#edge lord logic

[haleviyah]

On this episode of: “Oh, So that’s how screwed we are!”

“Satanic” Edge-Lord: I wonder what the original [Matthew 7:12], Yiddish scripture meant. This is all translated so wrongly.

Me: It's Leviticus 19 and it was written in HEBREW. Yiddish ([a] "bridge" language of German and Hebrew) was created centuries after the expulsion of Ashkenazi Jews from Judea.

“Satanic” Edge-Lord: I thought Yiddish came before Hebrew? Interesting.

Me: [Externally patient] No…

Also me:

[cryptosexologist]

the urge to get into ship discourse

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia (Here) | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: I'm part of the 'everyone underestimates Kalim Al Asim , the layers of his character and upbringing' club. Sweet does not equal being a dum dum my dudes.

Habits You Steal:

Theatrics (Inherited): Kalim talks with more than his mouth. There's body language. Watch out when this guy gets excited because he might knock over a lamp amidst a rant. Hands are flying with each embellishment. He's pacing. Jumping. Energy is seemingly endless with this one. When Kalim laughs, he does so with his entire body without reservation. Head flying back, grin wide, shoulder shaking, etc. Not that he can't replace what gets broken but - y'know. Be careful else you might get bitch slapped on accident. Which normally wouldn't hurt too much but Kalim's decked out in gold. The last thing you want is a ring imprint on your left cheek because Kalim got too excited after a card game. On that note - someone get Jamil some aspirin because that excitement is infectious. You can be the most stone-hearted edge-lord on the face of Twisted Wonderland, but eventually his infectious sunshine attitude takes hold.

"A-Ah! It's okay! We can replace the lamp, so don't worry. Are you hurt? No, no. It's really aright. I'm fine, see? You missed me - can I see your hands for a second? OIII! Can someone please bring a med-kit! Thank you!" <- Jamil's already grabbing the broom before you can say sorry. This is the last time he lets you sit anywhere near fragile objects during a game of charades - or any game. Kalim was bad enough...but at least with him fretting over the tiny cut on your palm, Jamil could clean the mess in peace. At least until you offer to pay for the lamp. Kalim's got enough tact to lie about the price, and everyone's thankful. No one wants to see the Ramshackle Prefect have a heart attack for shattering a real crystal lamp. 'cause then Kalim will cry too and it'll just be dominos from there.

Personal Space (Inherited): Kalim tears away any sense of dignity, self-preservation, and privacy that might exist. In a good way, of course. It's not that Kalim is an open person. Quite the contrary. He needs to keep a calculated distance between himself and others due to his position as an Asim. Regardless of his happy exterior, never forget that Kalim is far from an airhead. Kindness doesn't equate connection - as much as Kalim would love for everyone to be his friend. Yet for those who are in that trusted circle? He treats them like an extension of the self. His lack of shame bleeds into your own perception.

Training and Resistance (Inherited and Developed): Kalim hates that you need to do this. He rarely 'hates' anything, but he despises that you need to worry about being poisoned. What’s worse is that you refuse to have a tester, or a guard, or anything of the sort. It all started with discussing the future with Jamil, who logically brought up the complications that come with Kalim taking a partner. You couldn’t be shadowed, were in a difficult position with the headmaster, and it would only become difficult once the duo moves back to the scalding sands. Even more once you join them (as NRC is merely teaming with prideful youths, while the Scalding Sands is a free for all).

Point summary? You need to build resistance to drugs and learn what to do in a hostage situation. The former is handled by Professor Crewel, and the process was explained in excruciating detail. Jamil, who’s undergone training, was unphased but Kalim desperately wanted you to back out. Yet it would mean needing a guard - which would be hard to arrange - and so…yeah. Many weekends in the nurse’s office. You also have to complete the hostage drills all Asims and their spouses are put through. How to escape bondage, how to last an interrogation, how to navigate without magic (which you could, duh, so basically without a map when stranded), negotiate, etc.

"Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want to do? I can still hire a body guard - there are many options available back home! You can spend our next vacation at the main villa and meet with them. We can - oh. y-you're sure?... alright. If this is what you want then I'll be there through every step. Just remember to ask if you need anything. I'll come running, no matter what."

Charisma (Inherited): Everyone underestimates just how dangerous Kalim is. Seriously. Nothing is more risky in a school like Night Raven College than dropping your guard. It can cost you your life - or at the very least leave you indebted to someone you do not want having dirt over your head (*cough*ACertianCephalopod*cough*)The gossip grapevine is a menace. Everyone has their pride. Everyone has their secrets. Everyone holds each other at arm’s length, even if you’re cordial or friendly. Everyone except Kalim, who has this innate ability to pry the most dirty secrets out of you simply through his nonchalant attitude. Nothing drops another’s guard quicker than a sense of security and superiority. People often mistake his genuine heart for nativity. They fail to recognize that it’s a choice, and deep down he is aware that the Al Asim name places him high above the people he sees as friends.

"Hm? Isn't that the alchemic lab on potionomics meant for second years? You're so smart! I didn't get to do that lab until just a few months ago! - it's not yours? Then why are you working on it?" <- game. set. match. You think he doesn't know what your handwriting looks like? He saw you lingering outside Crewel's classroom earlier and wanted to know why. Saw an opening. Took it. Is happy you’re helping out one of your other friends, but just had to make sure no one was bullying you into doing their work.

Since he truly believes that despite this gap, friendships can transcend - his ability to get information is uncanny. A power he can wield intentionally if need be, in getting you to name drop any person or problem posed. It’s a great quality to have! This way he can help and support you :) Why is this an inherited trait, you might be asking? Because as the next head of Al Asim, Kalim’s been studying how to do business since he was young. He’s going to teach you. Pray tell what is born once the Ramshackle Beast Tamer learns the ways of Scarabia’s master of charisma and resident sunshine child?…Night Raven’s downfall. Power couple. Dead serious right now.

Jewelry (Developed): Worth your weight in gold takes a new meaning. This isn’t in reference to being spoiled, mind you. This is about status and the meaning behind the jewels Kalim is imparting. The cultural significance. Considering that you’re not from twisted wonderland, you technically are a blank slate to all countries. Who better to learn from than someone who’s spent his childhood studying to become an expert in international trade? Kalim has enough tact to bite his tongue about the deep meaning behind the gifts. You may not understand just yet, but his excitement can’t be contained. Each bangle and piece from the family treasury has a small story. While he has no problem using his wealth to help people who need it, there’s a joy that comes from decorating his treasure’ in treasure. Y’know?

"Do you like it? This necklace was my mother's at our age. My father gifted it to her during a business trip to the Queendom of Roses. Ah - you can have it! Really! She has many others, and when I told her about you this was what she chose to have sent over. It's already yours! You can wear it to the next banquet, please?" <- Being the next head of House Asim, Kalim can't be with just anyone. Yet he seemed so happy in his letters, and Jamil vouched on your behalf - so this is your time to shine. Also, sending the necklace back would be like slighting his family's good will. You quite literally need to accept it.

Music (Inherited): Can you play an instrument? Sing? It starts out as wanting to be near him more - so you join the pop music club. Kalim, Cater, and Lilia are very convincing. So they push you to pick up something. Anything. It doesn't matter what, so long as you have fun with them. Even in the earliest stages where the notes come grated and your friends (Grim) make fun - Kalim is supportive without fault. His encouragement leads to proficiency and an appreciation for music. He'd love if you sing with him. Even if it's just a lullaby - no, especially so.

Habits He Steals:

Naming inanimate objects (Inherited): Your effort at making Kalim more money-conscious. The decite of sentimental attachment, if you will. It’s honestly a risky move to make considering the sheer amount of things that he owns, so naming everything is off the table. Yet it’s the silly things. Like seeing a face in the paintwork on one of his tapestries, and then deciding to dub it Artie. Oh no, Kalim we don’t need to get new artwork for the bathroom! What about Artie? It’s already pretty enough so lets just leave him there. No - no, that ring’s super pretty but the matching set from our anniversary is enough. We wouldn’t want Garnet and Pearl to think we were replacing them, right?

"I think Vinnie would work best on display, don't you? Purple and yellow are sure to catch people's attention from far away! Or maybe should we hang up Paolo? There are so many tapestries in Scarabia’s vault, I feel guilty only putting one up on display at our festival stall. Do you think they’d let us hang more?”<- It works. Kalim defiantly thinks twice. He's a bit like a kid refusing to give up their action figures after watching Toy Story, ya feel me?

Cooking (Inherited): Kalim is learning how to cook for himself as one step to being more self-sufficient. He only eats food that Jamil prepares, but with Viper’s seal of approval you’ve earned a pass. Essentially anything you both make with pre-approved ingredients is fair game. You pick a recipe every week, give Jamil the grocery list, and he makes sure to have the stuff in the dorm. Jamil is only okay with this so long as you supervise. Teaching Kalim is on your shoulders - and in all honesty? It’s an amazing bonding experience. Jamil can rest easy for a few hours and Kalim isn’t being thrown straight into the deep end. Obviously it’s only a small reprieve, and temporary since back at the Scalding Sands there are regulations in place. Kalim loves wearing matching aprons, humming little tunes while reading recipe books, watching cooking videos, learning about all the nutritional benefits in food, and really gets an appreciation after seeing how much work goes into his favorite dishes. There’s also that spark of joy when you sit down to eat, and it’s somehow one-hundred times better than eating with his family back home. Not that Kailm doesn’t love his siblings, but family really takes a new meaning when you see it coming together right before your eyes.

"Mph th-ish is sho gud! - how do you like it? Should we invite our friends to try some? It tastes almost like Jamil's! I bet if we keep at it, then we can cook up a banquet all on our own. That'll surely put everyone in a good mood!"

Skinship (Developed): Kalim is the type to initiate touch. Not receive it. If you look at his interactions with the others, he’s always the one throwing himself at them or being a vibrant glow-stick. Very few people give that back - and in truth? Like, honest to Seven truth? Kalim’s got no problem with it. Many people have bad intentions. Not everyone wants to be his friend, and that’s fine. They come to him looking to get in his good graces. It’s unnecessary…he’ll happily help without them twisting his feelings. All they need to do is ask. Do you know how easy it is for someone to prick him with a drugged needle? He’s not comfortable with physical contact that he does not initiate, unless it’s from someone he trusts. Like Jamil, Silver, Cater, his siblings, etc. Even they have a limit (which he’s confident will never be crossed, since again, Kalim is almost always the initiator). This list is subject to change…what, you think a family of 30+ kids can exist without animosity? He dreads the day he has to think of one of his little siblings becoming untrustworthy.

Anyways. Trust is a choice for Kalim. His happiness and extroverted optimism is all a choice. Sometimes on an unconscious level (*cough* his awareness of the divide between himself and Jamil, yet pushing the knowledge down until it inevitably hurt them both *cough*). So imagine reaching the point where he trusts you. It could be something small, like the first time you hug him from behind or lace your fingers together. Intimate. Not like Cater’s half sling over the shoulder, not like his little siblings hanging on his legs, or Jamil pushing him ahead while they walk. When he’s not initiating, and Kalim might hesitate for a moment. Hard to picture, I know, but by letting it be he’s choosing to trust you wholeheartedly. All in the span of like 5 seconds, and he might not even realize it until later on. Those of us who shine the brightest, usually have walls that are hard to see. Just some food for thought.

"Really? Really, really?? Really, really really??? Really - Ah! Sorry, I just can't believe it! There's so much I still don't know about them...but they're paying attention to me, huh? That's it! I need to work harder to be a worthy boyfriend! Starting right now, I'll become a better man!" <- Kalim. Sweetie. No. You're already the brightest boy. Your dormmates only brought the prefect's changes up to make you happy! I mean - mission successful? The goal was to motivate him and they technically succeeded. Just not for studying. He's 100% fired up with enough energy to run laps around the dorm now. He doesn't know what to do first, should he get Cater to help make you a playlist? Or have some flowers sent over? Would you prefer red roses or a mix of violets with chrysanthemums. Wait. Grim's 'technically' a cat, right? He should make sure not to send anything harmful to kitties. Maybe some tuna for him with chocolates for you? But this gift should be something you can keep. Ohhhh he is vibrating from excitement. He needs to show how much he loves you. Your attention and care truly means the world to him.

Habits You Steal:

Bug Spray (Developed): Jamil can and will throw you under the bus when faced with insects. Big hit to his pride, not his best moments, but he is NOT dealing with the absolute infestation at Ramshackle. You are spraying that place with heavy duty RAID if you want him over longer than ten seconds. If he so much as catches a GLIMPSE of a roach - nah. Just nah. He will shove that dustpan in your hands and send you to war. Don’t call him until it’s dead, the carcass has been disposed of, and you’ve wiped down. Grim’s a cat. Teach his ass to hunt. He needs to pay rent. You think he’s letting the flame-ball follow to the Scalding Sands after NRC? Jamil wants him on hinting duty for scarabs or else it’s time to prep hobo box.

“Burn it….Did you not hear me? I said. Burn. It. Better yet? Burn this whole damn building!” <-First night he decides to let Kalim handle Scarabia and humor you with a sleepover - and a giant spider decided to invade the shower. We’re talking big spider, maybe pregnant. Please keep in mind that during the VDC prep, Vil had Ramshackle deep cleaned. So the worst Jamil saw was a few ants. Now, the science club does meet in the Ramshackle garden often since you’ve cleaned it up, and Trey may grow plants that make the place insect central. Jamil was unaware of this. The gut wrenching scream that echoed through every room in the house. You’d think one of the ghosts pulled a cruel prank - but no. You didn’t even get a moment to investigate. The bathroom door flew open, Jamil running out still wet and drenching his pajamas. The death glare and spew of curses was the most genuine you’d ever seen him. Well, it could have been appreciated if not directed at you. Fix it or he will never set foot in this place ever again.

Spice Tolerance (Inherited): Not much to say here. He likes his food spicy. Sure, Jamil isn’t great with his words so his main love-language is bringing over tubbaware filled with food, and he does cater to your preferences more often than not. Except you undoubtedly will be eating what himself and Kalim eat most days. Which is packed with flavor. Grim isn’t complaining, food’s food. You? It’s funny to take a chomp out of ghost pepper like it’s a roma tomato, only for Ace to try and then start wheezing. Work them tastebuds, ya scrawny magic man. Heh.

"Can't handle the heat? Curry's a versatile dish. I could make something mild next time...you still want it? Why? Just because it's my favorite, doesn't mean you have to like it. Still not going to give it back? Alright. Lets see you clean that plate then." <- Flattered that you want to experience his favorite foods prepared to his tastes. For the record - Jamil likes it spicy spicy. Hotter than fiery vindaloo. Its an acquired taste and he really can alter the recipe if its too much. Won't unless you ask, because it's funny and oddly romantic seeing you sweat just trying to make him happy (Will hit the breaks in if you are getting sick from it. Does not play around).

Braids (Inherited): Paired with Jamil’s developed trait. Braids or hair beads - take your pick. Maybe both? Or a headscarf. His little sister - Najima, do you remember her? She’s the first Viper you get to spend time with during a trip to the Scalding Sands and gifts you either some hair beads or a headscarf as her unspoken blessing. Nothing fancy, and Jamil forced the coin in her hand for it, but she did take you through the markets while he was busy tending to other needs. It’s honestly really sweet, and Jamil will braid the beads or scarf in one of your side pieces of hair every morning (or wrap the scarf around your head. Not fancy like Kalim’s but still a knot he ‘insists’ will look better if he does it since you’re inexperienced. He could teach you. He won’t.)

Silence (Inherited): Shit just does not phase you anymore. Ever heard of the inability to keep calm until there's someone more panicked nearby? Jamil embodies this, being surrounded by emotive people all the time, and his perpetual state of indifference physically does not allow you to feel unsettled. If Jamil isn't bothered, then neither are you. It's that simple. Resting bitch face is contagious. Jamil's ability to handle Kalim comes in handy for raising Grim. You can now ignore his baby face and daily begging for premium tuna. Little kitty needs to expand his arsenal of tricks, because your will is stone.

"Bad day? Grab a cup. The dorm's usually quiet for the next hour. I'll be there in a moment." <- Queen never cry. If anything actually does phase either one of you, it normally ends the same way. Plopped on the floor of his bedroom, sipping hot tea and staring at the wall in comfortable silence while stewing in mutual suffering. Eventually you give him one of those starry sky projectors, and y'all ill stare at that instead. If it's a problem that has a tangible solution then it gets solved. Easy. This is for the 'yeah, life sucks' moments where all you can do is let it be before getting back up again. At least you have each other.

Habits He Steals:

Braids (Developed): Jamil can easily do his own hair. A flick of the wrist and it magically braids itself. Ebony locks carry memories of pain, growth - and change. Small change. Yet change nonetheless, which seemed impossible years ago. There’s something very intimate that comes with fixing another person’s hair. You’re not proficient enough to handle his cornrows (or are you? To his standard? As fast as magic?) but Jamil’s fine with changing his hair style to a simple triple braid, or a braid-band using the framing pieces that can crown around his head. So long as you do it for him every morning.

Fix-It-Felix (Developed): You know that one type of dad? The one who visits your home and looks for imperfections. He comes over, puts fresh produce in the fridge, mends the nail holes in the wall and fixes that one loose board on the steps that you made a habit to avoid. Barely says two words during his visit but seemingly solves half the problems you were procrastinating? This is Jamil. 100% Jamil when he comes to Ramshackle. He needs to make himself useful. And to scold someone. Grim more often than not, but you’re not safe. He really goes ‘bitch you live like this?’ at least once a week. Then proceeds to take preventative measures like a textbook tsundere.

“I put tangerines in the fridge since winter is coming. You need to be getting enough vitamin c and - where’s Grim? Don’t let him eat them all and make sure he knows not to light the fireplace tonight. There’s some cleaner on the bricks that needs to sit for a few hours…you know what? I’ll go with you to get him. Grab your heavy coat, it looks ready to rain.”

Dancing (Developed): Jamil participates in solo-dance during his downtime. It’s not like he had a partner to do duos with. Jamil also was not interesting in cozying up to a stranger just to learn a dance he would rarely have a moment to indulge in. Kalim’s the one who mentioned this in passing to you. His intentions were pure, of course. Just as they always are. He signed you both up for a ballroom dance class as a present for officially becoming a couple! Jamil finally had a partner and time to try, so why wait?! The vice in question wanted to deny since (1) who has time for that, (2) it was off campus, would take three hours out of every weekend for a month and (3) The chance of embarrassing himself was higher than he would like. Yet Kalim is smarter than most think, and purposefully handed the gift to you. Not Jamil. Along with the excited embellishment that Jamil could now do this ‘long desired’ class that really wasn’t high on his radar.

"If it makes you happy...then I don't mind. Just try to avoid stepping on my toes. Otherwise I'll demand compensation. What do I want? Wouldn't you like to know, prefect." <- Five seconds in and he yields. You weren't going to let him out of it - no matter what excuse Jamil came up with. He'll put up with it and get back at Kalim later. The chance to spend time with you for that long is rare, and Jamil isn't the type to squander opportunities. No matter his personal feelings on the 'gift' in question.

Except Jamil finds the entire experience pleasant and hates that it’s all thanks to Kalim. Dancing with you is entirely different than dancing alone. It’s clumsy, new, and honestly tiring since he needs to lead. Especially in anything fast pace like a quickstep or to swing. It’s also three hours out of the week that Jamil isn’t maintaining his composure. Just you, him, and the instructor since Kalim splurged on private lessons. It’s liberating and Jamil wants to keep with it far beyond after the class ends. Even if it’s just slow-dancing in the common room to one of those vintage records stowed at Ramshackle. Seven, let him have this.

‘We’ instead of ‘Me’ (Inherited AND Developed): Automatically assumes that any invites are for you too. Jamil is used to thinking this way. Except the ‘we’ applied to Kalim, with Jamil as a plus one. Jamil did not want to be part of that ‘we’. Hence why he would only refer to Kalim when laying plans out. ‘Kalim has dance lessons at six, then dinner at seven, then study until 10 and then bed. Tomorrow, Kalim’s going to a banquet head by the treasure’s family and then returning to campus.’ The unspoken truth being that Jamil’s schedule matched. He followed, but was never on board with being Kalim’s ‘we’. He has always been a ‘me’ and made an active effort to preserve all his ‘me’ moments. For someone so self-aware…Jamil isn’t sure when he began to view you as his ‘we’. Only that when you auto-included him in everything…it was less strenuous than with Kalim. Far less. Easy to adapt. In the past, Jamil believed a partnership to be another chain. Perhaps being a ‘we’ was never supposed to hurt.

“Thanks for the invitation, but we’re staying in tonight…. No, not Kalim. The Prefect. What? I’m not speaking for them. If my word’s not good enough, just go ask the prefect yourself.” <- Other people might look at him and think he’s treating you like Kalim. Oh, how wrong they are.

Texting (Inherited): Jamil’s not used to someone keeping tabs on him. You’re going to see him within the hour, why does he need to call before going to wake up Kalim? Why do you need a text that he’s back in his dorm before you’re able to sleep? Why do you show up in Scarabia at one in the morning, throwing rocks at his window, if he forgets? (Jamil never forgets. He just had to reign in some rowdy first years and couldn’t catch a break. It was on his mind. Really.) It’s not the worst demand. A five minute call while he’s prepping breakfast and a few messages to know he’s going to rest are a small price to pay. Turns out a little rundown of his day before bed makes sleeping a ‘little’ bit easier. Huh.

“I don’t see it.” <- A lie spoken with the most monotone tone possible. Jamil rolls his eyes over the rim of his mug, taking a sip before turning the page in his book. Najima scoffs before returning to her magazine. She can say he’s softened up all she wants. He won’t admit to it. Doesn’t mean she’s wrong in the slightest. Jamil’s well aware that hopes and wants denied to him from birth have begun to stir within him. No matter how small the changes may be, Jamil isn’t foolish enough to give those emotions his attention. Not if he wants to keep them. Good things always escape his grasp…his wounds are too fresh to get comfortable just yet.

[floatyflowers]

Dark Single Father! Male Faerie x Reader

The air of the forest hung heavy with the scent of damp grass and pine, a blissful eerie sound of rustling leaves and nightly creatures adding to the forest's beauty.

You had heard the warnings about wandering too far into the woods, especially at night, but you needed to collect herbs for your child who suddenly got sick in the middle of the night.

And your empty jars of herbs forced you to wander far into the forest.

A journey you had to undertake alone due to your husband being an awful, useless man who never showed support in maintaining your household and instead shirked his responsibilities, leaving you to bear the burden.

That night, as you stepped over twisted roots and through patches of glowing mushrooms, you felt the air shift

A strange hum echoes through the air, raising goosebumps on your skin and sending a shiver down your spine.

It seemed to emanate from the woods around you, growing louder with each passing second.  

Before you could turn back, a shadow detached itself from the darkness beneath the trees.

It moved with an unnatural swiftness and silence, gliding over the forest floor like a phantom.

Then, two points of eerie light ignited within the shadow, piercing the gloom like malevolent stars.

They locked onto yours, holding you captive in their unwavering gaze.

The last thing to register in your terrified mind was the faint sound of laughter echoing through the trees, a chilling notable contrast to the frantic beating of your heart.

                              𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

Your eyelids fluttered open, and you found yourself in a room that seemed to defy logic.

The walls shimmered as if woven from starlight, and the air carried a faint, sweet scent of flowers.

But what truly caught your attention was the weight on your chest.

You looked down, your breath catching in your throat. Nestled against your chest, swaddled in a blanket of silken gossamer, was a baby.

Their skin glowed faintly, and tiny, delicate wings, translucent and shimmering, rested against their back.

The child slept peacefully, their tiny fingers curled around the fabric of your dress.

Your heart swelled with an inexplicable tenderness.

Despite the baby being of a different species, their innocence and vulnerability reminded you of your own son.                      

Before you could fully process the situation, you felt a presence in the room.

Your eyes snapped up, and there he was. The figure from the forest.

His dark green eyes watched you intently, and his expression was unreadable, a mask of calm that only deepened your unease.

"You’re awake," he said, his voice low and smooth, holding an enchanting effect on your ears.

It was not a question, but a statement, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

You tightened your hold on the baby instinctively, your voice trembling as you spoke.

"Where am I? Who are you? And why… why is this child with me?"

He stepped closer, his movements filled with grace, like a predator circling its prey.

Yet, there was something in his gaze something that softened the edges of his intimidating presence.

"You are in my realm," he said simply.

"I am Cathal, lord of the Seelie court. And the child… she is mine, her name is Gwen"

Your breath hitched at his words, knowing very well that Faeries are horrid creatures due to their mischievous and cruel behavior towards humans like you.

Their wild nature made them unpredictable, and their magic, while beautiful, is used for wicked deeds that brought harm to unsuspecting mortals.

The baby, his daughter, stirred slightly in your arms, her tiny wings fluttering before she settled again.

You looked down at her, your heart aching with fear at what he might do to you.

"Why did you bring me here?"you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kael’s gaze lingered on the child, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke.

"She needs a mother," he said, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place.

"Her mother is gone. Dead, leaving me to raise her alone. But I can't take on that role."

"I have a child of my own, sick one that needs my care, I-"

"I know,” Cathal interrupted as his dark green eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, you felt like shrinking back into yourself.

“I have seen your struggles. I know of your child, your husband, I have been...watching for months."

"I don't care why you've been watching me," you forced out.

"I need to go back. My son needs me."

"I have sent someone to care for your child, but if you want to reunit with him, you will have to be the best mother to my Gwenn."

The Faerie Lord smirks mischeviously, as if he'd just delivered a particularly delightful jest.

"However," he continues, his voice turning sharp and cold,

"If I feel like you don't care for my daughter as you should, that you do not love her as fiercely and devotedly as you love your own son, I will have him killed. And not a quick death, either."

[lailau7904]

So y'all have seen the Williams F1 Logo before, yeah?

well get ready, becaues I am about to ruin your day!

where does one even begin with this. i am sorry in advance. -just a poor learning graphic design student, who simply tried to enjoy their saturday evening

The Logo

For anyone that doesn't know, here's the Williams F1 Logo. Entirely unedited, copied straight from Wikipedia:

Now like many fans, I actually quite enjoy this logo. I like the modern, sharp edges of it and it's simple yet intriguiging design. It's memorable, while also easily recognizable as a W. I also really enjoy the colour choice (this, however, is entirely a personal preference.)

(entire rant under the cut. please keep reading this took years off my life span.)

How did we even get here?

Let's start at the beginning. How did we even get here? Well I, a poor poor learning graphic designer, was watching this lovely video from Mr. V's Garage about bad F1 Logo's over the past 35 or so seasons. Very interesting, I can only recommend it (but you don't need to watch the video to understand this post)!

Now, to cleanse the palette at the end of the video, Mr. V included a top 10 GOOD logos from this time span, it was very kind of him.

On P4 of this "Good List," Mr. V placed the current Williams F1 Logo, as pictured above. At first I vaguely agreed with this, believing that he probably simply hadn't noticed one of the things that's been bothering me about that Logo since the first time I saw it up close.

The first sign of Trouble

So, what is this mystery issue, you might ask?

It's simple really. You don't necessarily notice it at a first glance, but something about that logo seems off. Taking a second longer, you may notice it yourself.

No, I mean it, take a minute and go look at the logo. It looks wonky as hell, doesn't it?

Well I can tell you the first thing that I personally noticed. The arms of the W aren't in line with the bottom half, see:

(Graphic by @girlrussell who was so kind to let me use it, as it is way prettier than the one I made)

It's a crooked W. There is no good explanation for this. The rest of the font is perfectly fine, geometrical shapes.

Anyway, the good person that I am I went to point this out to my partner ( @leftneb ) who proceeded to inform me that he, infact, was not aware about this and was, quote, "never going to unsee that."

Now, the good FRIEND that I am, I, of course, proceeded to rush into our broader F1 friendgroup to make them suffer for eternity.

What's the logical next step to take? Of course, fix the logo in Adobe Photoshop, you know, as a joke.

(Disclaimer at this point, I am not necessarily the biggest fan of Williams Management Team. I enjoy ALL their drivers this season. I do NOT enjoy James Vowels. Be warned.)(Also I am aware that he probably did not have an influence on the logo)

Trying to fix it. Oh god, I was so innocent back then

Trying to fix the logo in Photoshop is the worst mistake I could've made. THE worst path to take. I could've just giggled about making my friends suffer (which I succeeded in, by the way) and moved on. Instead I ruined a perfectly good Saturday evening, and for what? I don't know anymore.

Anyway, how was I gonna go about fixing the logo in the simplest way possible? Simplest way I could come up with: slap the thing in Photoshop and put two, mirrored boxes at each side to make the sides line up. Small issue, how do I make the thing actually even? Fix: line them up at the intersecting point with the bottom tips of the W.

Here's the result:

Hey, anyone care to explain to me why in THE LORDS NAME the arms are different sized? I mean, surely they weren't before. Surely, certainly, I must've messed up.

I double, I tripple checked. I made sure everything was lined up and made sense. But no.

It just couldn't be. Something was uneven in this logo, something even deeper. Something I could not have predicted when first taking a closer look. It was at this point I realized I had messed up. What rabbit hole had I stumbled across? Certainly, it couldn't get much worse.

And that's when I noticed.

(pictured above; my genuine reaction)

There's MORE? (oh god, the top isn't lined up)

I couldn't believe my eyes. This is the PINNACLE of the sport, and THIS was the logo of one of the competing teams? I mean, yeah, we have a Visa Cash App RB or a Kick Sauber or even a MoneyGram Haas which are all terrible logos, but at least they're CLEAN. (this has not been checked. If anyone wishes to ruin a nice Saturday evening, feel free to check them and tell me how wrong I was in the previous statement!)

But you can see that there is no end in sight for this post. I'm sure you're as scared as I was at this point. By now we were sitting in VC, discussing the horribleness of this logo. I had long informed my irl's about this, who take said design classes with me. And it was one of them who pointed out the next thing that had been bothering me, but I had not been able to put a finger on up to this point.

thE DISTANCE, HOW DID THEY FUCK IT?

I'm afraid I have to confirm your fears.

Yes, those lines are the same length. According to Photoshop, they're on the same level as well, so no flunking with angles.

The gaps of the arms to the main W are not the same. They're differently sized gaps.

It was clear to us, this logo is inherintely flawed. They're subtle issues, but once you pay attention you start to notice things. It all looks slightly wonky and off centre. And eventually, you get paranoid, and start comparing other angles and sizes. And you will keep finding things. This has ruined my life.

HOOOOOW

Honestly, I don't even know what to say. Yes, yes sadly those lines, too, are the same length. Just copied over from one side to the other and layed over on the same height. I admit, they're not layed over perfectly. I was honestly holding back tears at this point. But the point still stands, you can clearly see a difference in width.

Honestly, the only way I can explain it is that at some point there was a mess up of distance or proportions and whoever was designing the logo couldn't pin it down and tried to restore the visual balance by making manual adjustments. And in all honesty? They kinda did a good job, if that's what's happened. I mean, you notice the crookedness of the arms, and then maybe the difference in height, but the rest you probably will not notice if you don't spend too much time staring at it. (like some of us) And even those issues clearly aren't noticeable to the vast majority, considering I had to go point it out to a group chat for my friends at least to notice.

what the fuck is THAT?

Now, the thing about doing this investigative work of prooving a team you dislike is worse in more aspects than you previously thought, is that you do a lot of zooming in. And zooming in means you might notice bits that yours eyes simply overlooked before, because they were too small.

Here you can witness the top of the middle point, that, for whatever reason, really wants to touch the top border of the Logo. I'm relatively certain that's the highest few pixel in the entire graphic, considering earlier chapter "There's MORE?" I have no idea why it looks like that or why they thought it was necessary for it to not end in a clean point.

I just actually have no idea how to even describe what is going on on the top of the left arm. That left hand side, again, touches the side and is therefore the most-left-pixel in the graphic. I, once again, have no idea the purpose of this. However the RIGHT hand side also makes no sense, as it is the most prominent corner in the whole logo. There's pointed corners, and rounded OF corners, but nothing that is trying to form it's own colony in a distant land that hopefully isn't this god awful logo. I hope that blob gets away. I really do. You go king.

i'm loosing my mind

Anyway, the only reason I could come UP with those weird "reachy-outy-bits" was to establish the dimensions of the logo? But if that was the case, I don't understand why they managed to keep all the other potentially border touching corners clean?

Like, look. Those are clean, sharp corners with some clearance off the borders. I have no clue why they managed it here but not with the others.

guys. please.

Backtrackig a little bit, going back to the positioning of the arms.

Do I need to mention that those lines are both the same length and the same (mirrored) angle? I really hope I don't, because I don't think I could be making this shit up. Like, once you roughly know what you need to look for it just kinda becomes easy to find.

As said before, I genuinely do think that most of these issues happened in a chain-reaction. For example, the distances between the main part and the W wouldn't be as noticeable (and they do get noticeable once you start looking at it) if the angle wasn't fucked. And guess what, there's more fucked angles here! Which ALSO influence this specific area of the logo!

this is just embarrasing for you.

something something same line copied over and mirrored etc etc

It's not as visible but the angles defintely don't line up here as well. As mentioned before, these issues for the most part all influence each other. It doesn't really excuse the issues, in my opinion as a designer, because a big company like this shouldn't have these sort of issues in their logo.

So let's review;

to sum it up,

i cannot even BEGIN to explain to you how big of a fucking JOKE this FUCKING logo is. because, i thought to myself, to round the post out, hey, why not show ALL the issues i pointed out in one picture? that would round it out quite nicely, wouldn't it?

Yeah well, this logo sent STRAIGHT FROM HELL just could NOT let me rest. I had only done the lines visualizing the crooked arms in PAINT up until this point, i.e. I had only pulled both up individually. To make a nice "rounding out" picture I still had to add them into PHOTOSHOP. so i did. i pulled up the line. i mirrored the line.

THE ANGLE IS FUCKING DIFFERENT

none. and i mean NONE of my friends had noticed this before. i need you to understand that we looked at this thing with FIVE pair of eyes, and NONE of us noticed that until i thought to myself "Oh I still need to add these specific lines to have ALL the issues I pointed out in my SILLY TUMBLR POST in ONE image" and i get THAT FUCKING SURPRISE

I was PLANNING to round the post out with a statement on how obviously this isn't a serious post. Here, I even had it all written out already because I accidentally started writing it in the last paragraph:

Of course, this is nitpicking, and it's not that serious. I'm aware of that. AS MENTIONED most of these would not be noticeable if we hadn't gone specifically looking for them.

yeah, well, fuck that. i just spent two hours seething about this logo. i'm ending the post on this instead.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

how about yan!dilf finding out that his darling has an onlyfans account?

Yandere DILF! Reaction to You Having an OnlyFans

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Manipulation, Blackmail, Infidelity, Pet Names, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Wordcount: 4364 words

♡ Good Lord, WHO gave this man internet access.

♡ Going to keep it real with you, babe, you’re finished if he finds your OnlyFans account. And so is he (in more ways than one) – but more on that later.

♡ Let’s say Domninic’s many, many hours of internet sleuthing (stalking) have led him to the pearly gates of your Only Fans account, the only thing separating him from whatever lies on the other side being a pay wall. One of the only kinds of walls that can’t stop Dominic.

♡ Of course, he buys a subscription. Of course, he does it under an alias, through an unlisted online banking app, on a burner laptop.

♡ And, upon seeing what you’re offering, he’s glad he took so many precautions.

♡ At first, the two emotions Dominic has felt most commonly throughout his lifetime flash in his ribcage, dance along the edge of his eyelids – make his eyes grow heavy.

♡ Lust and rage.

♡ Lust for the obvious. Rage for that which shouldn’t have angered Dominic.

♡ In a lot of ways, Dominic is a traditionalist; one’s significant other is for their partner and nobody else (even if Dominic doesn’t abide by this logic himself). Thus, to see you, the person he wishes he’d married, the person he knows is fated to be his, spreading their legs for any guy with enough money to buy a coffee, mortifies him.

♡ One, because you’re his. Two, because you sell yourself for such a low price.

♡ Dominic’s too wrapped up in his wrath to see to the vague throbbing between his legs. He’ll just make it Marilyn’s problem later when she returns from book club or whatever it is she does these days – and continue to make it her problem well into the morning when she struggles to emerge from bed, her legs buckling beneath the weight of his anger.

♡ For now, he paces around his office, checks the camera inside the bear he’d given to you months before.

♡ How had he not noticed sooner? He watched the footage from that bear enough times that he can recite everything you’ve ever said, can predict everything you’re going to do, has memorised all the unconscious quirks you adopt when you think no one’s watching.

♡ Dominic comes to the conclusion that you must be conducting your business in another location. One where you won’t be so easily found.

♡ Sure, he could go out, follow you to this location when you think you’re alone. He could even pay someone else to do it. But, amidst his rage, an idea sparks.

♡ No, he has a much better, much more cunning trick up his sleeve.

♡ The next day, Dominic comes to you with an offer he knows you can’t refuse.

♡ “Marilyn and I are going out tomorrow night and we’d like for you to babysit the boys for us.”

♡ You tried to refuse. You tried to make up a reason less nefarious than the one you held in your mind as to why you couldn’t do it. And Dominic only smiled, his eyes never crinkling, the sentiment never reaching them. He looked through you.

♡ He offered to raise your pay to an amount you both couldn’t accept and couldn’t pass up.

♡ This newfound amount was, considering how few subscribers you had on OnlyFans, irresistible. A godsend, in some respects. Especially when Dominic began taking his wife out more and more frequently, needing you to care for his children more often than not.

♡ To Marilyn, Dominic was finally, finally, trying to fix their marriage. To make good on the world he’d promised her those twenty-or-so years ago when he’d imprisoned her in a loveless marriage.

♡ To you, Dominic was being an understanding neighbour who was offering you a chance at a normal living wage out of the kindness of his heart.

♡ To Dominic, it was all a ploy to get you right where he wants you.

♡ The weeks passed. Dominic kept a close eye on your OnlyFans page.

♡ It would soon be time for you to upload your newest batch of material. If you ever found the time to do so, of course. What, with all the extra work Dominic had given you, he wouldn’t be surprised if you’d forgotten. Or simply hadn’t the time.

♡ It mattered little to Dominic now. He knew he had you on the ropes.

♡ The shift from one foot to the other as he offered you yet another night to babysit his boys, only for your eyes to lower. Uneasy.

♡ You’d tried the old “I’m sorry, Mr. Laurier–”

♡ “Please, (Y/N), we’ve been over this.” He smiles down at you. “Call me Dominic.”

♡ You try again.

♡ “Dominic – I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I’ll be able to tonight–”

♡ And Dominic used the tried and tested: “Oh…is it the pay? I can pay you more, if that’s the issue–”

♡ Issue. You’re making a problem out of this, not him.

♡ You backpedal. You sigh. You try to stand your ground.

♡ Unfortunately for you, the ground you’re standing on is merely a sheet Dominic is going to pull out from under you at any moment.

♡ You tried. Really, you did. Tried to reject Dominic’s kindness.

♡ And he looks down at you. He’s too beautiful for a grimace, he knows this. He puts on a mask he’s sculpted just for this moment – the false front.

♡ “I see,” he says, his voice low. His gaze shifts off to the side. He pretends to look for the right words to say. He already has them in his back pocket.

♡ “I understand. It’s just that…well…” He sighs. Places a hand on his hip. A change in posture. Something’s shifted about him. You’re paying attention, the oncoming of regret starting to form in the pit of your stomach.

♡ Dominic looks you dead in the eyes.

♡ “Don’t…tell anyone I told you this,” he looks behind him. Turns back to you. “But, Marilyn and I don’t really trust anyone else with our babies – we only keep asking you because…well, you’re brilliant with them.”

♡ He says it like it’s common sense. Flattery is every manipulator’s best friend.

♡ He senses reservation in you. He keeps going.

♡ “And…no, forget it, it’s fine. We’ll just cancel,” he smiles down at you. This time, the smile does reach his eyes. Makes it look like he’s hiding something else. Sorrow.

♡ You gasp inwardly, you take a step towards him.

♡ “Oh, I’m sorry! No, no, I can watch them tonight. I’ll just…do my work tomorrow,”

vYou try to smile. Dominic’s becomes genuine.

♡ “You sure? We–” Marilyn and I, halve the blame– “wouldn’t want to be keeping you from anything important.”

♡ You assure him they aren’t. That he isn’t. He’s won this round.

♡ He puts his hand on your shoulder. You’ve known each other long enough now that this is no longer a gesture that would inflict upon Dominic a problem he’d be lumbered with until he can, quite literally, take it into his own hands, and that you don’t flinch beneath his touch.

♡ There will be time enough for that. He knows this.

♡ And so, Dominic leaves you with an estimation of the time of his outing and his arrival. 

♡ “We’ll be back before you know it,” he says. He smiles at you from the front door, the handle in his grip. He leaves, his victory ringing in his head, making his heart thrum.

♡ And he didn’t even need to bust out the old ‘My marriage is failing’ shtick.

♡ True to his word, Dominic and his wife leave early into the evening, a rehash of their sons’ bedtimes and snack preferences no longer necessary. Second nature to you now.

-

♡ Your work – your OnlyFans content – played on your mind for the whole evening. Time seemed to slip away and stand still – paradoxy – as you pleaded inwardly for Dominic and Marilyn to return.

♡ The hours bled into one another, tearing away from what you could have been doing instead of guarding the house while Marilyn’s children slept upstairs, for truly they were more Marilyn’s offspring than they were Dominic’s.

♡ A half hour passed. Forty-five minutes. An hour.

♡ You came to face the possibility – the likely reality – that you would simply have to announce to the few followers you had that there would be no new content this month; that you would supply them with what they paid for twice over in a few weeks’ time. And pray that you actually had an audience patient enough to outlast your absence before that.

♡ Amidst your planning of damage control, an idea poked its head from the shadows. A failsafe. A sequel to your desperation.

♡ You could always just…take a few pictures here.

♡ The idea flashed in your mind like a life alternate to your own; past, with the certainty of already having been lived. All consequences already tangible. Foreseen.

♡ Perhaps that was why the anxiety associated with such expeditions into unfamiliarity had failed to catch up with you.

♡ Or, perhaps something masked it. Desperation, or one of its subsidiaries.

♡ Of course, you tried to stifle the idea. Tried to suffocate it with the smoke through which it walked. Though, its fiery grasp had mastered the art of survival.

♡ It wouldn’t go away. Much like Dominic’s lingering gaze whenever his wife was out of eye-shot and only you remained.

♡ Ten minutes crawled by and you almost wished for the rapidity with which the last hours had passed to find you, seek you out amidst this frozen landscape Time had entombed you in.

♡ And, as is the folly of man, you entertained that which should not be. You considered the likelihood – the schematics – of indulging such a proposition.

♡ Nobody was home and the boys were asleep, out of the way. Most rooms were large enough and devoid of personality so to mask your location – especially if the Lauriers had more of the sterile white sheets they laid their bed with.

♡ Then, a memory.

♡ A basement, tucked away between the folds of your psyche as its location within the house. You recalled the couple having one – a sizable one at that – when Dominic had invited you down there with him to retrieve more seating for his lawn party.

♡ You knew where it was. Knew where the keys were kept.

♡ And so, with a hammering heart and a withering step, you sought your fortune.

♡ The keys were easily enough discovered. As was the creaking door of the basement. And, upon your descension – biblical in your visage as the light from the hallway, dim as it were, cast a glow about your silhouette amidst the depths of the basement – you found precisely what you needed.

♡ A space – clean, untouched – equipped with white sheets covering a mass of boxes. Sure, they were creased; stained with Age’s attempts at youth, gripping onto the sheets and leaving his spectral marks – wrinkles – in their cotton-thin sheets, but they were there.

♡ You cast a keen ear to the ceiling, the living room floor, every few minutes as you looked for a place to start filming, a place to lay the sheets down, something to cover your face.

♡ You find a place, retrieve a Halloween mask from one of the boxes, and, without much deliberation, begin filming.

♡ What you do is nobody’s business but your own. Well, yours and the hungry men who survey your account for any crumbs you deign to feed them.

♡ What you don’t hear through the conduct of your business is the return of the home’s owner.

♡ Dominic hung up his coat, made little show of announcing his presence, and went straight for the basement.

♡ Don’t ask how he knew you’d be there.

♡ His steps grew more deliberate, louder, the closer he grew.

♡ You didn’t even know he was home until it was too late.

♡ At the height of your percussion, just when you were about to reach the moment of your video that would make the lead up worth it, something hit the floor behind you.

♡ You jumped. Whipped round to see what had happened.

♡ And there was Dominic. Hair black as the corners of the room, eyes void of any discernible emotion as he looked down at you, arms crossed over his chest, the top of his shirt undone by two buttons, not even out of his work clothes.

♡ You fumbled, the apologies, explanations and defences lodged in your throat as you choked to get them out, slamming your thighs together and reaching for the camera in your bid to shut it down. You tore the mask from your head, revealing blushed cheeks and a light sheen of sweat forming from the neck up.

♡ Dominic made sure to stay out of the camera’s line of sight, to remain only an anonymous spectator as he circled the room. He said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched and waited, walking.

♡ It was only after he knew the camera was off, your confidence in tatters around you, that he approached.

♡ You tried explaining, but he just shushed you.

♡ “No need to explain, my Dear,” he told you. He sighed, deeply, brought the corner of his lip between his teeth. He donned the veneer of disappointment.

♡ “I suppose I’m just…shocked,” he said. He leaned against a stack of boxes, solid against his back. He ran a hand through his hair and looked off somewhere. “I never knew you were…that kind of person,”

♡ The way he said that, like it had bleached his tongue just to speak it, made your heart sink lower.

♡ “I mean, what do we do now?” He made sure he gave you an incredulous glance, feigned disappointed abashment. “I pay you to look after my sons and I find you here, doing…” He looked to the camera, briefly, then away. As if he could still see what you had done on the tiny screen attached to it.

♡ You apologised profusely, tried to defend yourself: “Mr. Laurier, please – I didn’t– I never–”

♡ He didn’t interrupt you. He let you tie yourself in knots. Like a pretty present, all for him.

♡ Once you had exhausted your ability to explain yourself, Dominic let your fear hang for a moment, let it sink before you like a darkness bowing the ceiling above you. The singular lightbulb flickered.

♡ Dominic sighed. Pushed off the boxes. Came to you.

♡ “Honestly, (Y/N), if you were that desperate for money, you could’ve just asked.”

♡ He knew that wasn’t why you were doing this. But he also knew you’d accept whatever out he gave you. You listened.

♡ “Have I not been paying you enough? Have I misvalued your capabilities for this position?”

♡ The way his eyes flickered to your locked-together legs as he said position made your skin shiver.

♡ “Or…” he looked down on you. Relaxed his posture.

♡ “Is there perhaps some other reason you chose to…conduct yourself here?”

♡ When you didn’t answer, trying to decode his crypticism, he cocked his head ever so slightly to the side.

♡ “Could it be that you…wanted me to find you like this?”

♡ You tried to deny it, tried your utmost to say you’d never do such a thing to anyone, least of all your married neighbour and employer, but Dominic would hear none of it.

♡ “I’m flattered, really.” He says. He cast his eyes down, as if mulling over a secret. “My wife and I’s deteriorating marriage must be worse than I thought if it was so apparent to you of all people.”

♡ You knew such a comment, especially under these circumstances, shouldn’t have stung the way it did. Dominic only let you ruminate on it for a moment.

♡ “Maybe you wanted to show me something you knew Marilyn couldn’t.”

♡ Your jaw dropped. Dominic came to stand behind the camera. He toyed with it, general, not looking at anything in particular. You begged that he wouldn’t find a way to review the footage.

♡ Domonic stood back, looked down at you.

♡ “How about a compromise,” he offered. You watched him, eyes wide, heart pounding, stomach churning, breath short. He gave a pale smile.

♡ “You help me burn off some of the tension I’ve had building up over the last few weeks,” his eyes darkened. “And we’ll never speak a word of what happened here tonight.”

♡ Your words caught in your throat again.

♡ You knew Dominic was attractive, sure, but to help him cheat on his wife? And one so kind and loving as Marilyn–

♡ Your head span. Dominic had thrown you a lifeline.

♡ With a sigh, you evaluated your options.

♡ Your OnlyFans rarely made enough money to keep you financially independent, even for a short while; you had more to lose if you couldn’t keep your babysitting job. And you knew there was no chance Dominic would let you babysit again if he thought this was what you’d be doing during the dark hours of the evening.

♡ And what if he told Marilyn? What if she told their neighbours, your parents–

♡ In your vulnerability, your worry for your own preservation, you quietly agreed.

♡ And besides, you rationalised with yourself as the weight of the situation, of Dominic settling behind you, sank in. Better for Marilyn that he’s doing this with me rather than someone she doesn’t know, right?

♡ Given your bottom half was already bare, Dominic didn’t have to waste time undressing you himself. Though, under any other circumstances, he’d have jumped at the privilege.

♡ He’d often dreamed of this entire process being slower, gentler, and in the comfort of a bed in some lush space – usually a hotel. Not the sheet-covered ground of his cold basement.

♡ That evening, the mask Dominic wore was that of the common thief, for from you he stole your dignity. Your future.

♡ What you hadn’t realised was, as Dominic had been stood by the camera, he’d set it to record. Premeditated.

♡ You didn’t question why he pulled the mask from beside you onto his head. You just assumed, in your post-panic haze, that this was something he was into. Something he hid from Marilyn.

♡ Dominic still wore his work pants and had them pulled down to the bottom of his thighs. He’d also done away with his shirt from what you could feel of his skin; he radiated heat like you’d never felt before, even when you’d been in close proximity to him prior to this.

♡ You didn’t even have chance to think of much, to let the guilt and abashment of this whole situation weigh in on you as, with Dominic’s hands about your waist as if to steady you, he pushed in, filling you by an inch or two. 

♡ You were easy to penetrate given your recent activity, but that only served to quell the stretch by a slight margin. You gasped, jolted, and Dominic’s grip about your middle tightened. He pulled you back, inadvertently pushing more of himself into you. You bit your lip, trying not to enjoy the mortifying implications of this entire affair, the feeling of being filled by the man who held your future in his hands.

♡ He was, regardless of whether you’d done this before, nothing like you’d ever experienced. He alternated between being gentle and rough, eventually lodging himself inside you entirely and guiding you up and down his shaft at a rate that suggested patience. Just a minute later, he’d pick up the pace, pulling out and slamming back in, pushing you down so he could reach the deeper parts of you.

♡ And all the while, you could feel a tightness below your stomach. One which, to your panic, strengthened whenever you considered that you were helping a married man cheat on his wife, that your situation was buried beneath so many layers of complexity you feared you’d never see the light of clarity again.

♡ A married man. One who, if his soft touches and stifled moans were anything to go by, held rather a fondness for you in this moment.

♡ Dominic didn’t talk at all throughout the entire encounter, opting only to communicate with an occasional squeeze to your thighs, reaching around to your front to touch you in ways that had you whining and crying, and tugs to your hair whenever you tried to hide your face in your hands.

♡ The whole sordid affair hadn’t unfolded exactly how Dominic had wished – dreamed – it would.

♡ In his dreams, it had been gentler – consistently so. More private. Though, no less taboo.

♡ Now, he was harsher. Rough, though not enough to hurt you. Just enough to make sure you felt every inch of him; just what these subscribers of yours would pay to see.

♡ Dominic pressed close to you as the camera recorded, your face exposed for whoever came into possession of the video to see.

♡ Of course, so long as you remained an obedient little pet, Dominic would never have to release it to anyone.

♡ The transaction, one which left you breathless and sweltering, finished only when Dominic did. He made sure you were satiated, too, something to think about over the coming weeks as you curated more content for your subscribers, every moment no doubt a reminder of your encounter with him.

♡ Afterwards, he removed himself, though with much hesitance. He’d finally, finally attained that which he wanted most – you – and yet it hadn’t been under the circumstances he’d romanticised for so long.

♡ He tried not to think about it, storing it with the rest of the undesirable humanisms he had locked away elsewhere in his psyche. He focussed only on how explosive it had felt, how…alive he was in comparison to all the other times he’d been with someone, using them as nothing more than a mannequin to pump himself with rather than someone to give himself to.

♡ He let you lie on the floor, a blanket draped over you as he sorted himself out. He clicked the camera off, took out the memory card and kept it firmly attached to his palm – all while you weren’t looking, weren’t listening, senses still dazed with all Dominic had given you, done to you.

♡ As he removed the mask, there was a sheen to his skin and a passive glint in his smile that suggested something inhuman and false about him. Something you discovered too late, it would seem.

-

♡ After that evening, you had no choice but to continue on as if nothing had happened. For so long as Dominic was in possession of that night – that memory card – nothing had. You, of course, knew nothing of the card at first. Not until Dominic had let it slip that the camera had been rolling the entire time.

♡ And still, you didn’t question his use of the mask. The serendipitous timing of it all. You could hardly breathe for the ocean boiling in your stomach, your heart bleaching white and your brain paling as you realised you’d just filmed a sex tape that could ruin not just your life, but Dominic’s too.

♡ Oh, if only you knew just how little Dominic cared.

♡ Dominic told you not to worry, that he’d salvaged the memory card and put it somewhere safe only to now return it to you.

♡ He’d duplicated the video, of course. That, he kept somewhere even safer.

♡ Sure, he’d allowed you to upload it to your account when you asked him with wide eyes, your face blurred and his figure already unrecognisable to any of your simps. You still needed content, after all, so why not profit off your late-night tryst with your neighbour?

♡ Which was what led you to come to him now, eyes downcast as he stood before you, arms crossed, smile ready to split his face in half and reveal the parasites that made up his interior.

♡ The truth you gave him? Your account had garnered a great deal of traction since your…uploaded encounter. About three thousand new subscribers, to be exact.

♡ “Oh?” Dominic offered. “And why are you telling me this, mon Chèr? Do you plan on splitting your earnings with me?”

♡ He graced you with his charm, his humour. Tried keeping the situation light.

♡ A redness rolled across your face. Dominic smiled, slim and sly, and allowed you to foster his silence, his attention.

♡ You suggested filming something else. Something that could make the guilt you felt for your last encounter with him feel half worth it.

♡ Nothing ever would, of course. But you could at least try.

♡ And so began a lustrous alliance between yourself and Dominic, the man who had once been your neighbour, then your employer, now your owner.

♡ He used you as he pleased, donned the mask and bent you over under the guise of being the conduit for your growing fanbase. In reality, the scorching, pulsating, blistering reality you inhabited with him, you were his. His star who he made and will break when he sees fit.

♡ So long as he had that memory card, and the growing catalogue of blackmail you keep adding to in your bid to chase what you thought was the weight of your self-worth in cash, you were his.

♡ Infidelitous, yes. But that mattered little to Dominic. Nothing mattered more now that he had you in his hands, whimpering for him, coming undone for him, all while he maintained the safe anonymity of both his mask and the façade of a loving, caring family man.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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[godjustkys]

Hiii I saw u take got requests so I wondering if I could request ned stark x top male reader??? (Reader is bigger in size, like bigger than sandor even)

Maybe with some breeding kink and overstim:3

SYPNOSIS: breeding the fuck outta the lord of winterfell.

CHARACTER: male reader x ned stark

NOTE: i keep writing these in one sitting and it’s fucking with my brains

p.s. requests are always open!!

WC: 1.1k

WARNING: breeding kink,, overstimulation,, light size kink,, cock drunk ned,, pet names (my lord),, praise,, dirty talk,, light possessive!reader,,

winterfell’s ancient stone walls didn’t offer much warmth, but the heat in ned’s chamber was stifling; thick with sweat, panting breath, and the sound of skin slapping against skin. his body trembling beneath you, hands twisted in the furs as your massive frame loomed over his smaller stature. ned stark — lord of winterfell, warden of the north — was reduced to a mess of helpless moans as you rutted into him with harsh, powerful thrusts. your size practically dwarfed him, your hands easily wrapping around his hips, keeping him locked in place like a plaything. “you take me so well, my lord,” you murmured into his ear, voice like gravel. he groaned at the praise, legs already trembling from how long you had kept him on edge.

“i… fuck—” ned’s voice broke as you slammed in deeper, and he choked on a cry, back arching as you pressed your chest to his back, pinning him down fully. you weren’t just fucking him — you were claiming him. “want me to fill you up good? breed you?” you murmured. he shivered in response, desperate, nodding with a soft, raspy, breathless, “yes…” you grinned against the back of his neck, feeling him squeeze around you. “gonna breed you till it takes. gonna fill you so deep.. so your body won’t forget who it belongs to.” the words made him shake, cock twitching helplessly against his stomach as you ground into him, pace never faltering. he was already spent, more than once, but you weren’t close to done. not until his stomach was warm and full, not until his legs gave out from too much pleasure and not enough time to recover. you leaned back just enough to watch him — his hair messy, eyeing the way his body tensed and jerked with every overstimulated thrust. you could tell he was close again, even if his mind couldn’t keep up. “cum for me again, my lord,” you ordered, voice low and firm. “one more. you can do it.” and he did — broken, beautiful, coming undone with a guttural moan, body shuddering beneath yours.

you didn’t stop.

a pathetic whine left ned’s mouth, his hole clenching around you tightly. his arms and thighs were shaking and eventually, he caved, pressing his face and shoulders to the mattress, giving his body some relief, some sort of way to relax. but even then, you stayed buried in him, deep and unyielding, one hand sliding up his side to hold him close. “that’s it,” you murmured, voice low. “so good, my lord, takin’ my cock like this..” you praised. he could only nod, too far gone to speak, his body pliant and trembling beneath yours. every breath he took was shallow, broken, but he didn’t ask you to stop — not once. because even in the haze, even in the overstimulation and ache, he wanted it. wanted you. and you were going to give him everything — every drop, every thrust, every word that made his heart stutter in his chest and his body fall apart again and again. “i-it’s..— ah- mhh.. too much..” ned sobbed out, his voice hoarse due to how loud he was being just a couple minutes earlier. so you did the only logical thing — slamming in again, grinding deep enough to make his thighs shake. “you’re not done til i say you’re done. you wanted this, didn’t you?” your voice was venomous and low, laced with a cruel kind of sweetness. “begged me to ruin you. look at you now.. dripping, shaking, stuffed full. and still not satisfied? you’re greedy, my lord..” ned didn’t respond. he nuzzled his face into his bed, fingers clenched around the furs on it. you groaned lightly, grabbing his hips tight enough to bruise. “m’gonna keep fucking you until this cock’s the only thing your body remembers. gonna breed you so deep, you’ll be leaking for days.”

his whole body jerked as you drove in again, deeper, harder, his mind long gone but his body still so responsive — clenching, twitching, surrendering. your hand snaked around his throat, just enough pressure to make him gasp, back arching into you even as his body tried to squirm away from the overstimulation. “that’s right,” you growled, hips snapping forward. “you’re gonna take everything i give you. no running. no hiding.” ned’s legs gave another tremble, then buckled, his weight sagging under you. he was wrecked — raw and used — but still so tight around you it was almost unbearable. you didn’t ease up. if anything, the way he whimpered made you fuck him harder. “you feel that?” you hissed into his ear. “that stretch? that ache deep in your guts? that’s me. carving you open from the inside out.” and oh, how utterly broken the lord of winterfell was. “please,” he moaned, voice broken and raw. “breed me, gods, just— fuck me full, make me yours, i need it— need to feel it leaking out of me when you’re done— please—” he begged, his voice higher in pitch and so raspy, as if it’s been used for hours.

that was all it took. with a low growl, you slammed into him one last time, holding him down as you emptied yourself deep inside, body jerking with each pulse. he was sobbing beneath you now — overwhelmed, blissed out and completely ruined. and still, you didn’t pull out. you just held him there, locked together, your cum leaking slowly from where you stayed buried. “you did good, my lord,” you murmured, voice suddenly gentler, removing your hand from this throat and sliding it down his back. “but we’re not done. not until it takes.” ned’s body twitched beneath you, every nerve raw, every muscle burning. he wasn’t even trying to speak now — just panting, face buried in the fur, broken whimpers spilling from his lips with every tiny shift of your hips. you were still hard, still leaking cum into him. “you’re shaking,” you whispered against his neck, dragging your tongue up the salt-slicked skin. “but you’re still so tight for me. still hungry. that little hole doesn’t know what full is yet, does it?” a soft, choked noise was all you got in return, but his body betrayed him — clenching down around you greedily. “thought so,” you breathed, pulling your hips back just enough to make him feel the drag of your cock before slamming forward again, deeper. “you want this. don’t pretend otherwise.” he let out a cry; sharp, high, wrecked — as his legs gave out entirely, and you caught him by the hips before he collapsed flat. you dragged him back onto you, slow and brutal. “you’ll give me one more,” you ordered, gripping his hips tight, dragging him back in time with each thrust.

“one more load. one more orgasm. you’re not done until you’re leaking from both ends and begging me to stop.”

[rumisgf]

“GET MY F**** NAME TATTED SO I KNOW IT’S REAL” - DENKI KAMINARI x BLACK!READER

summary: your boyfriend has it all: tattoos, blonde hair, nice sleeper build, can dress, funny— he’s on the way to becoming one of the top 5 heroes for lord’s sake. but, even with all that, he can’t help but feel some type of way when he sees other dudes trying to get as his girl. he doesn’t know what comes over him, and he always starts thinking a little irritational.

includes: college!au eventual smut, tatted!denki, little plot (i sorry), females pronouns used once or twice, jealous!denki, denki calls reader ‘mama’, denki refers to himself as ‘daddy’ once, penetration, dom/sub undertones unprotected sex, recording, squirting, spit!kink, implied relationship, assumed that denki and reader record themselves fucking a lot, possessiveness, breeding kink if you squint, mentions of potential pregnancy, nasty sex

this isn’t fair. he’s finally got a hot, amazing girlfriend and everybody wants her. it makes him sick.

“woah kaminari, that’s you? how’d you bag that?” all his friends always seem to ask this same question in different variations, and their laughs afterwards seem to be filled with malice in his ears. and what’s worse is that you have no idea. you post all these pretty pictures and thirst trappy tiktok’s for random people in your comments to fawn over you. so, denki could not possibly be seething with more anger right now when someone he only sees in the dorm hallways come up to you.

“hey, um, you… seeing anyone? sorry i just saw you in class and couldn’t stop thinking about you, you are gorgeous.”

he watches as you smile, looking over to where he is as he’s supposed to getting his lunch. “o-oh, uh… thank you but i’m taken.” you shyly respond. the dude follows your eyes, and he only smirks. “well, he doesn’t seem like too much competition.”

you roll your eyes at the corny ass guy talking to you, and cross your arms. as you tell the guy he has no chance, you fail to notice denki look down at his own feet as he contemplates causes a scene at this very moment. but clearly, he didn’t care to think logically. you’re his.

suddenly, you feel a set of haste footsteps followed by two hands slowly find your waist. your movements halt as they massage the skin and pull you closer to the figure’s chest. “hey cutie, who’s this?” your boyfriend asks so innocently, making direct eye contact with the guy who’s face is beginning to flush. “mm, some dude who won’t leave me alone..” the guy furrows his eyebrows as he struggles to open his mouth. “woah, it’s like that, bro?”

“don’t know what you’re talking about.” denki says, responding for you. he softly kisses your shoulder, “she’s mine though, so you should go on somewhere.” with that, the guy reluctantly walks off, failing to hide his embarrassment.

you slowly push denki off of you, giving him a quick peck on the lips as a thank you. then, you both head back to your dorm to get away from the crowd of people at your university’s cafeteria— the habitat of horny, and corny men.

denki closes your door and plops onto the edge of your bed, holding his arms out. “c’mere mama.” you find your way on his lap as you face his grumpy face. he looks down at your body as his hands massage the sides of your waist. “so tired of that, i wish everybody would leave you alone…” he pauses, and it’s the same pause before he’s about to say one of the most outlandish things you’ve heard.

“tattoo my name on your neck.”

you smack your lips, lightly pushing his chest as you roll your eyes. “boy, i am not chrisean rock.”

“well how else are dudes gonna know you’re fucking mine?” he slowly dives into your neck, teasing the skin with his mouth as your lips part, threatening to let out a moan. “kami, you know i don’t want anybody else.” you say shyly, beginning to writhe in his lap as he’s know placing full mouth kisses on your neck. “but they don’t know that,” he mutters. he pulls away and immediately grabs you by your neck, bringing your face centimeters away from his. “if you won’t get me tatted, i’ll find another way to make sure they know you’re mine.”

he closes the space by kissing you fiercely, yet slowly. you drag your hips up on his lap, his hand gripping your waist once more as your back arches with the kiss. you wrap one arm around his neck while your other hands finds his chest, feeling his thumping heartbeat. his other hand doesn’t leave your neck as he plunges his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss. you moan into his mouth, making him subconsciously buck his hips upwards. with that, you slowly start grinding on his lap and he begins to grind on your clothed crotch himself. you move in rhythm with each other, chasing the burning feeling of lust in your stomachs. then, he shoves his hand under your shirt and you finally gasp into his lips. he fondles with your soft breasts, wishing your bra wasn’t it the way. this makes you grind on him harder, and you’re sure he can feel the throbbing pulse of your now soaking pussy even through his pants. denki goes back to your neck, licking and biting your skin until several hickeys begin to show. he was serious, he was gonna find a way to mark himself on you one way or another. his hands now find your ass, squeezing both cheeks as he moves you faster on his laps and his own soft moans begin to spill out his mouth.

kaminari pulls away, both of you breathing heavy. “i’m about to fuck the shit out of you, you know that right?” he says in a direct tone. looking at him half lidded, you nod. without another word, he lifts you off of him and moves fully onto the bed. you follow him and immediately get pulled under him by his tattooed arms. his lips crash back onto yours, your hands frantically grabbing at his body. he grinds onto you, making sure you feel his hard bulge on your cunt that’s close to soaking through the panties under your jeans. “kami, please…” you whine, not knowing entirely what you’re begging for— you just know you need him in every way possible.

he quickly discards of own your jeans, then his own. immediately, his eyes meet the thong that perfectly displays your arousal dripping out and staining your folds that are halfway shown. he nearly drools, running his finger through your clothed slit. “mm-!” you moan, wincing at the pleasure flowing through you just at how eager you were for him to touch you. wasting no more time, he lifts off the bed and stands at the side next to you, pulling you on the edge of the bed in front of him. he pulls down his boxers and slides off your underwear. you gawk at his long, hard dick right in front of you, and he smirks. then, he reaches over to pick up his jeans, pulling his phone out his pocket.

he unlocks his phones, then points his camera to his dick in front of your sopping cunt. he rubs circles on your clit with his tip, “mmm, so wet baby.” he hums, before slowly sliding himself into your entrance. your walls give him a warm hug as your slick squelches once he enters them.

he wastes no time giving you every inch of him, and you cry out. “oh- shit! babyyy!” the pace is almost too much, him pumping into you like he was mad at you. “uh huh, love this dick don’t you?” he uses his free hand to grips your thigh, pushing it back. instinctively, you hold your legs back for him as close to your head as possible. “good girl, let me see that pretty pussy.”

you’re almost embarrassed, your helpless state on display as he ruins your pussy. your normally sweet boyfriend is deep-stroking the brain cells out of you with a dark, sinister smile on his face. but.. you can’t complain, he’s fucking you too good right now. “ohmygod please… i can’t..” he slaps your thigh, making your body jolt. “yeah you can, c’mon. you got it.” you throw your head back, moaning his name like a prayer. “yeahhh, my good girl.” the praise sends your head spinning as the room grows hotter by the minute. “say you’re mine. *smack* say you who belong to.”

“i’m yours- shitttt- i’m yours! i’m all yours” you say, the command causing a white ring to form around his dick from you creaming. “yeah, you like that shit? love being my good little whore?” he slaps your thigh again, making you whine. he relishes in the state you’re in, completely vulnerable to him. he loves nothing more than showing that he could really dick you down when he gets this frustrated. all the anger he gets from all these guys constantly hitting on you- he takes it out as he examines your soft, sweet body that’s all for him: down from your pussy to your mouth, “open up.” he demands. before you can even fully open it, he spits in your mouth from above you. it takes you by surprise, but he gives you not time to think even if you could…. which, you can’t, from the way he ms fucking you. “swallow that shit.”

you lick the excess spit off your lip and swallow, looking him in the eye when you do so you can see him smile. “such a good girl.. so good f’ me.” denki picks up the pace, the camera shaking with his movements. your voice jumps with every thrust as you moan out for him. his breath huffs with every thrust, sweat beading up on the both of your bodies as you fuck like dogs in heat. your body is littered with hickies and red marks that were intentionally painted on your body by your boyfriend. although they’re not permanent like tattoos, they still holding the same meaning that you belong to him and him only.

he grips your waist as he fucks you into pure bliss. you feel a strong knot threaten to burst in your stomach. “i- fuck! ‘m gonna cum~”

“yeah?” he taunts, immediately rubbing your clit. “you wanna cum already? ‘m fucking you that good?” his ego grows by the second as you become putty in his hands, legs threatening to give out. you let out a drawn out moans as he punctuates his hips, abusing your g-spot over and over. your eyes roll to the back of your head as your toes stiffen in the air, losing control of your body.

“go ahead, nut all over this dick.”

you scream his name as your juices squirt out of you and onto his stomach. he continues fucking you as you making a mess on the floor, the bed on him, and yourself. your body shakes violently as your orgasm takes over you, him pulling out and smacking his dick on your clit as you violently squirt on him. then, he slides back into you, groaning at how soaked you are. “my good little slut… all mine— nobody can fuck you like i do. say you’re my little slut.”

you let out a slurred “i’m your little slut” as you feel another orgasm build up. in a matter of seconds. he pulls your body closer, leaning forward so he can fuck you deeper. in another minute, you’re squirting on him again as he fucks you, moaning so loud your housemates can definitely hear you by now. “fuck baby… so fucking messy.” he moans, now chasing his own high. “fuck- where you want it baby? huh?”

“in me- please!” you beg, looking up at him with doe eyes as he relentlessly bullies your cunt. his eyes spark up, slightly taken aback from your response. “yeah? dick so good you want me to give you a baby?” you nod eagerly, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks from the overstimulation. you both know you’re out your right mind and this is not a logical decision to make on a whim, but you pray that maybe god is on your side just this one time— even though this is such a sinful act. “yes please put a baby in me!”

“daddy’s gonna make you a mama- fuck- gonna fuck my kids into you.” he pants, thrust becoming frantic and rigid. and though he doesn’t wanna admit it, he’d love nothing more than for you to be swollen and soft because of him. the though of you carrying his child with an large stomach that contrasts your smaller figure brings him right to his own orgasm. with a hard, deep thrust, he lets out loud strings of moans matches with the thick ropes of his seed seeping into your cunt. you moan at the warm feeling, eyes threatening to close shut. he pulls out of you, rubbing your clit as cum leaks out of your used hole.

setting his phone down after quickly adding it to his special folder, he grabs a spare towel from his closet to clean the both of you up. then, he lays down next to you after you scoot into your covers, legs still shaking. he looks down at them, letting a chuckle out his mouth.

“damn, i fuck you that good?”

you smack his chest, only causing him to laugh more. “bitch i had you whining to cum in me, hush.”

“oh really? cause if we watch that video back right now you’ll clearly hear you begging for me to-”

another smack lands on his chest, as you hush him frantically. “hey, at least if you have my baby they’ll really know who you belong to.” you sigh, sinking onto his chest. “then, i’ll have as many babies as you need me to.”

@ rumisgf

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 007. the paper.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 3.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: this chapter is a bit dry, and incredibly fast paced, the angst lords held my shoulders gently and demanded my cooperation, and who am i to refuse... > unfortunately not a good angst writer. hopefully the next chapter fills in some gaps :P -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Professor Anaxagoras stood at the front of the lecture hall, one hand braced against the edge of the desk, the other holding a thick folder of notes he hadn’t opened.

“—the symposium will run the final weekend of the month,” he said. “Attendance is limited to invitees and selected applicants. Presenters will include faculty, visiting lecturers, and a handful of external contributors with the appropriate security clearances.”

You glanced up from your notes. Kira stopped doodling in the margin of her page. Even Ilias straightened a little.

Professor Anaxagoras continued, eyes flicking briefly to the back of the hall, as if confirming something invisible. “Among the guests: Socrippe of the Erythrokeramists, whose work on semiotic containment theory in sacred structures should be familiar to most of you—”

“...and, by unfortunate persistence of committee will,” Anaxagoras said with unmistakable restraint, “Cerces, formerly of this faculty.”

That got a few scattered reactions—raised brows, a murmur or two.

“You may know her from her former lectures in phenomenology. Some of you”—his eyes passed over the hall with unreadable stillness—“have studied under her. You will find no one more exacting in her critique of academic laziness.”

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you let it out. The name lingers in the air.

“She specializes in ontology, and approaches metaphysics through embodied cognition. Expect poetry disguised as philosophy,” he said. “Or vice versa.”

Your pen stilled on the page.

Kira nudged you lightly under the desk, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

“She also,” Anaxagoras added, tone flatter now, “insists on calling the panel a ‘dialogic constellation,’ so prepare yourselves.”

Ilias made a face. “What does that even mean?”

“She thinks it sounds more participatory,” Anaxagoras replied, already turning toward the desk, “though experience suggests otherwise.”

“Socrippe of the Erythrokeramists,” he said, “representing a school that approaches spiritual inquiry through artistic interpretation. They concern themselves with the soul, with perception, and with questions of embodied truth—often through mediums most of you would not consider academic. They also lead artistic education across much of the western scholastic network, claiming creativity is essential to understanding.”

“Apuleius,” he said last. “Of the Nodists. Their position is… less subtle. They believe all things are numbers. Not metaphorically—literally.”

He turned back to the room, chalk still in hand.

“To the Nodists, mathematics is not a tool, but a medium through which spiritual logic is expressed. They treat equations as divine revelation. Apuleius is their youngest speaker in a decade. He may attempt to convert you.”

A ripple of laughter this time. Ilias muttered something about cult vibes.

He went on, with a slight pause, “Expect graphs. Animated ones.”

A quiet wave of laughter rippled through the room.

“The application window closes by the end of this week. No extensions. Submission requires a statement of focus and relevant academic record.”

You’re still in your seat by the time lecture ends, notebook open but mostly ignored now, letting the noise filter out around you.

You shift, elbow brushing Kira’s as she taps the cap of her water bottle against the edge of the desk. Ilias, who’s been half-slumped over his notebook for most of the lecture, perks up.

“You still applying?” Ilias asks Kira—too quickly, voice a little too bright, like he’s rehearsed it and still tripped over the delivery.

Kira glances at him. “I am.”

He blinks. “Wait, really?”

She nods, casual as ever. “Yeah.” Her eyes flick to you, unreadable for half a second. 

Ilias sits up straighter like he’s just been hit by lightning. “Oh. Uh. Cool. That’s cool. I mean, I was thinking about it. Just, you know—my grades, maybe not entirely be optimal for that kind of thing… But hey—if you’re applying, maybe I will too. Strength in numbers, right? Mutual suffering.”

Kira smirks. “If you make it, I’ll bake you a whole cake.”

“You’re underestimating how motivating that is,” Ilias says, already pulling out his tablet like he’s going to start the application right then and there.

“I’m hoping everyone else applies too,” she says, “Would be nice. Like a little field trip.”

From behind you, unhurried footsteps and an exaggerated yawn cuts through– low, rough, clinging to sleep.

You glance back to see Phainon making his way down from the last row, cardigan half off one shoulder, white shirt rumpled, one eye still closed against the light. Behind him, Mydei trails with quiet ease, carrying two bags like it was second nature. 

Phainon drops into the seat in front of you with a thud and immediately turns sideways to slump across your desk like gravity has personally betrayed him.

“If anyone asks,” he mutters, “I was here the whole time.”

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm off your notebook. “Nothing says ‘academic presence’ like arriving in slow motion after the lecture ends.”

He makes a muffled noise that might be agreement, despair, or both.

“You missed a lot,” Kira offers, lightly. “Prof talked about the symposium.” 

Phainon lifts his head just enough to look at you. “You’re actually applying, right?”

You blink. “No? For the millionth time, I am not.”

Mydei slides onto the table in front of you, legs swinging gently off the edge. He rests his chin on his hand and surveys the group like a tired tutor trying to gauge who did the reading. “I applied last night. I figured you might change your mind after…” His gaze cuts toward the hallway—where Anaxagoras had been—

You stiffen.

And then, as if summoned by the gods of chaos, Ilias flails into the conversation with all the grace of a brick in freefall. “I know made a legally binding promise not to bring it up, and I’ve honored that oath under duress.”

You close your eyes. “Ilias—”

“But someone else brought it up!” he continues, pointing a wildly accusatory finger at Mydei. “So technically, this is no longer my fault and I am absolutely allowed to say— he touched your hand!”

You drop your forehead to the table with a dull thunk.

“Ilias,” you mutter into the woodgrain.

“I saw it!” he insists, wide-eyed. “AnaxaY/N fingertip touch was monumental! And you– you went full system crash. I saw the cursor spinning-buffering wheel-blue screen of existential crisis all over your face!”

Kira raises an eyebrow, barely turning her head. “You’re not wrong,” she says, voice even. “It was painfully obvious, too.”

You shoot her a look. “Whose side are you on?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I’m just saying. You paused while handing the phone back to him like the fate of the world depended on it.”

Ilias gasps in vindication. “Thank you! Finally, someone sees the truth.”

Kira takes a long sip of water, then adds lightly, “Besides, I think it’s sweet. Tragic, probably. But sweet.”

You scoff. “It was just an email.”

“Sure,” she says, her eyes glinting.

Ilias points at her, triumphant. “This is why Kira’s the only one here qualified to interpret sexual tension.”

You press your palms to your face. “Please stop saying sexual tension.’”

“Why?” Kira asks, tone playful now. “It’s starting to feel... accurate.”

Mydei lets the laughter die down before turning his attention back to you. His voice is gentler this time, quieter. “You don’t have to explain yourself. But if you are going to change your mind, make sure it’s because you want to. Not because someone brushed your hand and your brain rewrote its operating system.”

Your mouth opens, then closes.

“That’s not what happened, and I’m not changing my mind.” you mutter.

Ilias says from the table, still face-down. “As if I didn’t see you walk into a wooden beam afterward.”

Kira flicks a piece of bread at his head. “Enough.”

Mydei grins, stretching languidly as he slides back off the table. 

Phainon makes a low noise, something between scandal and amusement. “But seriously, a weekend of intellectual sparring in a windowless auditorium doesn’t interest you?”

Ilias gives him a look. “That can’t be a selling point.”

“I think Honour Roll’s applying,” Kira murmurs, nodding her head towards a guy taking notes… after class ended? “Had his hand raised before prof even finished the sentence.”

Ilias gives her a look. “Isn’t he the one who thought metaphysics was ghost biology?” 

You side-eye her. “He defined Cartesian dualism as a debate between two guys named Descartes.”

“He looked so proud, too.” 

She hides a grin behind her bottle. “At least he’s consistent. So,” Kira says slowly, “should we all apply and make this a collective breakdown?” and though she addressed the entire table, her eyes were fixed on you.

You raise a brow. “I just said I wasn’t applying.”

She shrugs. “People say a lot of things before peer pressure.”

“I am alarmingly immune to group influence,” you say.

Mydei tilts his head at you. “You’re really out?”

“For now,” you say, and tap your pen against the edge of the desk. “Not every mystery needs a dissertation.”

Kira leans toward the desk, elbow resting against the edge. “What’s a symposium even like?”

Mydei shrugs one shoulder, eyes still on the page. “Professor Anaxagoras never goes to those actually,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Too many vague theories and recycled arguments.” He mocks, albeit accurately. “Said it’s a waste of time.”

You pause, the words settling in.

You look at the open notebook in front of you, still mostly blank. Outside, sunlight drifts in across the floor, catching the edge of a scuffed boot, the curve of Kira’s pen, the fold of Phainon’s sleeve where he’s halfway to sleep again.

Mydei doesn’t elaborate, and Phainon doesn’t ask. He’s already slouching deeper in his chair, arms folded behind his head, eyes drifting shut again. “Wake me if enlightenment knocks,” he mutters.

Mydei flips his pen between his fingers. “If it does, it won’t be for you.”

The room’s mostly empty now, the last of the footsteps fading into the corridor outside.

You start gathering your things too. Kira stretches, rotating her wrist where she'd been fidgeting with her bottle cap. She nudges Ilias’ ankle lightly with her foot. “Come on.” 

Ilias startles like he wasn’t expecting to be addressed directly. “Me? You want me to–? Okay, yes. I am coming. Coming is what I’m doing.”

He scrambles to gather his things, nearly knocking over his water bottle in the process. Kira just watches, expression unreadable.

He swings the strap over his shoulder, catches it on the back of the chair, and nearly falls backward trying to recover.

Kira raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“I’m excellent,” he says, voice going high and too fast. “Never better.”

She starts walking. “Right.”

He follows like a loyal, over-caffeinated puppy. “Did you know that pringles fit perfectly in a cylindrical tube because they’re hyperbolic paraboloids plotted over a circular domain?” 

Kira, mid-sip of her tea, blinks at him. "... Do you even know what that means?"

Ilias freezes for a split second, his eyes widening slightly. His hand hovers awkwardly over his fries, which he suddenly seems much less interested in. “Uh. I mean... yeah, totally. It’s... it’s like geometry or something.”

He clears his throat, trying to recover. “You know, math... shapes... real smooth stuff—yeah, I read about it somewhere.”

Kira watches him for a moment, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Sure you did.”

Ilias sighs dramatically and shrugs, defeated. "Okay, fine, maybe I don't exactly know what I’m talking about. But you were impressed, right?"

Their voices drift toward the door, Kira’s dry commentary punctuated by Ilias’s increasingly flustered rebuttals.

You’re still smiling faintly when your phone buzzes.

It’s an email.

From: Anaxagoras Subject: (blank) “Student, Appreciate your thoughts—if and when you have them. Regards, Anaxagoras”

That’s all.

Student?

You stare at the files attached:

Cerces_Entanglement.pdf Cerces_SubjectiveStructure.pdf

You’re still not applying. You haven’t changed your mind.

But you download them anyway.

It’s past midnight when you finally open it.

You’d told yourself you were just going to skim. One paragraph, maybe two—enough to say you’d looked. Enough to reply, if he ever asked.

But the first page pulls you in.

Cerces doesn’t write like she’s explaining something. She writes like the truth’s already there, and you’ve simply forgotten how to see it. The language is dense, sure, but it unfolds—slowly, precisely—like it was meant for people willing to do the work.

She makes a case for perception not as a filter, but as a force. Subjective experience shaping what is real, not just coloring it.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been reading until the cursor on your half-finished assignment blinks back at you, still waiting. You blink down at your screen. Somehow, you’re already halfway through a side note you didn’t plan to write, tying Cerces’ structure-of-thought models to the assignment. 

You hadn’t meant to write that. You hadn’t meant to use any of it.

But here you are.

The question was already formed in your mind before his chalk reached the lower edge of the board the next day.

You didn’t raise your hand at first. You waited for the shift in tone he always used to signal the end of the main lecture arc. Waited for that half-step back from the board, the pivot, the glance across the room to see who had been keeping up. And when it came, you lifted your hand.

“Professor?” you said.

Anaxagoras didn’t sigh. He didn’t frown. He simply turned his head slowly, gaze catching on you with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested your voice had registered—barely.

You didn’t waver. “I had a question about the holographic encoding model,” you said, steady. “If we assume memories are distributed across a system rather than stored locally—does that imply the memory itself could exist as a form of interference pattern? One that reassembles partially, depending on context? Or is it more likely that what we call noise is actually unreadable signal?”

There was a beat of silence.

You felt it ripple across the room, a collective moment of attention, not quite tension—but close. Ilias, one row behind, sat up straighter. Kira had already lowered her pen, watching.

Anaxagoras didn’t speak right away.

He reached instead for the edge of the podium, adjusting a stray paper with unnecessary precision—his movements precise, composed, almost too still. The board still glowed behind him, but his eyes didn’t return to the projection. They flicked to you—once.

And then away again.

“Review the Feynman boundary analog,” he said flatly. “It’s in the assigned material.”

You blinked. “I did, but that doesn’t address the noise threshold—if the scale is nonlinear, wouldn’t that change the coherence—”

“You’ll find the constants you’re referring to in the last section,” he said, already turning back to the board. His voice held no edge, no invitation. “Try reading more closely.”

The dismissal was cold.

You sat there, notebook open, page half-filled with the equations you’d been working through during his lecture. The words hit sharper than they should’ve. 

“I did read it,” you said, softer than you meant to. Your voice sounded smaller in the large hall, like it didn’t belong.

Anaxagoras didn’t look back. He nodded once—mechanically. “Then read it again.”

No further comment. No elaboration.

He returned to his notes as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all.

You sat there, motionless, your pen frozen midair. Slowly, you closed your notebook, spine pressing against your fingers until it hurt. You didn’t speak again for the rest of the class. Just stared at the fading diagrams on the board, heart thudding low in your chest.

No rebuttal. No protest.

The cafe is buzzing with the usual mid-afternoon rush, students hunched over their laptops, friends chatting in the corner booths. But as you approach the counter, you can’t shake the knot in your stomach.

Kira is behind the register, her usual bright smile faltering slightly when she sees you. Her eyes narrow, a silent question forming as she taps your order into the system. You force a smile, trying to push past the unease creeping up on you.

“One medium cappuccino, please,” you say, voice steady enough to fool anyone who might be listening.

She presses the button to start the machine, but her gaze lingers on you, studying you in the way only she can. “You good?” she asks, her tone soft but sharp with concern. She’s already noticed—how could she not? The lines between your brows, the way you hold yourself too stiffly–

You shake your head slightly, waving it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, you know? Assignment stuff.”

She doesn’t buy it for a second. You can see it in the way her lips press together, in the small shift in her posture as she pours the espresso, then expertly steams the milk. 

Once she finishes, she slides the coffee cup toward you. “Take a seat,” she says, her voice more firm now. “I’ll be right over.”

You try to protest, but she’s already grabbing a chair and pulling it out next to you before you can stop her. She’s nothing if not persistent.

You set your laptop down as she sits beside you, her expression gentle but resolute.

“So,” Kira says, casually glancing at your screen. “Tell me what’s up.”

You give her a half-hearted smile, opening your laptop again but not really focusing on it. “Seriously, Kira. I’m fine.”

She doesn’t budge, her gaze never leaving you as she tilts her head, considering you with all the patience she can muster. “You know you can be honest with me, right?”

You exhale slowly, your fingers hovering over the keys as you consider how much to say. The truth feels too tangled, too messy to admit out loud. But Kira is waiting, and she’s not going to let you distract yourself with your work.

With a frustrated sigh, you finally lean back in your chair and close the laptop. “It’s Anaxagoras,” you mutter, your eyes dropping to the table. “He’s just being weird. You saw him in class today, didn’t you?” 

Kira’s eyes soften, but she doesn’t say anything right away. She lets you breathe, lets the words settle into the air before she speaks. 

“I noticed. But you know he’s difficult to read,” she says gently. 

After a brief pause, you push her hand aside and open your laptop, scrolling until you find the email, still sitting there like a little landmine in your inbox. “He sent me this after I told him I’m not applying to attend the symposium the other day.” You flick the screen toward her.

Kira leans in, reading quickly. “‘Appreciate your thoughts—if and when you have them.’ Huh.”

“What?”

She gives you a flat look. “What did you reply?”

You blink. “I didn’t, yet.” 

“…Why not?”

“I—I didn’t know what to say?” you protest, a little too defensively. “It’s good. It’s actually really good. But if I just emailed back like, ‘Nice paper, Professor,’ I’d sound like an idiot. I was gonna sit with it. Think. Wait until I had something meaningful to say.”

Kira squints. “And how long has it been?”

You hesitate. “Two days.”

She stares at you. “Okay. So maybe that’s why he’s being cold?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—maybe he’s sulking.” A sudden smirk takes over her face.

You blink slowly. “...Sulking?”

Kira nods, casual as anything. “Mhm.”

You stare at her. “Why would he be sulking?”

She lifts a shoulder. “I dunno. You didn’t email him back.”

You frown, puzzled. “But... why would that make him upset?”

Kira looks at you like you just asked why water is wet. “’Cause he sent you a paper.”

“I know, but I’m sure he sends papers to people all the time.”

“Yeah,” she says, like that proves her point. “But he sent it to you. With a note. That said he’d appreciate your thoughts.”

You look down at your laptop, then back at her. “…But I haven’t had time to really sit with it yet. I didn’t wanna reply with something shallow like ‘cool’ or whatever.”

Kira nods like that makes sense, but only a little. That annoying grin is still plastered on her face. “Still. You didn’t say anything. And now he’s ignoring you.”

You tilt your head. “But that doesn’t mean he’s upset. Maybe he was just in a bad mood today.”

She squints a bit. “Yeah, but... he’s usually more focused on you. You know?”

You furrow your brow, trying to backtrack in your head. “... It was just an email?”

Kira shrugs. “Still.”

You nod slowly, still not really getting it, but also kind of… getting it.

Kira pats your arm. “You’re smart. But you’re kinda dumb, too.”

You blink at her. “Thanks?”

“Anytime,” she says, already standing to get back to the counter.

“…Alchemy,” Anaxagoras begins without preamble, voice steady, measured. “Despite the clichés, was never simply the pursuit of gold. It was the architecture of transformation—externally, yes. But also internally. Philosophically. Psychologically. In some theories, even mnemonically.”  

You glance up.  

Anaxagoras, meanwhile, walks slowly across the platform, gesturing without flourish. “Certain alchemic schools treated memory not as record, but as relic—something to be unearthed, transmuted, and occasionally… relived.”  

He pauses.  

“Cerces, for example, argues this too,” he adds, almost lazily, eyes skimming across the rows of students. “Though she does not call it alchemy.”  

And then—without warning—his gaze lands on you. Not unkind. Not pointed. But undeniably direct.  

“In one of her papers, she proposes a model where memory isn’t stored, but stabilized—by narrative. That stability is fragile, vulnerable to external disruption. So,” he says, as if this is all perfectly routine, “what happens when that narrative fails?”  

You blink. Slowly.  

“Chaos,” you say, forcing a bored tone, not bothering to lift your head. “Or a very dramatic existential crisis. Depending on your level of caffeine.”

You don’t look at him. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the slight twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close enough.

You swear his voice is the slightest bit drier when he continues.

“Chaos, yes. Though Cerces might use the word collapse.”  

You flip a page in your notebook, already scribbling something down before you realize what you're doing.

Ilias leans in, whispering from the side of his mouth. “You didn’t tell me the secret midnight reading was actually good.”  

You keep writing. “Shut up, Ilias.”  

You would have replied sooner. You really would have.

It wasn’t because the paper wasn’t interesting—it was, annoyingly so. Precise and elegant and infuriatingly thought-provoking in the way only he could be. But you didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Opening your laptop, you now see 1 unread message from: Anaxagoras@thegrove.edu Subject: RE: – Curious if any of the arguments held up under your scrutiny. —A.

Half of you wishes you could just smash your laptop (or your head) into the wall, but the other half of you is desperately trying to compose yourself long enough to make sense of what you’re about to do.

Before you know it, you have your phone pressed to your ear with a death grip. 

You check the time: 3:07 a.m.

Then you stare at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. 

It rings six times before a groggy voice picks up.

“…What?”

“I need your help.”

A pause. Then Ilias exhales, clearly still half-asleep. “Are you in immediate danger?”

“Academic danger, if that counts,” you admit. “I’m trying to write an email to Professor Anaxagoras. I just… I’m stuck.”

There’s a long silence. You hear the creak of bedsprings.

“You called me at 3 a.m. to help you write an email?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” you say again, calmly. “I’ve drafted five versions, none of them feel right. I’m overthinking the phrasing.”

“…Okay. What's the context?”

“I read through the papers he sent me. He followed up this afternoon and asked for my thoughts. I don’t want to send something too short, but I also don’t want it to sound like I’m trying too hard. I just want to sound competent.”

“Okay, reasonable. What have you written so far?”

“I’m worried I sound like I’m trying to seduce him. Sending an email that sounds like a confession of undying love for someone who doesn’t even know your middle name doesn’t seem appropriate.”

He groans dramatically. “Just read the damn drafts. I’m getting secondhand anxiety here.”

“‘Dear Anaxagoras, I hope this email finds you well. I have carefully reviewed your paper, and—’”

He cuts you off with a loud snort. “That’s the seduction version?”

You stare at the phone screen. “...I can’t tell anymore.”

“I’m crying, oh my god. Okay, what’s next?”

You glance at the most recent draft and read aloud: “Dear Professor Anaxagoras, thank you for forwarding the studies. I’ve reviewed them and would appreciate the opportunity to discuss a few thoughts, if you’re available.”

A pause. Then: “That sounds… fine? Why don’t you like it?”

“It feels a little generic. I don’t want it to sound like a template.”

“Well, you are emailing your professor. It’s not supposed to sound like a novel.”

You lean back in your chair, running a hand across your face. “I know. I just keep second-guessing the tone. I want to acknowledge that I’ve read and thought about the material, not just skimmed it.”

“Okay. Then add a sentence. Mention something specific.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe something like: ‘The section regarding recursive stability in cognitive patterning was especially relevant to my current work on--”

“Stop right there. It’s 3 a.m., I don’t have the brain cells to translate Nerd Latin.”

You adjust the wording slightly on your screen. “I think this version works.”

“Good. Send it.”

You hesitate for a moment, rereading. “Alright.”

You hit the button.

There’s a long, terrible silence. You stare at your inbox, watching the email disappear into the ether.

Ilias groans lightly. “There. Done. Crisis averted. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Thanks,” you say. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Night.” Click.

-> next.

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(send an ask/comment to be added!)

[sukunasurface]

#Caleb would look around then looked away. School has already been over; in fact, he is past an hour. He is looking for a perfect spot in school. And when he is satisfied, he would grab your arm and pull you into an empty music room. Before dropping your arms from his grip, he takes a few steps back because he wants you to come running into his arms before he crushes his lips against you. Gods know how many romance novels he read behind his parents' and Zayne's backs to get the thoroughly enjoyed and well-versed First Kiss. No Caleb is smart he doesn't want to kiss under the bench and call it a day. He wants you to know what kiss is so even if you get your hands on those smutty novels, he knows that you know how your man kisses naturally.

When you come running into his arms, he twirls you to provoke a genuine laugh. Caleb again is a simple guy; he smiles to see you smile. So when you smile, he smiles louder in a challenging way. To which you never back down. He edged in for a spell; it felt like he was eager to see if your lips harmonized with his, and sweet mercy, he had never tasted anything on his lips so delightful, not even a scrumptious ice cream he stole from your hands. Something much better and sweeter. He didn't even let your feet touch the ground; he held your hips before pushing his lips against yours. I never learned this from those trashy novels, but as anyone can guess, he deepened into the space with your lips. He knows the drill; heck, he made color-coded notes the first time in this life because you think this method is clinically, mythologically, mythically, scientifically accurate and tested by Jesus to memorize things.

1. You initiated a kiss but made her comfortable—well, you jumped on him. He made you laugh like an idiot.

2. You leaned in at the start to see if the your beloved is interested—well, you didn't slap so he is good!

3. Slowly hold the body of your beloved to guide—he has a dead grip on you from the start.

Caleb is an Attentive Guy. But he kicked this quality of his with associated the movement you flimsy runs your mouth to mimic you little pip-squeak. He smiles before he sucks your bottom lip; he did see your teenage body shiver in his confusion but always so persistent, and you wrapped your hands around his neck, pushing yourself closer; Caleb no longer needs to lean in. You are up to his nose. He never met someone so equal and his at the same time. He tilted his face to find a rhythm; he was moving his lips fast but not at a scary rate.

7. Don't push; let your beloved know that they need to enjoy this shared movement together.

All of these color-coded charts show how to kiss someone thrown away the second your tongue gazes at his. Onto this logical reasoning, he knows you want to breathe, but dear lord. He tightens his grip—nodding into himself—praying for dear heaven as he pushes his tongue inside your warm mouth, the first "don't" in his chart.

28. Never push your tongue inside her mouth on a first kiss—first date.

Initially, he let his tongue run wild and free inside your mouth before slowing down the pace, letting you have a space if it was even psychologically possible. But you let out a disappointing noise as you felt this slow change of momentum. To follow through with the chase for elevation, you take the initiative, tightening your grip around his neck and curling your smooth tongue around his, flipping the narrative. Orders were flimsy; drill was never made. Yet charges were shifting. You moved to suck his lips in a brief pause of breath. Your lips were never apart before sucking it all over again. But he can see you are truly tired, kissing his mid-air to maintain a rhythm. Which is the biggest no in his book called "Rules to Live By for Caleb - Never Let Pip-Squeak Be Frustrated," which has enough range of motivations he claims your lips again. With conviction and affection, you without hesitation match his action with flow. As if you studied his color coded Notes. Color coded notes which include reference drawings, do's and don'ts, appropriate spots, appropriate times, and Precautions. YES PRECAUTIONS

Muscle fatigue is real. This can dampen the whole experience.

Caleb is A Caring Guy. the studies diversely to understand the one must put their put down at the right time. He sees you investing every ounce of core strength into this delicate balance. Your body steadies itself in his arms, a testament to trust and poise. In this intimate moment, you embrace vulnerability, dancing between stability and surrender. With each breath, you create a seamless connection, gracefully defying the odds. And you seem not to be someone to do so. He gradually begins strolling toward the long-forsaken piano without interrupting the kiss he caringly positioned on it, keeping you close while gliding his hands over your back as if he is shifting the pace of his lips from vigorous to soft and slow, ultimately pulling back, beaming, observing a giggle as he caught sight of your rosy cheeks and gently pursed lips before snickering.

"What was that Pip-squeakkk?"

A/n: I dreamt this, so world building is ass. I woke up and chose to write an extra long kissing scene.

[glitzygrl]

smth I’ve been thinking about but no one cares about is the batfam ages. I love teen dad!bruce and the love dick realizing he’s old and everything but when you sit down and imagine their ages you actually have pretty logical (noncanon) ages gaps.

without further ado here are the ages the batfam is just nebulously existing as in my head. share your age hc’s too the brainrot is consuming me.

Alfred-no one knows and they’re afraid to ask. this man has been grey since before the thomas and martha died. he’s 64 but duke is convinced he’s older than that because he keeps referencing “the war” and refuses to specify which one

Bruce-42 but looks to be in his mid thirties. no longer at his physical peak but no less hotter. teeters dangerously on the edge of salt n pepper but refuses to let it happen. THE HAIR DYE IS JUST FOR THE MEDIA GUYS NO OTHER REASON. lowkey still listens to angsty teen emo music.

Barbara- she’s 30 and thriving. used to make fun of dick for being younger/shorter than her until he hit a growth spurt. still holds seniority over everyone including Bruce.

Dick-28 and having a minor crisis about it. cuz wdym he’s been a vigilante for 20 years?? he’s fineee guys really (Tim once asked what it was like to be born in the 1900s and he cried).

Jason-23 probably. he’s mostly sure but with some weird gaps in there. lost at least 6 months post-death and brings it up to make the others feel bad. was definitely a crime lord before he could legally drink. still feels like he’s 15.

Cass-21 but FRESHLY so. bruce threw the biggest party for her and he is so totally fine about her growing up. yes he is Alfred put away the tissues please.

Steph-she’s only a few months younger than cass so like 20?? swings wildly between responsible adult and insane teenage shenanigans. there is no grey area.

Tim-LET MY BOY AGEEEE. please let him be 19. still the youngest WE business guy and smarter than all of elders. just let my boy be at the weird college age where he’s no longer a kid but he’s no where near a full adult. let him be weird about it. I love imagining him, cass, and steph being equally like 6 months apart and basically being chaos triplets.

Duke-17 but the 17 where he can fight rouges and still not finish drivers ed. wdym he has to be taught, HES DRIVEN THE BATMOBILE. YES IT STILL COUNTS IF HE CRASHED IT SO HAS EVERYONE ELSE. junior year as a vigilante would suck but he’s got the best work-life balance out of the entire family.

Damian-he’s 14 but ALMOST 15. people almost mistake him for dukes ages because of how he carries himself but he still has that little bit of baby fat clinging to him for dear life. has yet to hit a major growth spurt but will end up as the tallest Wayne sibling.

[kayjaywrites]

Like Bugs in a Rug: Chapter Two

(Previous Chapter)

Summary: Azriel Shadowsinger, mysterious pretty boy extraordinaire himself, was head over heels in love with you for years. Everyone in the room could see it, except for you of course. A series of connected one-shots.

Chapter Word Count: 7,500 Chapter Song Inspo: Obey - Bring Me The Horizon

Chapter Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst kinda, eventual fluff, anxiety/panic attack, vomit (nothing graphic), Rhysand being an ass, Nesta x Reader friendship, Rhysand slander lol,  AFAB Reader, Reader (You), fluff, some details about Reader's appearance but overall vague, canon plot spoilers as this is canon compliant-ish Note: So is this fluff? Debatable. But there is still plenty of Az fluff in it, you just got to work for it a little more this time. You don’t need to read the first chapter to understand what’s going on here, but they are connected!

XxXx

Your 3rd year in Velaris....

It took almost three years of employment with the Inner Circle for you to personally encounter the ‘Night Triumphant’ persona. You were not impressed. The most serious you’d seen your cousin was ‘High Lord Rhysand’, the fierce leader, but even that was limited to political business outside of Velaris. More so than not, it was just Rhys, your fun loving, sarcastic friend who so happened to wield an enormous amount of power. 

The male sitting at his work desk was not your ‘Rhys’. Hell this wasn’t even High Lord Rhysand. The Night Triumphant held eye contact with you, gaze calculated and stern. You studied the authority in his expression, his mouth drawn into a tight line. Staring him down right back, you waited for the facade to break and reveal the male you had come to know as family. You searched his face for the guy who would rather face Amarantha again than put you in such a precarious situation. The very situation that plagued you with consistent nightmares since you left Hewn City.

You did not find that male.

Your gaze flitted to Mor, her body draped in a leather armchair off to the side, hoping to find a trace of humor in her expression. She tried to look nonchalant, but there was a sharp edge to her that betrayed her own trepidation.

Nesta stood an arm’s length away from you, uncharacteristically quiet in the wake of your High Lord’s orders. She seemed as if she was waiting to see who would escalate things first. Rhysand had summoned the three of you to his office to brief everyone on an upcoming…obligation. He prefaced the meeting by saying that he knew it wasn’t an ideal assignment. He wasn’t asking if you wanted to do it, it was non negotiable. 

In two months time, you, Nesta, and Mor would be answering a summons to Hewn City. Kier had been requesting a personal audience with you for the last year. Mor and Rhysand could no longer postpone it, as you were a Night Court Courtier afterall.

Still, you did not want to believe that Rhys would ask this of you. “You’re kidding, right? This isn’t very funny, Rhysand.”

“I know you can tell that I am not joking.” His flinty tone brook no argument.

Any hope of reasoning with the Night Triumphant withered away. He summoned you to his office well aware that you wouldn’t take kindly to being sent back. Here you’d been thinking Rhysand understood your trauma best, having been held captive and used while Under the Mountain. 

It appeared that you had misjudged him.

Just as you were about to say as much, Mor spoke up for the first time since the meeting started. “Kier threatened mutiny at the last Council meeting. At first he demanded a private audience, even after I informed him of our bargain. When we still refused to send you by yourself despite his threats, he agreed on these terms. You and Nesta because you’re a team, and me because I oversee The Court of Nightmares anyway. He couldn’t argue with that logic.”

You felt like you were going to be sick. After 300 years of being nothing but a tool for your father, the idea of seeing Kier’s face again so soon had your lunch sitting heavy in your stomach. It was inevitable, he thought you were loyal to him, his spy on the inside. You had zero idea how you were going to handle a reunion with him, simply thinking about it made you short of breath.

Your nights were plagued with stress dreams about what it would be like to return to your old home. You avoided stewing on the topic during your waking hours. The inevitability of it all often sent you spiraling, you couldn’t ghost Kier forever, but you thought you had more time. There was no fucking way you were ready. “I can’t do this,” You said, “give me any other assignment, and I’ll do it. Just not this.”

“You can,” Rhysand enunciated each word, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure you would understand him, “and you will.” 

Oh hell no. You did not uproot your entire life to be spoken to like that. “Do not speak to me like a child, Rhysand–”

“Then stop acting like one,” he scolded, like you were the one being unreasonable, “this is your duty to your court, what I pay you to do. If you won’t do what needs to be done to protect your court then we don’t have a place for you here.”

Rhysand’s words hit like a blow. Your sharp intake of breath was echoed by both Nesta and Mor, but you couldn’t see them, they might as well have not been there, your world shrinking down to Rhysand as he regarded you coldly.

“So what will it be?” He addressed you, leaning forward over his desk, leering, “will you do as your High Lord asks of you, or will you be resigning today?” He pressured.

Your hands fisted, ire rising up so fast it made your eyes sting with unshed tears. If you got kicked out of Velaris you’d undoubtedly end up back in Hewn City. And you couldn’t let that happen, not after you finally got a taste of freedom.

Rhysand may like to believe himself better than Kier, but how was this any different from how Kier treated you? Was this your destiny? Undeserving of kindness unless you proved your worth? 

What about you made people forget that you were a living, breathing being? Just like everyone else in the room, you had feelings that mattered, and hopes for your future. You’d been stripped of your freewill for the first three centuries of your life. It was a wonder that you hadn’t gone mad.

Were you only allowed a taste of freedom? Was that Rhysand’s plan all along? Get you hooked on life in Velaris then dangle it in front of you like you were a simple mule, your freedom the carrot held just out of reach.

It made your blood boil.

“My apologies.” You sneered at him, gone was the meek, conditioned wallflower. You meant all the disrespect. In a dramatic flourish you bowed low to Rhysand, making sure he saw your contempt for him when he met your gaze.

 You maintained direct eye contact as you hissed harsh sarcasm at him, “I am at your disposal, High Lord.”

Rhysand’s eyes flared with something dark and aggressive. Time slowed, a pulse of his power cresting over you in a suffocating wave, a preview of how oppressive he could make it if he so wished. Dread replaced your anger, the confidence you’d displayed moments ago dissipating. You struggled to not show how he had shaken you, and by some miracle, you stood your ground. Still, he could probably hear your heart pounding from where he sat.

Amidst the theatrics, your own power had not been so keen on backing down. It had coiled around you like a viper ready to strike, protective, as Rhysand’s prowling darkness prodded your boundaries. 

This version of Rhysand left you stricken, unable to reconcile the egregious behavior with the male you’d had breakfast with just that morning. It felt like his power was tearing you in half, and he wasn’t even exerting himself. He looked bored.

Did you escape the clutches of one villain, only to run into the hands of another? Were you really that foolish?

Mor stepped into your field of vision, mouthing something at you. You hadn’t realized your ears were ringing until the shrill noise faded enough for you to hear her calling your name. The frantic quality of her voice snapped you out of whatever daze Rhysand’s power had cast on you.

Right. Nesta and Mor had witnessed that entire thing. You’d forgotten about their presence in the heat of the moment, your attention tunnel visioned on Rhysand. He had humiliated you in front of some of the most important people in your life. The only thing that could have made it worse was if Azriel had been there too.

Intense embarrassment flooded you, a seed of distrust taking root deep in your heart. You felt so stupid, thinking you could trust Rhysand and his Inner Circle. Mor was still trying to get your attention, but you stared right past her, looking at Rhysand like you hated him.

Hell. Maybe you did.

Mor called your name once more with urgency, moving closer to you, half turned so she hadn’t given her back to her High Lord, but solely focused on you. “It’s the best we could do without inciting a civil war.” She tried to clarify, emphasizing on the ‘we’ as she gestured between herself and Rhysand. 

“You have to know we wouldn’t put you in this position if we had any other choice. I personally promised I would never leave you alone in that city again, and there is nothing our father can say or do to make me break that promise to you. We will do this together.”

Rhysand’s power had receded, but you could still feel it loitering like a watchdog. Something you’d never imagined Rhys doing to you before the meeting. He’d always spun such pretty promises about your future in Velaris, and you believed him.

And now Mor was doing the same exact thing. More pretty promises, but no proof of her intentions to follow through with them. 

Mor’s shoulders visibly sagged, “If you don’t believe me, then look.” She pleaded, offering her mind up for you to read.

You physically recoiled at her suggestion. “I will do no such thing!” You spat back in disgust, “You are my sister, this is supposed to be my family. I will not taint our relationship with my powers in a moment of weakness. You may not return the same respect, but I refuse to surround myself with people I can’t trust without rummaging around their mind for their truths first.”

Unlike some males went unsaid as you fumbled to tone it down for Mor. Your problem was not with her, and she didn’t deserve your harsh words. “I can’t…I won’t….I–”

Frustrated with yourself, you took a steadying breath, emotion burning behind your eyes. Despite your best effort to keep composed, your voice quivered, “I will not be like our father.”

The room was stunned silent, Mor regarded you with sadness, lips parting to respond, but then pursing closed in a tight line.

Rhysand was the one to break the silence. His power dispersed as he leaned back in his chair, acting like he hadn’t just wound you up tight enough to fracture you into pieces.

“So you accept the assignment then?” He inquired, brushing nonexistent lint from the cuff of his dress shirt.

His lack of remorse irked you. Did he not think he could have handled the situation better? Was this how he treated everyone in the Inner Circle? The list of things you wanted clarification on kept growing, so instead you settled on, “Yes.” 

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement then.” He drawled, “We will go over details and strategy another time, when we are all more composed.”

You wanted to punch him in his goddamn face.

“For now, this meeting is dismissed.”

As soon as he finished speaking you stormed out of his office, nearly colliding with Nesta in your haste to get away from Rhysand. Originally you were going to visit the library after the meeting. Nesta had suggested a book for you to read, and you wanted to read it so you had something to talk to her about. But you were too worked up to do that now, you needed to get out of there. 

You didn’t care where you ended up, so long as you put as much distance between you and Rhysand as possible.

XxXx

By step 174 your blurry vision cleared a smidge, too out of breath to cry for the moment. You didn’t have anyone to help you leave The House of Wind, so you took to the 10,000 stairs with the expectation of someone eventually coming to find you. There was no way in hell you’d actually be able to reach the bottom. You began the descent down the spiraling staircase so fast It was a marvel that you didn’t trip.

Any time you slowed down Rhysand’s words would play on loop in your head. The only way to drown it out was to pick up the pace, the exertion elevating your heart rate enough for it to overpower that nasty voice in the back of your head. If you ran fast enough the only thing you could concentrate on was counting the steps you took.

239 steps down, and you had no choice but to slow down to a more reasonable pace. It was a warm day, and you were getting dizzy. The last thing you wanted to do was pass out. In a desperate attempt to keep your mind occupied as you caught your breath you focused on the breeze cooling the sweat beading up on your forehead. You listened to the slap of your bare feet on the smooth, sun-warmed stone. You thought of the color of the sandals you left behind at the very top of the stairs. You pondered on which step you’d discarded your blouse on after it began to cling to your sweaty skin.

Your guess was step 148.

You hit the first landing platform at step 250, slowing to a walk as you panted, hands propped against your hips as you counted your next few steps. Woozy, you let your eyes fall closed for a moment, but the image of Kier sitting in his throne room beckoning you forward flashed across your mind. You flinched so hard you accidentally opened your eyes looking directly into the sun.

It felt like your head had a heartbeat of its own, vision blotching from the brightness. You didn’t know how your day could get any more bleak as you rapidly blinked the disorienting dots away. Glimpses of The Court of Nightmares throne room lurking behind every blink, Kier looked more like Rhysand each time you closed your eyes.

It made your stomach lurch, and you whimpered around a dry heave.

A particularly strong gust of wind ruffled through your hair, and you can almost hear Azriel’s voice reminding you to focus on your other senses. Your mind can lie to you, but it’s much harder for all your senses to be tricked at the same time.

The sunlight, the ever-present wind, the sound of birds, the smell of fresh air. Let nature ground you. 

It just wasn’t enough. You’d only paused for a few moments, but your chest began to feel too tight for your lungs, anxiety squeezing the air out of you before you could properly inhale it. Two months. Just two measly months to figure out what the hell you were going to say to Kier–to your mom, after you’d gone no contact for almost 3 years. Two months to not be petrified of somehow getting trapped down there again.

So you continued down the stairs, pushing yourself harder. 

251. 252. 253. Counting them like Azriel had taught you.

It had been after your first dinner with the Inner Circle at the House of Wind. Mor was a little too tipsy to winnow home safely, so the both of you decided it best to share a guest room. You were feeling antsy, Mor having fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

The House of Wind was so different from Hewn City. Cozy and surprisingly casual in decor, but it was carved out of the side of a mountain. With the curtains drawn, in the dark quiet of the night, it almost felt like your bedroom in The Court of Nightmares.

You had thought a glass of water would do you some good, help you settle enough to get some rest. So you set out for the kitchen, taking care to walk quietly so as to not wake anyone. The hallway led to a flight of stairs, which brought you to more hallways that seemed to stretch on, and on, and on. The homey decor fell away, your balance wobbling with the sudden onset of vertigo. Closing your eyes didn’t help, dizzy and disoriented, everything felt like it was tipped on its axis. You couldn’t place where you were, where you were going, just that you were alone. Fear flooded your senses, and you swore you smelled the dank air of the streets of Hewn City like you were still there.

Azriel found you slumped against the wall on shaky legs, your pulse pounding so hard in your ears you couldn’t hear what he was saying to you. The touch of his rough hands on your bare arms was soothing enough to bring you back to yourself. You weren’t walking the streets of Hewn City. You weren’t alone. Azriel had you.

Each inhale had still felt like you were gulping in freezing cold water, your breath coming in irregular gasps. You thought you were going to die in that hallway, suffocating on fucking air.

Azriel took you to the training grounds on the rooftop of all places. You can still remember the brightness of the full moon that night as he coached you through breathing exercises. Then, coaxed you into walking laps with him around the perimeter of the huge training grounds. He counted each step aloud with you until you had calmed enough to tell him what the hell had happened.

And that was how you and the Shadowsinger bonded over Claustrophobia. An unfortunate thing to have in common, an even more unfortunate first thing to find you had in common.

In the moments after you’d come down from your panic attack you wanted to svirel up and fade away, so thoroughly embarrassed. But now, you thanked The Mother for sending Azriel to find you that night.

It was those same coping skills that led you to working out your anxiety after the meeting. 290 steps away from The House of Wind, and you were sure your legs were going to give out if you kept pushing yourself. You came to a slow stop, soles of both your feet planted on the same stair. Lulling your head back so your face was to the cloudless sky, you closed your eyes and pictured that moment with Azriel. Instead of Kier morphing into Rhysand, you saw Azriel walking laps with you around the moonlit training grounds.

You basked in the breeze against your face, your anger and fear still roiling in your stomach, but no longer all consuming. The relief was short lived, a concentrated pang of despair reared its ugly head, raw hurt so overwhelming it chased the warm memories with Azriel away. It made you so tired, so emotionally drained you felt it in the marrow of your bones. You wanted to just let go, collapse in a heap and never get up again.

Yet, by some stroke of willpower, you remained on your feet. You hadn’t warmed up before taking on the stairs, and you could already feel soreness settling into your muscles. Gingerly you sat yourself down on the steps, resting your elbows on your thighs as you rubbed your hands over your face, spreading fresh tears across the top of your cheeks.

If you won’t do what needs to be done to protect your court then we don’t have a place for you here. Rhysand’s words burned the part of you that had always suspected as much. There was this nasty little voice that lived in the back of your head. It would mock you when you were too content in calling this place home.

You wondered if that voice would start to sound like Rhysand.

The thought broke your heart a little bit more. You wanted so badly to make him proud, to earn your place in the Inner Circle, prove that they hadn’t made a mistake taking you in. The worst part was that you thought you were doing good. Not that you’d believed yourself to be one of them, you were still so new, but you thought…you thought…

You don’t know what you fucking thought.

Curling into yourself, your knees tucked in close to your chest, you made yourself as small as possible. The full body trembling made your sobs shaky, your entire being wobbled from the weight of your failure, your naivety. This was what you got for wanting to do it the right way. You’d never built relationships without relying on your powers to sniff out their loyalty beforehand, never truly trusted on your own violation.

Your father always thought it was a stupid risk to take when you could know for sure. You thought it was an awfully lonely way to live, to never trust fully. Perhaps you’d been wrong.

This was what you get, you silly girl. Kier’s voice taunted from the back of your mind. Or was that Rhysand’s voice? Did the difference even matter anymore? 

The telltale sound of approaching footsteps closed in on you from behind, you couldn’t tell who it was, all you could smell was the salt of your own tears. Maybe it was one of them coming to take you out of your misery, maybe Rhysand took your display in his office as a sign of disloyalty.

The killing blow never came, so you glanced up to see Nesta taking a seat next to you. The last person you expected to come looking for you if you were being honest.

She didn’t look at you right away, which you appreciated. You were humiliated enough without her seeing you wiping your own snot on your forearm. Her icy stare was focused on the view, the only indication that she had run to catch up with you, a few fly away hairs having been jostled loose from her braids.

“You were pretty hard to catch up to, you know,” She leaned back, supporting her weight on her hands against the step behind her, “for someone who doesn’t regularly train, at least.”

Her attempt at humor, which earlier in the day would have made you indignant, fell flat. Instead inciting a new wave of tears to fall past your lash line. You dropped your head lower to hide it from her, but it did little to smother the sound of your quivering breath.

She didn’t try again, and her presence grew awkward when you didn’t try either, but she stayed next to you regardless.

When it became apparent that she would stay by your side unless you sent her away, you found your words. “What if I can’t do it,” You croaked out, voice absolutely wrecked, “Face my father, return underground? What if I can’t do what’s expected of me? What if it’s too much, too soon? What if I lose everything because I’m not strong enough.” Will never be strong enough.

“Then we will figure it out,” Nesta answered without hesitation, “Together.”

You are alone. That damned voice insisted.

“But Rhysand said–”

“I know what Rhysand said.” Nesta hissed, and you startled, your bloodshot eyes meeting hers for the first time since she arrived. She looked pissed, lips pursed in a scowl as if the High Lord was right in front of her. “Rhysand is an insensitive jackass. He won’t send you away because you messed up one job.”

“How can you know that?” You whispered, already knowing that she couldn’t know for sure. 

“Because I’ve pissed him off by doing far worse, and I’m still here.”

You shook your head at her reasoning, not good enough, she can’t know for sure. “You're his mate’s sister, and Cassian’s mate. He can’t exile you.”

“And you're The Morrigan’s sister, and his own cousin.” Nesta deadpanned. “You’re not going to get exiled over a visit to The Court of Nightmares.”

“How can you possibly know that?!” You shouted, one of your hands clutching the fabric of your sweat soaked chest binding as your heart ached. Frantic to believe her, but knowing that you just couldn’t.

“Because Rhysand hates me, we barely tolerate each other on good days. He once threatened to banish me to the human continent,” she rebuked, hands flying about as she grew impassioned, “He loves you. He’s just an overpowered ass on a power trip. You questioned his authority and it hurt his fragile little ego. And even if he was stupid enough to try to cast you out, the rest of the Inner Circle would never let that happen.”

Your nerves were fucking shot. Whatever remained of your bravado frayed with every hagrid breath, it was impossible to stay focused. It was like your powers were waiting for you to be distracted, taking the opportunity to thrash against your mental shields. You didn’t know if it was skill keeping your powers in check, or dumb luck.

Your headache spread across your temples, sharp pain panging behind your eyes. You were already so tired, but the tears would not stop coming. That damned voice, still whispering its poison, adding to the agony. Nesta can’t know for sure, but you could if you just gave in.

You looked Nesta over, her relaxed body language at odds with the determined fire in her eyes. She left herself wide open, she wouldn’t even know if you read her. You’d be in control, your fate wouldn’t be left up to a gamble.

Nesta tried to meet your gaze, and you squeezed your eyes shut, turning away from her. It was impossible for you to think with her piercing stare studying you. What reason did Nesta even have to care about what happened to you? She didn’t say shit while Rhysand was ripping your world apart, and yet she showed up here? To do what exactly?

There was a dull ringing in your ears as your power surged against your restraint, and maybe you screamed, maybe you didn’t. Your fingers went up into your hair, fisting at your roots as you pulled, rocking yourself back and forth because it would be so easy.

And maybe if you gave in, that stupid voice would stop.

Nesta called your name, “I wouldn’t let Rhysand kick you out of Velaris.”

The cry you let out sounded almost feral. “I don’t know that!” .

“No, you don’t,” Nesta acquiesced, “but do you trust me?”

Did you trust Nesta? The question cut you into you like the edge of a knife, your heart answering with a resounding yes.

Wow, did you want that to be true. But that sinister voice oozed like an oil slick in the back of your head. Will you do as your High Lord asks of you, or will you be resigning today? You had trusted Rhysand too.

Even if Nesta wanted you here, did you think she would disobey her High Lord for you? You didn’t know, not for sure. Your power reared up again, and your head pounded at the onslaught. That oily voice so loud it was all you could hear. You could know.

“I-I don’t know.” You stammered, stomach churning into grotesque knots.

“Do you trust yourself?” Nesta continued her line of questioning.

That answer came to you quick, no, and it had you lurching forward, your balance lost as you scraped your knees sliding down a couple stairs. You wretched, violent heaves as your stomach emptied out on the stairs in front of you.

No. You didn’t trust yourself.

“There was a time where I didn’t trust myself either.” It was like you weren’t barfing up your guts right in front of her, Nesta spoke with such calm. “Didn’t let anyone close enough to trust, even myself, I didn’t know how.”

You wretched again, your hair getting in the way. Gentle fingers gathered the stray pieces that had fallen from your updo. You hadn’t heard her move over to you, but she was there, steadying you as you struggled through a bout of dry heaving. If you weren’t so miserable, the tenderness coming from Nesta would have shocked the hell out of you.

Her free hand rubbed soothing circles into your back as she continued her tale. “I hated myself,” Nesta confided, voice raspy with emotion, “so much that I drank myself stupid every night to escape the darkness of my own thoughts.”

Now, the random heart to heart did shock you.

Three years of trying to connect with the enigma that was Nesta Archeon. Three years of getting redirected when you asked something too deep. The most you got out of Nesta was what she liked to read, so you picked up reading just to have a reason to approach her outside of assignments. Three years of one sided heart to hearts, evaded personal questions, and turned down sleepover invitations.

And she decided that now was the proper time to trauma dump on you? While you were half dressed, ugly crying with vomit in your hair?

What a baffling female. The confusion helped you relax, so surprised you were by Nesta’s sudden urge to share. Her hand kept a slow, steady rhythm as she continued to rub gentle circles onto your back, you hadn’t realized how tensed you’d been until muscles you didn’t even know you had started going lax. 

Whatever Nesta was doing, it was working. So you basked in the comfort her touch provided and listened.

“Someone taught me how to acknowledge those thoughts and let them go. To breathe, and still everything else in my mind, and let my mind think those things, but to not dwell, because that dark self loathing didn’t define me.”

The dark self loathing didn’t define you. Her words chipped at something that had been left festering for far too long. Had that been it all along, that terrible voice in the back of your head, had it been self loathing?

“Give yourself permission to feel, acknowledge it, and let it go.”

And it was so liberating, giving a name to what had been festering under your skin. Hate. Disgust. Cowardice. You cried, but not the agonized, tortured type of wails that had crippled you moments ago. This was a release, the type of ugly cry you do when something you didn’t know was broken starts to heal.

You hated yourself. And that was okay, because as you waited for that awful voice to mock you, it never did. You hated yourself, wept so hard you thought your eyes were going to fall out of your skull, but you had never felt lighter.

Nesta found your hand, gentle at first as if giving you time to pull away. Then she held onto you like the simple touch could convey what you were worth to her. “You are the rock against which the surf crashes. Nothing can break you.” She whispered, but the words resonated like she had shouted them at you.

The smile started as a small twitch at the corners of your mouth, but you knew Nesta saw it all the same. You searched for that dreadful voice, waited for it to speak something dreadful, but the quip never came. The smile that bloomed on your cheeks was wide with astonish.

You couldn’t believe it, after 300+ years of letting that nasty voice ruin you, there was peace. In its place was something new and bright.

Hope.

XxXx

The sound of beating wings announced the arrival of Cassian and Azriel a moment before the weight of their landing sent vibrations through the hard stone of the staircase. The two hulking Illyrian warriors made quick work of the walk up the stairs, their casual conversation trailing off once they were within earshot of you and Nesta.

“Ness!” Cassian’s voice boomed in greeting, cheery and boisterous, “I see why you asked for me to bring Azriel now. Here I thought you were acting on your ‘secret’ fantasies finally. The location left something to be desired, but I wasn’t going to be picky.”

Nesta sat shoulder to shoulder with you, so close, you felt her stiffen at Cassian’s offbeat comment. If you weren’t so drained, you’d be cross with her for summoning more witnesses, but the idea of having to walk back up all those steps upset you far more. The adrenaline high from your anxiety had long worn off, and without its numbing effect, you weren’t sure if you could even stand without your legs wobbling.

Nesta sighed, deep and long suffering, but affectionate nonetheless. “Your inability to read the room will always astound me.”

“Good thing we’re outside, there is no–” Cassian’s breath hitched, now close enough to get a good look at your downcast expression, haggard appearance, and odd attire. You were careful to keep your emotions under control, unwilling to let anyone in the Inner Circle see you in such a vulnerable state. Years of cautious composer, wasted, all because of a meeting that lasted less than 30 minutes. You expected disapproval, your emotions had only been met with ridicule in the past, but the apparent emotions flying across Cassian’s face were anything but cold.

Worry. Guilt. Unease. Cassian’s emotions were so boldly displayed, you didn’t need your powers to disconcert them.

Cassian paused in his ascent as he looked you over for injury, but Azriel closed the distance in the time it took you to blind away the tingle of the latest round of tears. Their concern was almost palatable, and being shown that type of care felt too good to be real. 

These males had no reason to care so much, Nesta had no tangible reason to care so much. You were so… you, so replaceable and plain. You breathed through the thought, let it roll over you, maybe that was why they cared so much, because you are you. It had never occurred to you that you were someone worth caring for. Not when your own father never cared. Certainly not after Rhysand gave you the ultimatum to get useful or get out.

You are the rock against which the surf crashes. Nothing can break you. Nesta’s words repeated in your head, sending a zing of determination down your spine. 

“What happened? Are you hurt?” Azriel crouched down, his chest siphon reflecting the late afternoon sun. His questions made you feel queasy, but his presence soothed over you like a balm. This male simultaneously was the person you worried about disappointing most, and the person you felt most safe being vulnerable around.

Unlike with Nesta, you didn’t struggle with facing Azriel. He was inspecting the grime covered scrapes on your bare toes. “Where are your shoes?” He asked you, puzzled as he then took note of your sweat soaked bra, “and your shirt?”

A dark look passed over him, if his shadows could withstand the direct sunlight, you were sure they’d be writhing around you. He spoke your name like a whispered prayer, desperate. His gloved hands hesitated as he reached out to cup your face, only smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks when you didn’t jerk away, “please look at me,” and you did, meeting his amber eyes as he wiped remnant tear stains from your cheeks, “Did someone try to hurt you?”

You knew what he meant, but your explanation caught in your throat. A brief moment of shame overwhelmed you, because here you were blubbering over some harsh words from your High Lord, when people suffered far worse fates than your own every day. Azriel began to tense, an icy cold rage taking form as he mistook your silence as an affirmative.

You shook your head ‘no’, hating the troubling turmoil you had unintentionally sowed in him. His shoulders sagged, the sign of his relief so slight, many would have missed it. It was all it took for the remaining threads of your thin composure to snap.

Azriel all but scooped you into his arms as tears blurred your vision, and you crumbled into him, no further prompting needed. He held you so tight, it was like he was trying to hold all your pieces together for you. His wings flared to keep his balance, and maybe later you’d feel sheepish about almost tipping him backwards down those unforgiving stairs, but you relished in the comfort his strength brought you.

“I-I was–It was–” You couldn’t string the sentence together, “We were…I was–” you tried again but your breathing was off, your thoughts all jumbled, and Blessed Mother, you couldn’t do it again. Any words you’d thought about trying to say morphed into sobs, barely audible, but you couldn’t hide the way your body shook with them.

“Rhysand happened.” Nesta asserted, sparing what was left of your dignity by cutting off your senseless stuttering. She summarized the meeting, but touched on the major points that had triggered your anxiety. She was gentle with the recollection of your part in the meeting, scathingly critical of Rhysand. 

“When I left Rhysand’s office, The Morrigan was getting in his face, and as much as I would have loved to see how that went down, it felt wrong to not check in with you.” Nesta explained like she was coming clean, “ I asked the house where you were.”

It was about as close to an apology you’d ever get from Nesta. You knew from experience that Nesta took her time warming to people, preferring to mind her business and stay out of Inner Circle drama. Once she’d made an offhand comment about being the center of the drama enough to last her the rest of her fae lifetime.

Keeping your head rested on Azriel’s shoulder, you turned your face to the side so your voice was less muffled, “Thank you,” your words carried on the wind, paper thin, frail, but so heartfelt, “for following me.”

Nesta didn’t respond, and you didn’t dare look at her out of fear of getting weepy again. But you felt it all the same, a shift in the relationship between the two of you. Like a bridge branching out, a new understanding solidified in place, and you knew Nesta had felt it too.

You shifted in Azriel’s arms, intending on testing your strength, but his arms tensed to keep you in place. In one graceful movement that had your head spinning, Azriel stood up right, adjusting to support your weight in a bridal hold.

“How about we get you home and clean you up?” Azriel suggested, loud enough for the others to hear, but the question aimed at you.

Home. As in the apartment you shared with Mor. He had called Velaris your home.

Your heart gave a painful throb, all choked up again at the sentiment. Going home sounded like the most splendid thing in the whole world in that moment. You didn’t want to think about Rhysand or Hewn City anymore, you wanted to go home so much it hurt.

There was some rustling, Cassian coming to stand near Nesta. “Wanna race me back up to the house?” His words were muffled as if his lips were pressed into the crown of Nesta’s head. “Winner gets head.”

The swift resounding slap Cassian received almost made things seem normal.

“Are you two good?” Nesta ignored Cassian’s taunting, and you nodded at the same time Azriel responded with, “Yes, I’ve got her.”

A beat passed in silence, all four of you waiting to see if anyone added anything else. Then rapid footsteps took off up the stairs, and you popped your head up from the crook near Azriel’s underarm to see Nesta sprinting up the stairs.

“Hey!” Cassian bellowed, charging after her, “cheaters never prosper, Nesta!”

“Prove it, you overgrown bat!”

If you weren’t about ready to pass out from exhaustion, you would have laughed at their antics. Azriel was watching them, an unguarded fondness in his hazel eyes you rarely got to see. The two of you stayed like that, Azriel watching his friends, you committing his soft expression to memory. By the time Azriel glanced down to you, Cassian had overtaken Nesta’s lead, their figures dots in the distance.

You were a melted puddle of female in his arms, all tension and stress slipping from your muscles as your eyelids drooped. Try as you might, you couldn’t keep your eyes open for another second. Paranoia nagged at you, fear of what you’d see when you finally rested your eyes.

Nothing. Blissful darkness. Peace.

“I’m going to take off now. Loop your arms around my neck and hold on tight, okay? Once we get up high enough, the rest of the flight will be smooth.”

You did as you were told, any other time you would have been a nervous wreck, but you didn’t have it in you to fret. You’d always winnowed with someone, even learning how to land the drop through the wards when Mor winnowed with you to the House of Wind. You’d thought no one had noticed how you avoided the topic, but surprise surprise, Azriel had noticed.

The thought of being up that high in the sky and dropped sure made your pulse spike. Growing up in an Underground City meant your feet were always planted on the ground. So maybe it wasn’t a stretch to claim that you weren’t a fan of heights, you’d never flown with anyone before, but it would make a lot of damn sense.

Your musing was cut short. Azriel launched straight up into the sky, powerful wings effortlessly gaining momentum and speed. You clung to him, hands clasped together around his neck in a death grip, screaming bloody murder the entire ascend. Although you would deny it if anyone asked.

Things evened out once Azriel felt he was high enough, setting a leisure pace towards what you assumed to be the direction of Mor’s apartment. Your eyes were squeezed shut, wind whipping your hair out of what was left of your updo, tossing it across your face.

You must have been quite the sight, if the amusement in Azriel’s voice was any indication. “Are you going to look at the view?”

Your hair was a disheveled mess across your face, the wind burned your already sore eyes when you tried to pry them open. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t keep my eyes open,” It was probably beautiful, but you didn’t want to push your luck, you’d had enough panic attacks for the day, “Luckily, I don’t want to.”

He chuckled. “Next time then.”

Blame it on the fatigue, but you found yourself nodding in agreement. Something you may come to regret when he urges you to fly with him instead of winnowing the next time you travel together.

But maybe it won’t be so bad, if Azriel was the one carrying you. With your eyes closed, ear pressed to his chest, his steady heartbeat lulled the residual tension and anxiety away until all you felt was the security of his arms. You could almost forget that you were hundreds of feet off the ground.

In Azriel’s care, it was easy to relax, he wouldn’t let anything bad happen. It was in that half dozing state, snuggled up as close as you could get to him, that your sleepy mind realized moments like these were the ones you wanted to remember.

Ultimately, Rhysand’s nasty words were a small part of your day. The majority of your time was spent with Nesta, bonding with her in a way you’d never managed previously. Something that would have never happened if Rhysand hadn’t been a dick.

Yeah. You’d much rather remember the day as the Nesta heart-to-heart incident. Or the first time you flew with Azriel.

Drifting into a deeper sleep, you dreamt of the way Cassian’s laughter echoed with joy as he chased after Nesta up the stairs. You dreamt of soaring through the clouds with Azriel, the same fondness you’d seen in his eyes for Cassian and Nesta, but aimed at you.

It may take you the rest of your life, but you would replace all the trauma muddying up your memories with new memories you wanted to remember. New memories filled with laughter, affection, trust, and adventure.

One day at a time. 

Rhysand could go pound sand though.

XxXx

Previous Chapter / Bonus: Chapter 2.5 / Next Chapter (coming soon)

A/N: Don't worry the next part is going to be more like the first chapter. There will be like two more chapters sprinkled in that have a more serious tone, but the rest will be fluff, drama, and tomfoolery a plenty. Stay tuned for cheeky Cassian in the next update!!

Tag List: @f4iry-bell @jediknightjana @microwaveallthedemons @olive-main

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @5onedirection5

@brieflyclassymortal @hauntedstudentobservationus

[lackinggravitas]

part twoooo lets go. this one is. really long! more than double the last one. sorry 'bout that! next one should be shorter

i need a name for this au btw. i am open to suggestions

part 1 / part 2(you are here!)/ part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6

warnings for: a bit of a panic attack at the end and also just general angstiness at parts. not all of it but. hoooo boy fellas

ao3 vers

Ford decided to call him (he’d found out the creature was in fact male) Remus, after the founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus. Ford was fond of those sorts of old stories - he studied cryptids and stuff of folk tales, after all. Ancient myths weren’t too far off. 

(He used to sit up at night in bed, sharing his pillow, sharing the same warmth and breath, whispering recollections of the stories he’d read to cover up the fighting downstairs. And Stanley would whisper back things like “Why’d he do that?” and “He shoulda done, I woulda done-” and Ford would shush him between the lines, whispering back, “It’s a metaphor, it’s emblem-attic of the society it's from,” and “That’s just how the story goes.” Stanley never liked those answers, but he’d quiet to listen nonetheless.)

The connection between man and creature seemed apt for a name. It was that or ‘Mowgli’, and that felt a bit too childish. ‘Remus’ fit the creature anyways, and rolled off the tongue much better than ‘Romulus’ did. 

Right now, Ford was trying to coax Remus into the bathtub. The faucet of the tub rumbled as it coughed out spurts of water, not so hot as to be painful to the touch but warm enough to be comforting. No bubbles, as he’d rather not heighten the risk of getting soap in Remus’s eyes. 

Remus eyed the tub suspiciously, hunkering down to the ground, chin to the bathroom tile, and growled softly at it.

Ford huffed. “Come now, Remus, it’s just a bath. I bet you’re itchy, with your hair as dirty as it is.” He  was also hoping the water might kill some of the bugs Remus likely had, if they did exist. 

Despite the sound logic, Remus didn’t seem appeased. He kept glaring at the bathtub like he expected it to jump at him.

“Is it the noise? Is that the problem?” The pipes weren’t particularly good, hastily installed as they were, and the tub was full enough now. Ford pulled the handle to stop the flow, and it coughed out one last burst before settling, the pipes going quiet. Some of the tension in Remus’s frame softened slightly. “There, now will you get in?” Ford patted the edge of the tub in what he hoped looked inviting. “I think you’ll like it, if you gave it a shot.” 

Remus’s eyes followed his hand, face and body still showing some clear apprehension. His eyes flicked towards the closed bathroom door consideringly. Ford sighed.

“Here, what if I went first?” Ford kicked off his shoes, then pulling off his clothes with a clinical detachment. Dropping his clothes on the ground and pushing them outside of the perspective splash zone, he set his glasses on the sink and eased himself down into the water. It was warm, really quite comfortable. He met Remus’s eyes, and gestured meaningfully to the water. “There, see? Perfectly fine.”

Remus watched him carefully. Creeping forward on his hands and knees, he lifted his head to peer into the tub. He dipped a tentative hand in, then hummed, the crease in his brow relaxing a tad. 

“Just water,” Ford continued, knowing full well Remus didn’t understand him and talking nonetheless, “Nothing to be afraid of.” He reached over to pull softly yet insistently at Remus’s upper arm in a clear gesture to get over here. “Now get in before it goes cold.”

Remus clambered awkwardly over the side of the tub and flopped in. 

“Remus!” Ford spluttered, wiping his face of the sudden splash of water Remus just sent in his direction. “Good lord, man!”

Remus popped out of the water, panting a bit - his version of a laugh, Ford had learned. Remus yipped at him, something playful mischievous in his eyes, bringing an arm down to stir up even more water at Ford. He barked excitedly before dropping the lower half of his face back under the water, blowing bubbles. 

“We’re not here to play, Remus,” Ford said in what he hoped was a sufficiently stern tone. “You’re very dirty, and for your own health and comfort we need to clean you up. I’m only in the tub with you to make you feel more at ease in this unfamiliar environment.”

Remus looked up at him innocently and blew more bubbles with his nose. Ford sighed. 

“You’ve had your fun, now turn around so I can get at your hair.” It would be a bit uncomfortable, and Ford usually didn’t allow people that close to him, especially without clothes on. But he knew that that was purely a cultural, societal thing. Remus wouldn’t think it was weird, and Ford didn’t need to think that hard about it. It was only Remus, after all. 

Remus, of course, didn’t do as Ford commanded. He lifted his head out of the water and blew a small jet in Ford’s direction. 

Ford huffed, but it was a weak sound. Stan used to do something similar, when they were young enough to share baths together. Splashing, kicking and laughing, throwing water in Ford’s face. The Stan Ford remembered would’ve hated this bath - there weren’t enough bubbles, and no toys to speak of. 

Stanley had had a way of making everything, even the most mundane activities, fun. He was the one who came up with new games, who had all the best jokes. 

Ford missed him.

He was brought back to the present by a hand pawing at him, Remus whining. He was looking at Ford worriedly, patting at Ford’s face clumsily. His own cheeks were damp, Ford realized - he’d started tearing up without realizing. 

“I’m fine, Remus, thank you,” Ford said softly, gently pushing Remus’s arm away.

Remus kept whining, giving Ford a truly pitiful look. He shrank back, hunching until it was just his eyes above the water, looking down. It was strange, almost like he was-

“Oh Remus, no-” Ford grabbed him by the bicep, gently but firmly pulling him back up. “It’s not your fault, no need to act all guilty.”

Remus whined at him, but it was softer now. He looked at Ford with something like hope in his eyes, tentatively leaning towards him. Ford sighed. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” He pet Remus’s hair, trying to be comforting. It seemed to work - Remus stopped whining, just leaning close. His previous energy seemed to have dimmed, leaving him subdued. It put a weighted, slightly guilty feeling in Ford’s chest to see Remus so restrained, even if it would make bathing him easier. “I just… get a bit in my head sometimes, that’s all.”

Using his hands he gently guided Remus to turn around, putting his back to Ford. Remus kept trying to turn around to look at him, but Ford just insistently pushed him back into place each time. He leaned over the side of the tub, picking up the soap bar and washcloth he’d left there. 

“I lost my brother when I was a boy, you know,” Ford started, not really thinking about what he was saying as he wet the washcloth in the water. He rubbed the soap into the towel, covering it in suds and a faint, pine-y smell. “I was only five years old at the time.”

Remus stopped trying to move once Ford put the towel to his shoulder and started to scrub. He seemed to recognize what was going on now, and he relaxed contentedly into Ford’s working hands.

“We were traveling on a road trip to visit some distant family a few states away.” Ford scrubbed away what seemed like decades worth of dirt and grime, moving from Remus’s shoulders to his back. “I can’t remember what the occasion was. A shiva or a wedding, I suppose. My family wasn’t much for vacationing.” He smiled, wry and bitter. 

Then he paused. He’d scrubbed away most of the grime on Remus’s back, finding it dirtier than he had realized. But underneath it was faded, scarring of rope-like slashes, thin and thick, long and short, that had been obscured before. They didn’t look like animal scratches. 

Ford swallowed, forcing himself to go back to washing Remus, his hands now shaking slightly. “...I had fallen asleep in the car,” he continued, voice now trembling, struggling to keep his mind from the memory and his eyes from Remus’s back at the same time, “And when we stopped at the gas station, I didn’t wake up. Long car rides, they always… put me to sleep…”

Soapy water ran down his hand, the washcloth clenched so tight that his knuckles were bone-white. He switched to washing Remus’s arms. 

“I guess he went in to steal us some snacks, but he must have forgotten to tell my parents, and they were in such a rush to get there on time, they just… they didn’t notice he didn’t get back in the car.” 

He dropped the towel in the water. For a minute he just watched it sink, caught suddenly in the moment, unable to move. The soap dissipated into the water, the towel drifted back up to the top. He pushed it away, reaching for the small water pitcher he’d set aside. 

“If I hadn’t fallen asleep, if I’d been awake to tell them he wasn’t back, if I had been able to go with him-” he snapped his mouth shut suddenly, breathing sharply. He knew the answer to that.

He would’ve stayed behind in a heartbeat if it meant he could have remained with Stanley. 

That’s what got him about it all. The fact that everything would have been different if he had just woken up. How easily preventable it all was. 

But he hadn’t woken up. And now he didn’t have a brother. 

His hand tightened around the handle of the pitcher. He took a measured, sharp breath, dunked the pitcher into the bath, and promptly dumped water over Remus’s head.

Remus yelped, startled by the sudden dousing, whipping his head around to blink at Ford in surprise. Ford pushed him back into position. “I know, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll… I’ll give you a warning next time.” 

Deep breath. It’s been twenty years. 

He filled the pitcher again, placing a hand on Remus’s shoulder as a warning and then slowly pouring the water into his hair again, taking care to wet the stubborn knots and mats as well. Twenty years.

He set the pitcher aside and squirted some shampoo into his hand, then began working it into Remus’s thick hair. Ford had never had hair as long as Remus’, and it only seemed to get longer when wet. It was definitely supposed to be curly, Ford thought, but it was in such poor condition it was hard to tell. He pulled out a twig from Remus’s hair. Very poor condition. 

Stanley would have liked Remus. He would have thought he was cool at first, and then he would have thought he was fun when he got to know Remus’s personality. He would have-

“I built my lab with an extra room, you know. If I- when I find him.” Ford sighed, picking at one of the knots with his fingers. He should have tried to detangle Remus’s hair before he put the shampoo in. “Right across from mine. So that we wouldn’t have to be far apart ever again.”

The knot slowly came loose, soapy hair spilling over Ford’s fingers. He reached for the pitcher again, guiding Remus to tip his head back so he wouldn’t get soap in his eyes as Ford rinsed out his hair. The shampoo suds swirled in the water. 

Ford set the pitcher aside again, deciding to focus on the knots before he moved to the conditioner. He hadn’t had anything to de-mat hair around the lab, so he’d settled for a comb, some oil, and some scissors if working them out proved impossible. 

He wanted to keep as much of Remus’s hair intact as possible. He hadn’t devised a way to efficiently and effectively communicate with the creature yet, and he didn’t want to potentially risk upsetting him by chopping off his hair. It was entirely possible Remus might be attached to his current hair length and would react poorly to having it cut. It certainly was a very impressive length, even with the mats making it look shorter than it likely actually was. 

“That reminds me,” Ford said idly as he took up the comb in one hand and the oil in the other, “I’ll need to set up some sort of quarters for you if you are to stay here. I’m certainly not going to make you sleep outside - unless you want to, I suppose, but I think you’ll find yourself much more comfortable indoors.” 

Ford really hoped Remus would choose to stay. His lab felt much more like a home just with Remus in it - Remus somehow seemed to thaw parts of him that had long frozen solid twenty years ago, when Ford lost his brother. He felt warmed by him in that sun-touching way only Stanley had been able to do.

Perhaps if he were to make his home as appealing, as comfortable as possible to Remus, he might be much more inclined to stick around. Ford straightened a little, brain starting to waken from the murk and spin quickly, whirling with sudden activity. What did Remus like to eat? What would he find most comfortable? Would he find the stairs too awkward to climb, would an elevator just make him nauseous? Would he like it if Ford installed more windows, got some house plants? He’d need something to keep him from becoming bored indoors as well. What would that be?

Ford could remodel. Maybe he should buy new furniture. Would Remus be offended if Ford bought him dog toys? Dog treats? If Ford gave him enough food, would he stay? Ford could do, would do anything. Whatever Remus wanted, just so long as he stayed. 

Another knot unraveled between Ford’s fingers. He sighed. He’d be at this for a while. 

One at a time, Ford painstakingly untangled Remus’s hair, stopping periodically to pour more water over his head whenever his hair started drying. It took a surprisingly long amount of time, but Remus did have a lot of hair.

And as he worked, he talked.

“I’ve been studying anomalies in Gravity Falls since I graduated,” he said, using the comb to work out one of the mats. “I was originally going to West Coast Tech, but, ah,” he frowned, grinding his teeth together at the memory, “It turned out they had already met their Jewish quota for that year. I could have waited, I suppose, but I was desperate to get out of the house. It was suffocating in there.”

Remus idly stirred his hands in the water as Ford worked, content and patient. He seemed to enjoy the attention and the ministrations, leaning towards Ford when he could, seeming happy whenever Ford picked the work back up after a brief pause. Ford wondered if he thought of it as being groomed - Ford was no expert in coyotes, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that was a way they strengthened social bonds. It was a common behaviour among social mammals.

“The rules are rigid and outdated, not to mention discriminatory.” Ford sighed, feeling his brow furrow as he continued trying to comb out a mat. He continued, voice becoming more quiet and bitter, “It’s always something, Remus. If it’s not my hands, then it’s my family background, or something to do with my behavior, somehow.”

The mat finally came loose under his hand and comb. Ford moved on to the next one. 

“I don’t understand people. They’re like aliens to me, Remus. There’s so many rules, and they can be so illogical - and they never tell you what they actually think, or how they’re actually feeling, you’re just expected to know, somehow.” Ford exhaled sharply out of his nose. “It’s part of the reason why I dedicated my life to studying the strange and paranormal. To me, that’s easier to understand than why someone might have reacted a certain way to something I said.”

Remus swirled a finger in the water, making patterns out of the soap and shampoo that had been washed in and floated on the top like foam. 

“You don’t even speak and yet I already feel so much more at ease with you than I do with any of the locals in this town, and I’ve been living here for years.” Another mat finally came free under Ford’s comb and hands. He moved to the next. “…I was the same with Stanley, you know, it just came so naturally, before…”

Ford swallowed.

“We were so close, and…” The comb caught on the mat, becoming snagged. “And then…”

Ford stamped his mouth shut. No. He wasn’t doing this again. Stanley wasn’t dead, he was fine, any day now Ford would get a call saying they’d found him, any day now he’d come back to Ford. 

“He’s going to come back,” Ford finished firmly. “I know he will. We won’t be apart for long.”

For now Ford sat in a bathtub, the water slowly going cold, picking knots and mats out of a wildman’s hair.

A pile of sticks, leaves, and other assorted small objects accumulated on the ground as he worked, pulling them out of Remus’s thick brown hair. 

The sheer length of Remus’s hair was a marvel in and of itself. As Ford unraveled the years worth of tangles, knots, and mats, it seemed only to reveal itself to be even longer and longer, spooling down Renus’ back, his shoulders, his front, fanning out in the water. 

He looked like a creature out of a fairytale, an ancient fae of the forest. But then Remus tilted his head, glanced back at him with wide brown eyes, and the faerie-like illusion was broken. There was no century-old unknowableness in those eyes - they were wide and open and trusting. His eyes were human.

Ford guided his head back to looking forward, tsk’ing softly. “This wouldn’t take so long if you took better care of your hair. For an anomalous entity, you certainly don’t seem to have any sort of magic about you. I’d think one of those fae-types would be able to keep themselves tidier than this.”

Remus tilted his head toward the bathroom door consideringly. Ford huffed.

“I’m almost done,” Ford said. “I’m actually working quite quickly, you know. This is hardly an easy job.”

Picking up the scissors and a bowl he had set aside, Ford made quick work of the mats that had proven impossible to tame. He did his best to keep the hair from falling into the water - the mats would probably clog the drain if given the chance, and besides, their bath wasn’t over yet. 

Once the last of the mats were gone, he put the scissors and the bowl to the side and ran the comb through Remus’s hair one more time. It took a moment to get through all of it, the hair being as long as it was. It didn’t snag even once. Ford nodded to himself, satisfied.

“Right. Now we just have to apply the conditioner and wash your front, and we’ll be done.” Ford set the comb aside and reached for the pitcher, scooping up some water from the bath.  “I think you’ll find yourself enjoying how loose your hair is after this. It hardly seemed comfortable as it was before.”

He gently poured the water over Remus’s head and down his hair, making sure it was well-soaked. Remus stiffened slightly, letting out a small, unhappy whining sound.

“The water’s getting cold, isn’t it?” Ford sighed. He didn’t want Remus feeling uncomfortable, but there wasn’t much he could do. “We’re almost done.”

He patted Remus’s back, and surprisingly the creature actually did relax at that, muscles untensing under Ford’s hand with a small sigh. In retrospect, it made sense that Remus would be tactile like this - what with his affectionate behaviour, as well as his seeming lack of language comprehension, it was probably the best way to communicate with him. Ford made a mental note of that, archiving it in his head.

Ford set the pitcher aside and grabbed the conditioner, squirting a generous amount of it into his hand. He lathered Remus’s hair, finding it satisfyingly smooth and easy to work with now. Remus seemed to enjoy the attention just as he had with the shampoo - he leaned into Ford’s hands, wiggling happily in place. Ford smiled softly at him, patting the side of his head affectionately.

Once he was done with the conditioner, Ford rinsed his hands in the bath, then reached over and plucked up the washcloth that had previously been floating around, aimless and slow, on the surface of the water. 

“If memory serves correctly, you’re supposed to let conditioner sit for a minute or two before rinsing it back out.” He reached over the side of the tub, grabbing the soap bar again and rubbing it into the towel. “We can do a bit more washing up in the meantime.” 

Setting the soap aside again for the last time, Ford grasped Remus by the shoulder and wordlessly instructed him to face him. Remus looked up at him, - Remus always held himself with a slouch, like he was always trying to make himself seem smaller - tilting his head and letting out a small boof. 

“Just these last two steps,” Ford reminded him. He picked up one of Remus’s arms, scrubbing at the dirt there.

Just like with before, it took some scrubbing. The water had slowly turned gray, and it grew darker still. Ford tried not to think about how he and Remus both were marinating in shampoo, soap, and increasingly dirty water. Among whatever other things Remus had on him.

When he got both of Remus’s arms done, he moved on to his torso, and then the trickiest part - his face. 

“Don’t squirm,” Ford warned him pointlessly. “Not unless you want soap in your eyes.” 

He carefully wiped at Remus’s face. It was still dirty, but not as dirty as the rest of him. Thankfully Remus didn’t seem to be in the habit of sticking his face into the dirt nearly as much as he did his arms and back. The grime came away easier, less layers of it. 

Ford held him by the chin with one hand to keep him still, and it worked surprisingly well. Remus was completely docile as Ford washed his face and neck, running the cloth over his cheeks, his forehead, even down his neck-

-where the dirt came away to reveal a birthmark. Ford’s hand stalled.

Really, it was an incredibly benign birthmark. Two moles, about an inch apart, one right below the other, down the side of his neck. They were faint, a barely-there tint easily hidden by a shirt collar. Ford knew that birthmark. He knew it very well. 

It was on his neck too. As had it been on Stanley’s as well, because they were identical twins. Stanley used to say it was their ‘cool vampire bite scars, Sixer!’

Ford’s eyes moved up. He wiped at Remus’s face and, would you look at that.

The Pines family nose was very distinctive. It had been passed down to Ford and Stanley through their father, and his father before him, extending in an endless chain of noses. It was big and oddly shaped and a reddish-orangish color, standing out sharply from their natural Ashkenazi-paleness. 

Ford had found this nose a bit embarrassing, teased as he would be for it (he was teased for just about everything about him, because everything about him was abnormal), but then he would remember how proud Stanley had been of their noses. How much glee and pride he took from looking across a family reunion and seeing their nose on almost all of the faces there. How he’d loved how it made them look like their family. And remembering that, Ford could never feel bad about it for long, because it had been something that made Stanley happy. 

And Remus had their nose. 

A strange noise filled the bathroom, and it took Ford a moment to realize it was him. Laughing, except he didn’t find this funny. He was giggling uncontrollably, and none of this was funny at all. 

“No,” Ford said, wildly, head feeling dizzy, swimming like the water, rushing and roaring, “No, no, no.”

Remus blinked at him, making an inquisitive sort of noise. 

Ford barely processed the towel slipping out his hands or himself shrinking backwards, still shaking with high, manic giggling. “No. No! You’re not him. You’re- you’re not him.” 

Remus whined at him, leaning forward with a concerned look on his face. 

Remus couldn’t be Stanley. Remus couldn’t be Stanley because Stanley couldn’t be sitting in front of Ford, dirty, ribs faintly showing through his sides, face gaunt, hair overgrown. Not understanding English, living in the woods. Isolated from society for long enough he couldn’t remember his own language. Couldn’t remember he was human, that he wasn’t a fucking coyote. Remus could not be Stanley, Stanley could not be Remus.

Ford cackled, finding his throat constricting and his head going fuzzy. He was distantly aware his breathing wasn’t right, that he wasn’t getting enough air, but it barely registered. It didn’t matter. “This is all a very funny coincidence. You aren’t- you’re not him. You’re not him!”

Remus shrank a bit, whining loudly. He crawled forward, almost like he was scared, until he was close enough to paw at Ford’s face, his shoulders. Pawing, because he didn’t remember how to use his hands. 

No! No. Remus was not Stanley. It was a coincidence. A complete coincidence!

“Very funny,” Ford said nonsensically. “I can’t believe- I almost- and you-” Ford shook his head, giggling, vision going blurry around the edges, and he didn’t know if it was from tears or if he was about to faint and he didn’t care either way. 

He wasn’t Stanley, he couldn’t be Stanley. Stanley couldn’t be starving in the woods, small from malnourishment. Stanley couldn’t have those scars on his back. Stanley couldn’t have mats in his hair and a wild look in his eyes and visible ribs. Stanley couldn’t have hair so long from twenty years without human contact. Ford did not put his brother in a snare and Ford was being very reasonable and very logical and he did not abandon his brother to be alone in the cold and starving and having to join a fucking pack of coyotes to survive because Ford was an idiot child who couldn’t keep his eyes open for long enough to make sure his brother wasn’t left behind like a discarded toy. None of these things ever happened-!

Something wet rasped against the six-fingered hand white knuckled around the edge of the bathtub. 

Ford jerked his hand back, suddenly thrust out of his thoughts and back into the present. Remus was whining very loudly at him now, eyes wide and scared and tongue peeking out of his mouth from actually licking Ford’s hand like a concerned dog trying to calm someone down. 

Ford panted. He stared at Remus and Remus stared back. Still whining, Remus shuffled forward the water, pawing at Ford, looking like was about to try and lick him again. 

And without thinking Ford suddenly seized Remus, gripping him by the shoulders intensely. Remus yelped and for a moment looked like he might bite at Ford, but then Ford started talking. 

“You aren’t him,” Ford whispered intensely. “We’re going to finish this bath, and then I’m going to prove you aren’t him, and I’m going to feel very silly about this whole thing, and you won’t care, because you can’t understand English and you probably aren’t human anyways. And then I’m going to laugh this whole thing off and forget it ever happened.” 

Remus just blinked up at him worriedly. 

“You aren’t my brother,” Ford insisted, desperation starting to leak through his voice. “I- I would know if you were.”

(And deep down, he did.)

tag list :)) let me know if you’d like to be added!!

@littlelilliana15

[ani-solai]

Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part III.

NSFW. MDNI. 18+ Only.

The problem with his pretty, young thing is that the more time he spends with her, the harder it is to deny his 'daddy kink' (her words).

He takes her up on the offer for a drink.

"Whiskey would be great."

"Your options are bourbon or wine," she responds, holding the entryway door open for him. He wrinkles his nose at her in consideration, though she can't see it as she turns to lock the door behind them. Bourbon will do, even if it might burn just a little too much going down, depending on the brand.

He follows her up the stairs. If he expected a lavish apartment with a fancy penthouse, he was sorely wrong.

It was an old building. Straight out of the 1890's. No electronic locks or keycards, here. Just physical keys and wood floors that creak underfoot as his hiking boots quietly thud after her. It must have been renovated at some point to accommodate apartments because they pass the numbered doors as they climb up to the third (and top) floor.

She lets them into a studio apartment. It's a mid-sized living room that connects to a renovated kitchen with a breakfast nook and pocket doors at the far end separating the bedroom and bathroom from the rest. It's not anything special. It's certainly not what one would expect from someone with money, let alone a mob boss.

He studies the room.

There's a mid-century modern style couch in dark green velvet. It faces a decently sized flat screen television, which is framed like a piece of artwork and display a Spotify playlist paused on screen, mounted on the wall between two large windows. The coffee table is an interesting thing; a simple but cobbled together piece made of reclaimed wood. Then there are the mismatch of tall bookshelves against the wall beside the front door that are full of books. Thrift books with their orange label stickers that she never bothered to peel off. First editions, judging by the more popular ones. Every genre. He has only a moment to think that he might not be the only one who likes to 'fix' things before a quiet prrrrrrrrrt from overhead has him starting a bit. On top of one of the bookshelves is a cat bed and, peeking over its fuzzy edge, is a black and white face.

She hangs her vintage Coach bag on a hook drilled into the back of her front door. He watches her. He studies her. Tailored charcoal wool pants. Black ribbed mock-neck sweater. Black leather flats. No jewelry. He compares it to the apartment. It's not what he expected from a mob boss. But it feels right. It's comfortable. She is comfortable.

She's already half-way across the apartment, pulling two bottles from a bottle rack; bourbon and wine, as promised. She pours, keeping one eye on him as he studies his surroundings.

"You can search the place if it makes you more comfortable," her voice is dry as she pours a few fingers of bourbon and offers the glass to him, "There's a weapon in every room. No guns though. You aren't in danger."

He raises an eyebrow. But he's trying to play it cool so he just says, "I'll pass."

He takes the bourbon she offers and wanders to the bookshelf as she drops onto the couch with her wine in hand. He recognizes plenty of titles here. 'The Lord of the Rings.' Jeff Vandermeer's Area X trilogy. 'Frankenstein,' 'Dracula', and other classics wedged between romance books and and old textbooks.

The distraction doesn't work. Curiosity cannot be contained. Most mob bosses carry at least a handgun for self-defense. Or, if nothing else, to avoid being seen as weak.

"No guns. Seems risky for a woman living alone in the city," he rumbles out after his first swig burns down his throat.

"I'm better with knives. And a gun is more likely to be used against you."

Her logic is sound. But it's a little difficult to imagine her taking on an armed assailant with nothing but a knife. She comes across as unassuming with her bluntness and easy going nature.

"What if your attacker is armed?"

"Then I guess we'll see who comes out on top."

"That's a dangerous way of looking at it."

"I suppose. But I figure it's no different then what we're currently doing."

It's another surprisingly apt comparison. They were both taking a major risk here. He finally meets her gaze. And she doesn't so much as blink back, unflinching and stormy-eyed. But there's a thrill there too. She's excited by the prospect that she might not end up on top this time.

There's only a few steps until he's in front of her.

"Are you sure about this?" He's not sure if he's offering her an out or him an out. But he offers it nonetheless.

"I am. Are you?"

"... Yeah. I am."

A half-smile curves her lips upward at that. Then a simple order.

"Sit down, John."

He quirks a brow at her but follows her instruction, sitting on the couch. It's easy to do when she says it like that. Anticipation curls in his gut. He reaches for her only for her to slip away, untucking herself from the corner of the couch to settle on the ground between his legs.

Oh.

Clever fingers trace up his thighs, toying with his belt.

"Condom?"

His hands are surprisingly steady as he digs out his wallet, finding a foil-wrapped package. Luckily, it isn't expired. But she still scrutinizes it.

"That's a bad place to keep a condom."

He knows that. He's heard all about the dangers of heat and friction from the army medics before, just the same as everyone else does at their regular check-ups. But it was hard to casually stash condoms on oneself when traveling light was practically a job requirement.

"I'm clean," he rumbles out, "Just in case you want -"

"Condoms aren't negotiable for me. This is fine for now. I have other condoms for later in the bedroom."

He nods. That's a completely fair boundary for her to establish. And the mention of 'later' was certainly promising, if the way she tugged his belt open wasn't enough to reassure him that this was happening.

"Yeah," he gives a gruff mumble, his hand gathering her hair into his fist as she rolls the condom on, "That works."

It's the last coherent sentence he manages for a while since her mouth is on him. There's only one mumbled apology when he accidentally thrusts up and he's met with a watery, reprimanding look. Other than that, the only thing coming from his lips are wrecked groans at the sight of her draped across his thighs, the wrap of her hair in his fingers his only grip on reality. It's been too long.

Eventually, he has to tug her off. There's a rushed intake of air and a dribble of spit down her chin as she gives him a confused look.

"You've had your fun," he tells her, "Let me have mine."

She wipes the wetness from the corner of her mouth and he rebuttons his jeans so they don't fall down. Then he's hauling her up, legs around his waist and large hands getting a pleasant fist full of ass. They somehow make it to the bedroom without tripping, shedding clothes as they go.

"In the bedside drawer," is all she supplies when they are both finally naked. He goes digging only to find a pretty little collection of condoms, toys, and lube. He quirks a brow her way and she adds, "I can't orgasm from penetration alone."

So clinical. So blunt. So honest.

He tries to match her tone, with the casual question, "So no penetration until you climax?"

For some reason that is what sends a pink flush over the tips of her ears. She squirms - just a little bit - and he mentally takes note of the fact that being taken care of makes her uncomfortable.

All at once her reaction provides crucial context to their earlier conversation about the 'daddy kink' she accused him of having. In the same breath she had called it 'admirable' to want to take care of others, she had said she didn't need fixing (which she was right about). But she also didn't want to be taken care of because that would require some degree of vulnerability from her. Judging by the look in her eyes, she hates that. He wonders who taught her that. And he catches himself wondering if he can unteach her that (though he's also aware that he's walked right into the trap of trying to fix her there).

"You don't have to do that," she chokes out.

"I think I'd rather like to though."

She barely gets out the offer to find him a dental dam, stumbling over the words. When he just shrugs it off, she assures him that she's clean too (she has test results, if he wants proof). He believes her. He has other priorities. Which is how he ends up between her thighs, her fingers carded through his hair.

It takes a while to find the right rhythm, the right technique. But he knows when he does because she's makes breathy barely-muffled moans in the back of her throat. Then he adds fingers and she whimpers. Well. That's certainly a noise he wants to hear again. So he drags each sound out of her until his name is a warning on her tongue.

Only when she's gone pliant and flushed does he find a fresh condom.

"Is this okay?"

A last chance for the no. One she is utterly uninterested in.

"Fuck me."

It's the first demand she had made since she'd told him to sit down earlier. He doesn't need to hear it a second time.

She's soft and wet and, admittedly, he had to stop just for a moment to keep from going over the edge immediately. It's been too long since he's been with someone. Too long for her as well, judging by the way she clenches around him.

"Don't do that again," he grits out, "At least not yet. I want to enjoy this."

He wants her to enjoy it too, which is why he's got one of those vibrators, stolen from her drawer, in hand. She almost cries when he clicks it on, choking on curses. His only response is to talk her through two more orgasms until she's a whimpering mess.

"Can you take one more right now?"

When she shakes her head, he clicks the tiny toy off and sets it aside.

For all that they had done, they hadn't kissed yet. He's caught off guard when he runs his free hand through his hair, and she uses the moment to drag his mouth down to hers. It's electric - like kissing someone you've needed for years. It's the fuel he needs to chase his own orgasm.

When he finally rolls off to the side - sprawling gracelessly after throwing the condom away - they are both quiet for a very long time. There's still a hint of a blissed out look on her face. He's sure he looks about the same.

"If you stay a while, will the others come breaking down my door just to make sure the mean mob boss hasn't killed you?”

Her question is an unwelcome reminder of reality, of consequences. It was foolish to look for romance in a one-night stand with someone who would end up his enemy again at the end of the mission. Even if the sex had been fantastic.

"I should go."

She doesn't argue. She doesn't try to coax him into staying while he gets dressed again.

"We should do this again," she shrugs. It's a casual offer; just because a relationship would be impossible didn't mean they couldn't have some fun in the short term.

It's a dangerous proposition. But he answers, "Yeah, we should," before his higher brain even has the chance to comprehend what he's saying.

She just asks for his phone before programming her contact into his shitty S.A.S flip phone under the first letter of her name. He offers to do the same for her and she shakes her head.

"Text me and I'll memorize your number."

It's the last thing she says before she closes the front door in his face. There's no goodbye kiss. Just a grateful nod and a brief smile.

He lingers on the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his jacket as he waits for the taxi to arrive, while he thinks about what happened. It really had been good. The sex. The conversation.

But he has a job to do. And it really is a bad idea to get involved with a temporary ally. He looks at her contact information once. And then he resolves to not let it go any further.

[im-so-normal-iswear]

The lack of yandere/non-yandere metal sonic and espio is a crime.

Can I have them react— it can be separately or not —to gn Y/N that is a fourth wall breaker.

Like during a fight between metal sonic, reader just began to randomly talk to nothing or he just thought they're talking about him but actually talking to the views, so he said "Enough chit chat. Die." To Y/N and reader just say: "dude, I'm not talking to you. Im talking to the audience!" And metal sonic be like: "tf u mean???" Our metallic hedgehog is confused as hell.

And to Espio. Oh Espio... he thought you had an imaginary friend the more he observes your behavior. So when you said something like: "Dude think he's completely invincible when I can clearly see the outline of his figure, don't you agree? Oh yes you, I'm talking to you. Person behind that screen." Y/N... what screen are you talking abou? There's no such thing as screen here. The more he observes you will leave him so very confuse.

Woah, that's a long request! I hoped I did not overwhelmed you.

A/n: i dont think metal sonic is able to talk but since the ask specified it im putting it in

Metal Sonic/Espio x Fourth-Wall-Breaker Reader

Metal sonic:

The clash of energy fills the air as you dodge Metal Sonic’s sharp claws, the sound of his limbs slicing through the atmosphere like a razor. His glowing eyes lock onto you, and you can hear the wirring of machinery as he ran calculations through his processor to predict your next move. But instead of fighting back, you stop in the middle of the battlefield, throwing your hands up in a dramatic gesture.

"Alright, folks," you begin, turning away from Metal entirely, "this guy is like, a total edge-lord, but i guess you people are used to it, after all more than half of you guys are head over heels for Shadow."

Metal Sonic pauses, hovering mid-air, his processors stuttering for a moment as he attempts to comprehend your behavior. "...What?" His voice is sharp, but filled with confusion.

You turn to him, blinking innocently. "What? Oh no, not you. I’m talking to the audience."

There’s a long pause. "...Audience?" He repeats. "There is no one else here but you and me."

"Oh, Metal," you sigh, shaking your head as if he’s a toddler who just doesn’t get it. "There’s always someone watching, or, reading in this case." You mutter the last part more to yourself. "Like, you don’t think this fight is just happening in a vacuum, do you? Someone’s reading this right now! Probably rooting for me, too."

His thrusters whir louder as he tries to process your words. "You are speaking nonsense. There is no logical-"

"Oh, there’s plenty of logic!" you interrupt, pointing a finger at him. "Like, for example, you’re basically Sonic’s evil doppelgänger, but you still have a cool factor because robots are inherently neat. And let’s not forget your whole ‘I will surpass my original’ arc. Very compelling stuff."

"I am the real Sonic," he snaps, suddenly defensive. "But this irrelevant chatter will end now. Die."

You roll your eyes, sidestepping his attack without effort. "Dude, I just told you, I wasn’t even talking to you! Stop making it about yourself."

Metal Sonic halts again, his metal claws still raised mid-swing. "...You were not speaking to me?" His voice glitches slightly as he repeats the question.

"Nope," you reply cheerfully, tapping your temple. "I was breaking the fourth wall. Talking to the readers. You know, the people behind the screen. By the way, hi there! Thanks for reading so far."

Metal Sonic stares at you. "What… is a fourth wall? What screen? You are delusional."

"Delusional?" You laugh. "If I’m delusional, then what are you? You have literally convinced yourself your the 'original' of someone else, crazy delusional if you ask me"

For a moment, Metal Sonic’s circuits nearly short out as he tries, and fails, to process your words. He recalibrates himself, his voice monotone "I do not understand your nonsense. It is irrelevant. I will terminate you now."

"Okay, but you’re really just proving my point," you say, hands on your hips as he rushes toward you again. "See? Perfect villain behavior! You’re predictable, but in a way that makes the plot move forward. Classic stuff. Oh, and to whoever’s reading, place your bets now! Will he explode in a dramatic fireball, or will he retreat while promising to get stronger?"

Metal Sonic’s screech of frustration echoes across the battlefield, but his confusion never quite leaves him.

Espio:

Espio moves silently through the forest, his form practically invisible in the dense shadows. He’s been observing you for a while now, fascinated, and increasingly baffled, by your behavior. As a ninja, he prides himself on understanding people’s intentions, but you? You’re an enigma.

"Alright," you suddenly announce, breaking the silence. "Let’s just address the elephant in the room. That invisible trick? Super cool. But you’re not actually invisible, Espio. I can see the outline of your figure. You’re like... one of those cheap cloaking devices from a sci-fi movie."

Espio freezes, his position no longer concealed. "What?" His voice is calm but laced with confusion. "How did you-?"

"Don’t worry about it," you interrupt, waving him off. "Anyway, what do you all think? Pretty impressive, right? I mean, I get the whole ninja aesthetic, but at the same time, it’s kinda predictable. Personally dont see what you see, actually... Hm... Maybe..."

Espio steps forward cautiously, his eyes narrowing. "What are you doing? Are you talking to yourself?"

"Exactly!" you exclaim, spinning around to face nothing. Or at least, that’s how it looks to him. "On a technicality I mean... The person reading this knows what I’m talking about. Right? Like, you’ve definitely got a little crush-crush on the guy haven’t you? Oh, don’t be shy. I’m talking about you."

Espio tilts his head slightly, his usually composed demeanor cracking. "There is no one else here."

"Well, duh," you say, rolling your eyes. XOf course you can’t see them. You’re part of the story."

"The story?" His voice falters slightly, and for the first time, you see genuine uncertainty on his face. "Are you suggesting this is some form of illusion?"

"Not illusion," you correct. "More like a narrative construct. You’re a character, and I’m a character, but I’m the one who knows it. You follow?"

Espio stares at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You believe someone is observing us?"

"Not just believe, know," you reply, tapping the side of your head. "I mean, they’re probably laying on their bed reading this instead of doing some work they should really stop holding off on. Hey, reader, hope you’re having a good day! Seriously though, stop procrastinating"

Espio’s hand instinctively moves toward his weapon. "You are either incredibly insightful or entirely delusional."

"Oh, Espio," you sigh dramatically. "That’s what makes this so fun. I get to say all the stuff that you’re too serious to notice. Like how you’re totally the ‘stoic and mysterious’ type. Fans love that, even if your not too popular."

He lowers his weapon slightly, though his suspicion remains. "Your behavior id unusual. Are you speaking to an imaginary companion?"

"Imaginary? Please. They’re as real as you or me. Well, okay, maybe more real, depending on how you look at it."

Espio exhales deeply, clearly trying to make sense of your words. "You are… unlike anyone I’ve ever met."

"And that’s what makes me the protagonist," you say with a grin. "Now come on, ninja boy. Let’s get back to whatever plotline we’re supposed to be following. Oh and reader, hows it feel for one of your favs to be tmone of the most underappreciated characters? Im sympathetic" you put a hand to your heart in mock solemn before stretching up and walking off.

Espio watches as you stroll ahead, his confusion only deepening.

[diamonddaze01]

Find your favorite constellation!

| f = fluff | h = humor | a = angst | s = suggestive | m = mature (MINORS DNI) | ☆ tara’s favs

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

baby, darling, light of my entire life | f, h | 2.4k ╰┈➤ it's laughable how much you forget when you drink.

contractual obligations | f, a, s | SERIES: ONGOING

oh, baby! | f, h | 5.4k ╰┈➤in which jeonghan knows he's the bestest of friends, so why can't you tell him your secret? read as: jeonghan knows you're pregnant. you have to be, right?

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[game over!] | f, h| 0.9k [uh oh] | f, s | 1.0k

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

on poetry and homecomings | f, s | 2.0k ╰┈➤jeonghan has apparently started reading poetry. 

full throttle (part i) | (part ii) | f, h, a, m | 37.3k | ☆ ╰┈➤ maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track. ⋆｡°✩ prequel drabbles: [on the record] | [off the record] ⋆｡°✩ sequel drabbles: [bad for business] | [invisible string]

oh, baby! | f, h | 5.4k ╰┈➤ in which jeonghan knows he's the bestest of friends, so why can't you tell him your secret? read as: jeonghan knows you're pregnant. you have to be, right?

missed calls | f, a | 3.7k ╰┈➤ It’s a strange kind of ache, missing someone who feels so close and so far.

ASH AND AETHER | f, a, h | SERIES: ONGOING ╰┈➤ this is berk.

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[the choices we live with] | a | 1.0k [on the record] | f, h | 1.3k [sore memories] | a, f | 1.3k [off the record] | f, h | 1.3k [fight my way] | f, a | 1.1k [bad for business] | f, s | 0.9k [DIY (why)] | f, h | 1.0k [invisible string] | f, h | 2.0k [test drive] | f, h | 1.1K [skyfall] | f | 0.9K

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ♡✧ | f | 2.6k ╰┈➤ Joshua is drunk. You know this because he keeps smiling at you.

bound by blood and fate | a, f | 9.9k | ☆ ╰┈➤ “Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[plan b-day] | f | 1.5k

╰┈➤ the stars are aligning....

╰┈➤ the stars are aligning....

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

Error 404: Feelings Not Found | f, a, h | 4.0k | ☆ ╰┈➤ Wonwoo has always been comfortable in the world of logic.  But his crush on you? A catastrophic anomaly in his otherwise perfectly functioning system.

beautiful fool | a | 5.1k ╰┈➤ Foolishly, Wonwoo let himself hope.

hesitate | a, f | 5k ╰┈➤Time is supposed to soften things, isn’t it? To sand down the sharp edges of old memories, to make the past feel like something distant, untouchable. And yet. 

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[night time book club] | f | 1.6k [do you like me?] | f | 0.9k

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

lilac wine | s, a | 2.7k ╰┈➤ In the dark, Jihoon learns how to break you apart and build you back together, piece by piece.

love you the mostest | f | 2.1k ╰┈➤ happy birthday, jihoon <3

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[permission not required] | f | 0.8k [to you] | f | 1.1k [11:38 PM] | f, h | 1.1k [us, again] | a | 1.3k [고맙다] | a, f | 1.4k

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

golden promises | a, f | 5.6k | ☆ ╰┈➤ And so it began. Minghao, who believed in fate, and you, who didn’t.

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[on coffee and confessions] | f | 1.0k [second opinion] | f, h | 1.0k [run] | a, f | 1.3k

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

love: best served hot | f | 2.7k ╰┈➤even when he’s exhausted, mingyu wants to care for you.  ⋆｡°✩ associated drabbles: [seasoned with love] [the way the cookie crumbles]

second servings | f, m | 3.7k ╰┈➤ "“And what better way to show you how…grateful I am than to kneel in front of you?"

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[silence, at its loudest] | a | 1.1k [seasoned with love] | f | 0.9k [the way the cookie crumbles] | f |

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

the somerset affair | f, a, s | SERIES: ONGOING ╰┈➤ the three times Lord Lee Seokmin, Duke of Lancaster, asks you to stay, and the one time you do.

happy seokmin day (again and again and again) | f, h | 3.5k ╰┈➤ Seokmin’s birthday is stuck on repeat, and he’s starting to wonder if he’s ever going to get the chance to say what’s really on his mind—if the universe ever lets him, that is.

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[22:34] | f | 1.2K [mismatched] | f | 1.0k [dog days] | f | 1.4k [예쁜 말] | f | 1.0k

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

Plan B (for Boo) | f, h | 9.0k ╰┈➤ it’s just a stupid pact. what could possibly go wrong?

nice try, love | f, h, s | 5.6k ╰┈➤ Okay FINE, maybe planning a surprise birthday party isn’t your strong suit, but at least it’s the thought that counts… right?

fake it til you make it | f, a, h | 18k | ☆ ╰┈➤ You could honestly throttle Seokmin right now. Of all the half-baked, caffeine-fueled ideas he’s ever had, convincing the entire office that you and Seungkwan—your sworn nemesis and parking spot thief—are madly in love might just take the cake.

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[12:38 AM] | f, a | 1.7k [morning rush] | f, h | 1.1k

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

fleeing feelings | f, a | 9.6k ╰┈➤ so you might have told vernon you loved him while drunk – now all you have to do is avoid him. forever. 

the old man's bucket list | f, h | 5.2k ╰┈➤ “So, anything you wanna do before you turn into a pile of withering bones, grandpa?”

what's up, danger? | f | 4.1k ╰┈➤ There were a million things you expected on your first day at Williams, but a driver waiting for you at your desk with a napkin sketch in hand was not one of them.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ one-shots and series⋆⭒˚.⋆

if heaven is real | a | 2.0k ╰┈➤ “and is this not treason? / my soul belongs far more to you than it does to me.” - fatima aamer bilal

˙⋆✮ drabbles ✮⋆˙

[3:27 AM] | a, f | 1.1k [call me by my name] | f, h | 0.97k [back off] | f, h | 1.1k

.��� ݁ ˖ 101 drabble prompt game ˖ ݁ 𖥔.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖PEDAL TO THE METAL ˖ ݁ 𖥔. ╰┈➤ tighten your harness and adjust your visors—this isn’t just a race; it’s the ride of a lifetime.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ the angst olympics ˖ ݁ 𖥔. ╰┈➤ no holds barred, no happy endings guaranteed. This is not for the faint of heart.

a small reminder to reblog my work if you enjoy it! serial likers will be blocked <3

minors who interact with nsfw posts will be blocked !