guarded flickering in his eyes. “Flings. Nothing serious. Just… no strings. Sex, mostly.”

“Oh.” You just nodded, and focused intently on the last bite of your pancake, trying to ignore the unexpected pang of… something akin to disappointment that settled in your stomach.

It shouldn’t bother you. He was your bodyguard, for crying out loud. But for some reason… it kind of did.

Time Skip: Last Day in Miami

With no shoots or demanding schedules looming, you were finally ready to breathe, to soak in the vibrant energy of Miami without the usual constraints. You practically begged Seungcheol to ditch the car, to lose the ever-present security detail, and just explore the city on foot, like normal people.

He sighed dramatically, muttering something under his breath about your persistent stubbornness and his professional obligations, but eventually, a reluctant smile playing on his lips, he agreed.

You dragged him all over town, your energy levels seemingly inexhaustible.

You insisted on trying every ridiculously flavored ice cream concoction you could find, from avocado-lime to lavender-honey, much to his initial skepticism (he surprisingly ended up enjoying the lavender). You devoured greasy, delicious street food from vendors with colorful carts, laughing until your sides ached at his surprisingly witty, dry commentary. For a few glorious hours, you felt like you were both fifteen again, carefree and unburdened.

You even managed to drag his initially reluctant self to the beach for some decidedly un-stoic water sports. He tried to maintain his usual air of mild annoyance, but you caught him smiling every time you weren’t looking, a genuine, unguarded smile that made your heart do a little skip. Cheol didn’t say much, but he was always right there, a silent, steady presence by your side. A silent shield, watching over you, keeping you safe, but today, there was a different quality to his attentiveness, a subtle intensity in his gaze that made your skin tingle with a strange awareness. It reminded him of the orphanage, those long-ago days when he’d instinctively shielded you from bullies and mishaps, even when your sassy six-year-old self had protested his interference with the most dramatic eye rolls imaginable, completely unfazed by his six-year age advantage. The memory brought a soft smile to his lips, a private smile that held a depth of shared history.

Of course, in this hyper-connected world, your attempts at anonymity were futile. People snapped surreptitious photos, blurry images popping up on social media within minutes.

“Y/N spotted getting cozy with her bodyguard in Miami! Are they finally confirming the rumors? # BodyguardBae # Y/n x Seungcheol # MiamiHeat”

You groaned dramatically when you saw the posts, clutching your forehead in mock despair, secretly finding the speculation amusing.

He? He barely glanced at the headlines, a dismissive shrug his only response. He didn’t care about the gossip anymore. Not when his focus was entirely on you.

Time Skip: 2:00 A.M. — Miami Airport

Your flight was delayed. Two hours into the interminable wait, exhaustion hung heavy in your bones, the vibrant energy of the day completely depleted. You just wanted to be home, to crawl into your own bed and forget the strange intimacy of the morning.

When you were finally herded onto the plane, you were too tired to care about the cramped seats or the stale recycled air. You gratefully slid into your first-class cabin, shrugging off your jacket… and froze.

There, lying innocently on the plush table beside your seat, was a small, cream-colored envelope.

Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, a cold dread seeping into your weary bones. The elegant script on the front sent a shiver of unease down your spine.

“Still watching. Pretty in Bvlgari Sweetheart.”

Your stomach plummeted. You didn’t breathe for a full second, the casual pet name juxtaposed with the chilling reminder that you were still being watched, still being targeted.

Your eyes darted up, scanning the cabin with a frantic urgency—and he was already there. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours across the aisle.

“Cheol,” you whispered, your voice small and shaky, the carefree spirit of the day shattering into a million pieces.

He took one look at the note in your trembling hand and everything changed. The relaxed, almost playful demeanor of the past few hours vanished, replaced by the hard, implacable mask of the professional protector. His eyes, usually warm with a hint of something undefinable, were now cold and dangerous.

He flashed his ID to a nearby flight attendant, his movements swift and decisive, and within minutes had the passenger list in his hands, already barking orders into his phone, requesting a discreet but thorough background check on every name.

You sat frozen, watching him work, a strange mix of terror and a sliver of grim reassurance churning within you. He was taking control.

Nothing. Every name on the passenger list came back clean. The chilling realization that this person was a ghost, hidden in plain sight, sent a fresh wave of fear washing over you.

Then a thought, sharp and unsettling, pierced through your panic. You pulled him aside gently, your fingers brushing his arm again, the brief contact sending a jolt of awareness through you both. “Could it be… staff? Someone who works the plane?”

He went quiet, his gaze intense and thoughtful. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The carefully constructed facade of your usual resilience crumbled, and your hands began to shake uncontrollably as you clutched at the sleeves of your sweater.

He noticed the tremor immediately, his gaze softening with a flicker of concern. Without thinking, he reached out and gently patted your head, a surprisingly tender gesture that sent a strange mix of comfort and something akin to longing through you. “Relax. I’ve got it.”

And for once, you let him. You closed your eyes and took a shaky breath, leaning slightly into the comforting weight of his hand. He turned and walked out of the cabin, disappearing into the maze of the airplane, already hunting the unseen enemy who had left that note.

..To be continued.

[shoulderscars]

Why I love Midnight Sun

ok I know this might be a hot take, but I actually love Midnight Sun. It's my favorite Twilight Saga book. And here's why [Spoiler Alert Affective from here!]

The Making of the Cullen Family (and their respective backstory's): I love that we get to know all the little details, like how Alive waited for the perfect moment to join the group and how she literally hugs Edward the moment they meet for the first time, and how they have a mutual understanding before saying a word in conversation.

Carlisle. (Simple, refined, respectable, perfect): It's not like we didnt know the before Midnight Sun, but I think Edwards insight on his brain is just...amazing. We can really see all of Carlisle's selflessness and how he is a simple man who wants the best for his children. Also, we get an insight on Carlisle and Esme's love with is so refined but perfect.

Emmett. (The best Cullen after Carlisle?): The whole book is actually giving Emmett's character depth. In the beginning of the book, Emmett's internal thoughts seem to be the same as he is perceived in the rest of the books from Bella's perspective, but as the book progresses, we see Emmett being amazing, and how much of a loving and simply perfect person (loose definition) he is.

Edward & Rose (good God they could be toddlers but really cute nevertheless): The scene where Edward remembers the day that he and Rose became brother and sister is actually a gorgeous scene. Lives in my head rent free. Also I love how the come to a consensus that Rose won't play nice but she will tolerate, and then they both keep snapping silently at each other. BUT when Alice mentions Charlie and the red head on the phone (while getting Bella to the hospital), Rose is honest to God ready to kill for him. BRO.

Jasper's Powers (wait he's actually OP?): Jasper's general character depth isn't explored much in the book, but his powers that he displays in the field is actually on a whole different level. No explanation needed

Alice's Powers (it's a work of ART.): In the scene where they are transporting Bella from the dance studio to the hospital, we take a dive into how Alice uses her abilities and how she perfects the future. The whole scene is flawless and actually clears up a lot about her "physic" ability based on decision making. The whole section just flowed so well, and I love it so much.

BONUS POINTS: Emmett getting repeatedly annoyed at the silent conversations that Alice and Edward have. IM SORRY I LOVE IT SO MUCH, and I love how EVEN AFTER 70ISH YEARS OF LIVING WITH BOTH OF THEM, IT STILL ANNOYS HIM HAHA

Didn't think I was gonna write an essay tonight but here I am 😭😭

I do genuinely love the Twilight Universe (the book version y'all with only visual inspiration for imagination hehe) and this book....ah I love how it helps build the vampire side of the lore. It makes me so happy lol