#here it is the guide that no one asked for

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER TWO

WARNINGS — power imbalance, suggestive comments, physical touch (shoulder, hair, guiding), age gap tension, gaslighting-style manipulation, rafe being icky/possessive, grooming-adjacent behavior, internalized guilt

You weren’t supposed to be alone.

Your dad gave you rules. More than rules, really—an entire itinerary. You were supposed to read for your summer classes, organize his files, avoid the barracks, and “keep to the other officer’s kids if you need friends.”

Except the other officer’s kids are twenty-somethings with active duty assignments or civilian lives far from here. They don’t sit at mess. They don’t linger by the soda machine. They don’t stop and say hi.

But Rafe does.

You don’t know his name yet. Not officially.

You just know the way his eyes linger. How his shoulders stretch his t-shirt. How his dog tags swing low when he jogs past you in the mornings—shirtless, dripping with sweat, smirking when he catches you staring.

You hadn’t meant to stare.

But it’s hard not to.

He’s… tall. And mean-looking. He has a buzzcut that makes him look even meaner. You’re not really into tattoos, but he’s got one on his arm you keep thinking about. A snake winding around a dagger.

You’d only noticed because he caught you looking. Again.

And then he winked.

It’s been three days now since you arrived on base. Your dad is swamped. The heat is unrelenting. You’ve reread the same chapter of your textbook six times and still don’t understand what Plato’s Allegory of the Cave is even about.

So you get up early.

You walk the perimeter road.

You grab a Coca-Cola from the machine outside the barracks. Sit on the shaded curb. Watch the soldiers run drills in the distance, far enough away that you don’t feel weird about it.

That’s where he finds you.

“Didn’t peg you for the early morning type.”

His voice startles you.

You twist around fast, can already feel the pink rising in your cheeks. It’s him. The man from the jogs. The tattoos. The stare. He’s not in uniform this time. He’s in a white shirt and gray sweats, both clinging like they’ve earned the right to his body. You hate how that thought even forms.

“I—uh. I didn’t know anyone else came here this early,” you manage, gripping your drink tighter.

He smirks.

“And here I thought this base was crawling with rules.”

There’s a beat. “But I guess that only applies to the rest of us.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He crouches a little, elbows resting on his knees. Close, but not too close. His eyes flick to your soda.

“You know there’s coffee inside, right?”

You shrug. “I don’t really like coffee.”

“Right.” He squints like he’s just realized something. “Sugar rush, not caffeine.”

He says it like he knows something about you that you don’t.

Then: “Makes sense. You’re a sunshine type of girl.”

“A what?”

“You know,” he grins. “The kind that wakes up humming. Writes in a pink notebook. Says stuff like ‘golly.’”

He leans closer. “Am I wrong, sugar?”

You feel like your brain short circuits. You try to laugh, but it comes out awkward. “I don’t say ‘golly.’”

“Yet.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

He just keeps looking at you. His gaze feels heavier than it should. You shift in place. His eyes follow the movement, pausing too long at your knees before flicking back up to your face.

“I’m Rafe,” he says finally. “Staff Sergeant. Been here too long.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You got a name, princess?”

You tell him.

He repeats it. Quietly. Like he’s tasting it.

It shouldn’t make your stomach flutter.

After that, he starts showing up more.

He always has a reason. Always casual. Always calculated.

You’ll be carrying a box of your dad’s reports—he takes it from your arms without asking.

You’ll be at the vending machine—he guides your hand to press the right button.

You’ll be reading alone—he sits just close enough that you can smell him: sweat, cologne, something like cedar and anger.

Every time he calls you princess or sugar, you go still.

He’s so much older. More experienced. Bigger. His voice is always low, like he knows you’ll lean in to hear it better. And you do. Every time.

One afternoon, he catches you by the printer in the admin hall, struggling to staple a stack of papers. Your dad asked you to file them, but the staple keeps jamming.

You hiss softly, shaking the thing out. That’s when a broad hand appears behind yours.

“Move,” he says. You do, startled.

He fixes it in seconds.

Then he looks down. You hadn’t realized how close he’s standing. You’re basically against the wall. His hand is still on your shoulder, firm.

“You gotta be careful with these,” he says, low. “They bite.”

“Yeah.. I-I noticed,” you whisper.

He leans in, his mouth next to your ear.

“You ever been bit before?”

You don’t answer.

Your cheeks are burning. Your eyes drop to the floor. You know he’s watching them water.

When he finally pulls back, he taps your chin once with his finger.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

You try to avoid him the next day.

But it doesn’t work.

You’re walking back from the mess hall, still chewing a bite of banana bread, when a shadow falls across the path in front of you.

It’s him.

You stop. So does your breath.

He raises an eyebrow.

“No ‘hi’ today?”

You look down. “I didn’t see you.”

He hums. “That’s a lie.”

He steps forward. You step back.

But it’s just one step. Then he sighs and hooks his fingers into your bag strap.

“Relax, sweetheart. I just wanna walk with you.”

You’re not sure why you let him.

But you do.

He walks slow. Leisurely. His hand brushing yours every few seconds, like he’s testing to see what you’ll do. You don’t pull away.

When you reach the main building, he tugs your strap again—just a little.

“I ever make you uncomfortable, you tell me.”

You blink. Look up at him.

“No,” you say. “You haven’t.”

That smile again.

The one that makes your chest feel weird.

“Good girl.”

You can’t stop thinking about that for the rest of the day.

Not the words. But the way he said them.

Low. Rough. Possessive. Like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

[sabxynsweet]

Okay, hear me out….

Mattheo and sweetheart in the common room and she falls asleep on his shoulder and Mattheo threatens a bunch of first years or whatever who come in loud to stop them from waking her up.

OR OR OR

sweetheart falls asleep on someone ELSE’s shoulder and Mattheo gets mad and jealous, and purposely wakes her up

sweetheart!reader falls asleep on enzo’s shoulder, mattheo's not having it

both these ideas are so cute i think i'll write both <3 here’s your second idea, thank you for the request lovely ! the opening of this is SO dramatic because these boys really are terrified of mattheo it's so silly

They say that right before you're about to die, your life flashes before you like a montage.

Enzo's experiencing that now, memories coming to him like scenes in a film reel while he's frozen sitting at the dining table of the common room.

If it wasn't bad enough that the two of you were paired up for an assignment for a class that Mattheo wasn't in, it was real bad now because you were fast asleep on his shoulder and he couldn't move.

Theo walks past and stops when he see’s Enzo with a look of pure fear on his face, similar to a deer caught in headlights.

"What's up, Mate." Theo asks, Enzo glances over at him with "help me" eyes, unable to move more than his eyes with you hindering his movements.

"Oh." He laughs, "Mattheo's not going to like that."

"Don't you think I know that." Enzo hisses, glaring at Theo who was still laughing, "Let's hope she wakes up before Mattheo see's."

"Before Mattheo see's what?" Mattheo asks, voice cold and low.

Enzo flinches, making you stir a little but, much to his dismay, you're still fast asleep. Theo simply grins and moves back to watch.

"Listen, she was nodding off, I didn't mean to-" Mattheo ignores him, walking closer. Enzo thinks that today he might die.

Mattheo barely even glances at him, instead, he gently taps on your shoulder.

You stir awake - properly this time - and when your eyes meet his, his eyes soften and his annoyance dissolves into nothing.

"Mattheo?" You mumble, your head lifting off of Enzo's shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief and moves quickly to stand next to Theo.

"Hey." He says, "you fell asleep there."

"Oh." You yawn, "what time is it?"

"5."

"Oh," You say, a little happier now, "it's not too late for a nap right?"

He shakes his head, "no."

You smile, eyes fluttering close again.

"No, baby, you're not sleeping in this position." He snorts.

"Why not." You whine, "M'tired, just let me die."

"You'll hurt your neck."

"You know, it's so totally not my fault that I fell asleep because your common room is so dark."

"I know, Sweetheart."

"Anyone would fall asleep here." You mumble before attempting to sleep again.

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"Come on, you can sleep in my dorm."

"Really?" You murmur, one eye peeking open.

He nods.

"Will you wake me up for dinner?" He nods again, you smile.

"You're my favourite alarm clock." You coo jokingly.

He rolls his eyes but he's still smiling, he reaches out his hand and you let him lead you up the stairs. You lean your body weight on him.

"Unbelievable." He just barely hears Enzo mutter from below, "he was ready to murder me and then she wakes up and he's prince fucking charming."

Mattheo rolls his eyes and continues to guide you, careful not to let you fall.

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage @megzz-x

[rafeslvbug]

nba!rafe when he sees singer!reader’s bodysuit…

he’s already waiting for you when you get to your changing room.

the concert’s finished, you’re elated and all giggles.

rafe’s leaning back in your dress chair, eyes raking down your figure when you enter the room.

“well hey there cutiepie!” you giggle, having not expected him to come and extra bubbly on stage when you spotted him.

rafe holds his arms out, legs spread as a smirk crosses his face, “hey pretty girl.” his hands find your waist when you step towards him, running down the glittery fabric of your bodysuit.

eyes dark.

thoughts unholy.

you’d see it in his lowered gaze if you weren’t so excited to have him here.

“how come you made it?” you ask, leaning over him to grab your phone on the table he’s sitting at. thousands of notifications. tags. likes. all blowing up your phone.

“couldn’t miss your big show could i?” he murmured, catching a glimpse of the big embroidered kiss stain on your ass. he raises his eyebrows, pushing against your hips to see the front of the bodysuit again, eyes raking over the kisses dipping down your front, and on the garter in the inner of your thigh. then the fake tattoo on your upper thigh : “mark your territory.”

and he’d be damned if he didn’t.

“that’s sweet of you, thank you handsome,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek, slipping one knee in between his legs on the chair to support you as you scrolled through the after concert messages.

“mhm,” he hummed, fingers digging into your hips to keep you in level while he brought you closer, lips coming in contact with the fabric, right over the jewelled kiss under your chest.

your brows knit together, feeling the light press of his lips against you. “hey baby, i can feel that?” you tilt your head down at him, unsure as to what he’s doing.

“good,” is all he grins, dipping his head lower, adjusting you higher, so that he can continue his trail down, following the kisses that dip right in the middle of your upper thighs.

“what are you doing?” you question, already slightly breathless, hand on the back of his head.

“markin’ my territory, of course,” he mumbles back, pinching the tattoo on your thigh, and glancing up at you with a devilish smirk.

you let out quiet gasps each and every time his kisses are a bit more pressurised. when his hands move down to slide over your ass. when his lips travel around your body to the back of the suit, and then forward again. pulling your legs apart with one hand, the other slips inside your thigh, giving him enough space to drop his head, pressing a teasing kiss to the inside of your thigh. sensitive enough to make your eyes flutter shut and your hand travel through his hair, gripping at whatever it can get.

“how does this come off?” he murmurs against your skin, hand travelling upwards, guided by yours to find the zip, tugging it down tantalisingly slow. hoisting you by the hips, still, he swaps places so that you’re sitting fully in the chair, while he sinks on his knees to the ground, tugging off the suit and continuing his travel down between your inner thighs.

…

speculation rises fast across the internet about what you might be doing after concerts, though, when you and rafe emerge from the stadium, your arms around his torso, his hand splayed across the back of your thighs like he’s supporting your unsteady walking. and still wearing the sparkly bodysuit..

[delilahsturniolo]

— 𝜗ৎ wildflower . . . c.s

in which . . . you see your ex boyfriend chris and his new girlfriend, your ex best friend at a party and confront them.

warnings . . . mentions of alcohol and being drunk, unresolved angst, slight panic attack, chris is kinda mean at first.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

HIT ME HARD AND SOFT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

the music is too loud. the lights are too bright. and he’s standing too close. you weren’t even supposed to come tonight. but your friends begged, said it would be fun, said you needed to get out. said he probably won’t even be there.

liars. he’s across the room when you first notice him, red solo cup in one hand, other lazily resting on her waist. her. your old friend. the one who swore up and down she’d never touch him, who cried with you the night everything fell apart, who told you he didn’t deserve you. she’s wearing a necklace similar to the one he bought you last summer.

you swallow down the ache, grab whatever drink is closest, and pretend to laugh at a joke you don’t hear. your heart is already racing. not from love. from rage. he sees you before you see him walking over. his jaw clenched like it always is when he’s about to start something. the same walk. the same eyes. but not the same boy. “what’re you glaring at me for? like what you see?” he says flatly, voice slurred just a little. you blink. “fuck you.”

“yeah?” he scoffs, tilting his head. “you came here just to start something?”

“no,” you snap. “i came here to forget you exist.” he laughs then, bitter and small. “looks like that’s going great for you.” you hate him. god, you hate how familiar he still feels. how fast he can reach inside you and pull every buried thing to the surface. you bite the inside of your cheek, fists clenched. “does she know?” he frowns. “know what?”

“that you cried when i left?” you whisper, stepping closer. “that you begged me to stay? that you said you didn’t even love her?”

“shut up,” he says, quieter now.

“you told me it was always me,” you breathe. “and now you’re playing house with her like none of it meant anything.” his lips part like he wants to deny it. like he wants to tell the truth. but she’s there. behind him. watching. you turn to her. “you told me i deserved better. now you’re fucking him. so which one of us is the liar?” her mouth opens, but no words come out. she just shakes her head, glances at him, then walks away. she doesn’t even look back. she knew she crossed the line.

you feel it all at once. the betrayal. the heartbreak. the way your throat tightens until breathing feels like a chore. your vision blurs and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the tears or the weight of every word you wish you hadn’t said. you try to walk away too, but your legs aren’t listening. “hey—” chris’s voice cuts through the static. “wait. wait, what’s going on?”

you stumble, lean against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes. “i can’t—fuck—i can’t do this.” he reaches for you, hands hovering. “stop it, stop. calm down.” you don’t answer. can’t. you’re shaking and everything is too much and he’s too close and not close enough.

he doesn’t ask again. he just moves. arms around you. steady and warm and infuriatingly safe. he holds you like he used to, like you’re something breakable. like he’s afraid you already are. “c’mon,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. “i’m taking you home.”

you try to protest, but it’s useless. he’s already guiding you through the crowd, shielding you from the stares, leaving his girlfriend behind. the cold air outside hits like a slap, but it’s easier to breathe out here. you sit in the passenger seat of his car, knees to your chest, while he drives in silence.

“you okay?” he asks after a while.

you turn your head, eyes red, voice hollow. “do i look okay?”

he nods like he deserves that. “i’m sorry.” you stare out the window. “for what?” he hesitates. “everything.” you laugh, but it’s not happy. it’s empty. “too late for that.” the car pulls up in front of your place. you unbuckle, about to get out, but he grabs your wrist gently.

“i miss you,” he whispers. “even now.” you hate him for saying that. you hate him for meaning it. because you still feel it too. even after everything. even after he ruined you. but you don’t say anything. you just get out and shut the door behind you, letting the silence swallow the things you’re too tired to scream. and he stays there, in the car. watching.

waiting.

too late.

too much.

too far gone.

like a wildflower trying to bloom in the wrong season.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: DID I CROSSSSSS THE LINEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE???????????

[what-username-where]

I still have never started a relationship without being asked out BY someone, and then not believing them until they repeatedly tell me that yes they ARE actually serious

and then I spend the entire time thinking oh god oh fuck when is the other shoe gonna drop when are they gonna start laughing at me for being so gullible to believe they actually liked me and reveal this was all an elaborate prank the entire time or that they just found me useful enough to put up with and play along so I'd keep doing things for them

Which unfortunately the only people who ever asked me out were a pedo, an entitled manipulative self centered emotional abuser, and a wildly out of control mentally ill asshole

All of whom I got incredibly attached to and planned on marrying and building my entire life around because at least having someone to indulge my highly romantic sappy touchy self would be better than just yearning from the sidelines my whole life and watching other people get things I'd dreamed about being able to have but never thought would actually be possible for me

because there was something innately wrong with me that other people saw but I didn't and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't fix it or even identify the problem

so I had to give up everything I possibly could give in order to make myself worth putting up with for other people and if I didn't I would spend the rest of my life isolated and alone because no one would want to be around me unless I was of sufficient benefit and service to them

Needless to say none of my exes helped that feeling at all

I still struggle deeply with it and have slowly come to accept that my friends are here because they genuinely enjoy me

but I still have the intense problems around romance and romantic relationships and feeling like the only way I'll ever have something close to what I want is by doing it myself quite literally and relying on my system for it

which while being amazing and wonderful and I love my system so much it still has some things that are physically impossible to do and thus leaves me with a longing just the same, whether that's a longing for another body for them to inhabit or longing for another person to be romantically interested in me both of which feel equally impossible

because no other person could possibly want to be anything romantic with me without either not knowing what they're getting into and later wanting to back out or wanting to take advantage of me because they know I'll stick around serving them a feast if they toss a breadcrumb my way once in a while

Which no amount of logic and comforting and repeating positive phrases and reassuring myself "I don't need a romantic relationship to be fulfilled as a person and that's a really toxic attitude to have" has ever really made go away despite my best efforts and years of therapy both professional and self guided

Man if you did that bullshit as a kid where you fake asked someone out to embarrass them or said your friend liked them I hope that shit haunts you somewhere inside now. I hope you know that never leaves the person you did that too. I've been out of school for 8 blessed fucking years and I still do not believe people when they say they like me or are attracted to me. Doing that shit straight up makes you a bad person. You completely destroy someone's ability to perceive themselves as loveable.

[heartyluv]

Note: This is a little self indulgent because despite how cringey these movies are, I loveee Fifty Shades of Grey. Was never really a Jamie Dornan girlie, but I felt this worked the best. I’m sorry it took me so long to get to this, my luv. And thank you so much for your kind words! I hope you enjoy! Please —Click Here— to view the ask if you’d like!

Warning: Zayne’s a little jelly, but it’s nothing serious.

Word Count: 946 ~ i’m sorry if this is too short :(

Zayne/Reader

Your boyfriend was having an…interesting time, trying to figure out what about this film had you captivated. What about this woman blindly trusting and agreeing to have—something be ruled as explorative—sex with a rich stranger, had you so infatuated. So much so that you’ve watched it dozens of times.

“Why would he tell her that she must steer clear of him if he’s the one who invited her out for coffee in the first place? Surely he could tell she wasn’t someone to care only for the physical aspects of a relationship.” He was completely perplexed.

Zayne wasn’t a fan of romance movies. Not because they were inferior or anything, they simply weren’t his cup of tea. And scenes like this proved to him why he felt that way.

“It’s to build the characters and the foundation for his development, babe,” you chuckled. “He wants her, but can’t have her type of thing.”

“He is a billionaire and she clearly seems willing to indulge him. In fact, he’s the one to push her away. What is the issue?”

Your sweet and very matter-of-fact lover has always reminded you of an alien trying to understand Earth and the behaviors of humans for the first time when it came to him attempting to enjoy some of the things that you liked. He would always join you when you asked and if he was available, but you knew to be prepared for him to ask you all kinds of questions to better understand.

You honestly loved it, being able to enlighten him about things in the same way he does you with absolutely, well—everything. Even if it’s fiction, you still were like his trusted guide.

He occasionally looked between you and the screen as you two sat cuddled up on the couch, beginning to realize that it wasn’t particularly the movie itself and its…questionable story that always brought you back.

It was the man.

He noticed how you’d bite your lip and smile when this Christian Grey would say lines so cliche and cringey that it nearly made his eyebrows touch.

“You like him.” It wasn’t a question. Factually, an observation.

You turn to look at him, pressing your lips together to suppress your smile. “He’s like…my celebrity crush, kinda. I guess. But you’re my boo, Zayne. You know that.”

“I do,” he responds with confidence. “This crush. I didn’t know you had one. I can’t decide if it’s cute or not.”

You pout your lips and smile fully this time, gently nudging his side. “Awww, don’t tell me you’re jealous, babe.”

“I’m not—” His jaw clenches and the blue light of the TV lets you see how his ears began to tinge red. He looks back at the screen. “Jealous isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, kissing his shoulder through his shirt.

The movie progresses and Zayne knew there would be sex involved based on the brief description you gave to convince him to watch it with you. What he didn’t expect was the first time between the two characters, to be so intimate.

The music, the atmosphere—it was certainly unique for the type of trope that was being portrayed.

He looked over at you again subtly, his perfect brows raising when he sees how intensely you stare at the way Christian pulled Ana’s jeans down. How your thighs shifted and pressed together beneath the blankets when he kissed down her stomach until he got between her legs.

It was very easy as your man and your doctor to notice subtle changes about you. So naturally, he saw the way your breath increased and stared closer to see how your heartbeat was thumping faster right beneath your jaw.

Even how your damn pupils dilated when Christian ripped the foil wrapper of the condom open between his teeth.

Yeah, he was cutting this off.

You were taken out of your trance-like state when he grabbed the remote and paused the film, leaning over to turn the lamp on.

“Zayne!” you exclaim with a slight whine. “Why’d you stop it like that?!”

“Are you aroused?” He asks you so flatly and abruptly that it’s amusing. Well, it would be if you weren’t being questioned like you were sitting on his examination table and not in your living room.

“What does that even matter?!”

“Because your answer will determine if we will continue watching.”

“So you are jealous!”

“Can you blame me for feeling that way? You’re close to drooling over everything this…person says and does like you wouldn’t be cringing from inside out if you heard any of it in real life.”

“Oh, pooka butt.” Your tone raises a few octaves like you’re trying to coddle a baby. The corner of his mouth tilts in slight amusement at your teasing. as you pull him in to wrap your arms around him.

“Come to mama,” you coo when you squeeze him tight. “You know how much I love you, Zayne. In every universe and in any crowded room full of thousands of Jamie Dornans, I’d always pick you.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t give you a choice, but the sentiment is…sweet, I suppose.”

“Okayyyyy,” you stretch out the syllable with an exaggerated, but playful sigh. “Don’t ruin my attempt to assure and love on you.”

“You’re right. My apologies. Please,” he presses a kiss right below your ear. “Continue.”

“If I continue anything, it won’t be with words…” you flirt.

“Actions do tend to show you what words can’t, or so I’ve heard. Maybe you should prove how much you love me.”

Creds to @/sweetmelodygraphics for the dividers!

A/N: I honestly don’t know how well I did with this…Time to shut my phone down LOLLL

[dailyralsei]

OKAY I hope you don't mind me going a little nuts in the asks but Ralsei and fire magic is something I've been INSANE about for YEARS

What drives me so incredibly insane about it is just the whole symbology of Fire of something that loves. Fire gives us warmth, it provides light so that we can see, it cooks our food so that it's safe to eat.

But fire is also something that you can never get too close to.

And I just can't help but see Ralsei parallel that as someone who loves Kris and Susie, whose passionate in everything he does, who wants to help and guide. But can't ... Really be there?

Am I just kinda crazy or am I onto something here

oh my god. i gotta make a comic or at least one illustration about this thank you anon

[sunshinedaisywrites777]

Post-Mission Intimacy (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

A/N- Hello everyone! I'm deeply sorry for being late. Vacation got the best of me and I was (still am) slacking so hard right now but you're all waiting for a smut so here you go! I kinda rushed it to be honest and I know it's not going to be the best smut you'll ever read BUT it's my first time writing smut soo yayy! I hope you like it and don't forget to leave comments and give me feedbacks 🙂💜

Warnings- Smut! MDNI! +18, tigh riding, no foreplay?, aftercare, feels of aftershock, sex without lube, softdom!leon, praise kink.

The clock read 12:43 AM. You were curled up on the couch, lights low, the faint hum of the TV playing a rerun of some show neither of you watched. A cup of chamomile tea sat cold beside you. You hadn’t touched it in an hour. Not since the last time you checked your phone for any message, any update. Still nothing.

Then the door finally opened.

You were on your feet before you could think. Leon stepped inside, shoulders heavy under his black jacket, hair sticking to his forehead, the weight of a mission lingering on every inch of his body. His blue eyes found you instantly. And softened.

He didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, breathing in the sight of you — small in his oversized flannel, barefoot, eyes red from waiting. You closed the distance first, hands curling around the back of his neck.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I’m home,” he murmured back, voice rough and low.

He kissed your hair, your temple, your cheek, before you finally pulled back and wrinkled your nose. “Leon… you smell.”

That made him huff a tired laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Go shower,” you said, nudging him toward the bathroom. “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t take long, but every second felt stretched thin. The sound of running water was oddly comforting. When he returned, steam trailed behind him, his chest damp and pink from the heat. His hair was messy, curling slightly at the ends, his body wrapped in nothing but a towel low on his hips.

He looked like a dream — exhausted, but clean, real, yours.

“Still waiting for me?” he asked, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded, eyes lingering on the droplets trailing down his chest. “Always.”

Leon came to you slowly. The towel slipped to the floor before he even reached you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, skin-on-skin, his body warm and damp against yours.

You reached for the buttons on your flannel, but Leon stopped you. “Let me.”

He undid each one with deliberate slowness, exposing more of your bare skin with every pass. No bra, no underwear. You hadn’t been wearing anything beneath it. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You were just sitting there like this?”

You smiled and nodded.

He growled low and kissed you hard, backing you toward the couch, hands never leaving your skin. You dropped back into the cushions, and he followed you down, slotting his hips between your thighs.

“Need you,” he said, voice rough. “Been thinking about this since I left.”

You guided him in, no resistance, just slick warmth and the sigh of relief that left both of your lips as he filled you.

Leon moved slow, deep, deliberate. He wasn’t trying to fuck the pain away. He was savoring you, grounding himself in every kiss, every touch, every breathless moan you made. You clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails in his back.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Take me. Let me feel you.”

Your orgasm built slowly, coiling in your stomach, heat pulsing behind your eyes. He whispered to you the whole time, telling you how beautiful you were, how perfect, how tight you felt, how much he missed you.

When you finally came, it was sharp and silent, your body seizing around him, head thrown back, lips parted. Leon held on as you broke, kissing your shoulder, your throat, your jaw. He followed you moments later with a deep groan, burying himself inside you.

You laid together tangled on the couch, your body still twitching from the aftershocks. One leg was draped over his, and Leon felt the slight pulse of your hips shifting.

“Still shaking,” he murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “You need to ride it out, huh?”

You nodded, barely able to speak. He guided you, gently shifting your hips until you were straddling one of his thighs, bare skin against bare skin.

“Use me,” he whispered. “Come on, baby. Just let it out.”

You moved slowly, grinding against the solid muscle of his thigh, slick and sensitive, trembling as the last waves passed through you. Leon held you steady, kissing your cheek, his hand splayed on your lower back.

“That’s it… Good girl.”

When it was over, you collapsed onto his chest, breath ragged. He held you close, wrapping both arms around you, rubbing small circles into your back.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he whispered.

You believed him.

And in that moment, you didn’t need anything else.

[hoondrop]

hihihi can u write abt soft dom sunoo ‘fucking the stress away’ bc reader was overworked

a/n: here you go anon,, I hope you're doing okay. here's sunoo who hopefully will make you feel better 🫶🏻

You didn’t mean to cry. But the stress of the day; stacked deadlines, missed meals, ignored messages, hits you all at once the moment Sunoo pulls you into his lap.

His arms wrap around you like instinct. Protective. Possessive.

“No more of that,” he murmurs, low and firm, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “You’re not doing this to yourself again. Not tonight.”

You tremble in his arms, and he tightens his hold, one hand sliding up under your shirt, warm against your spine, the other gripping your thigh. Grounding. Claiming.

His voice drops, darker, heat curled around every word:

“I'm going to get this stress out of you. One way or another.”

His hands glide under your shirt, smoothing over your sides, kneading your hips. His touch is patient but firm — the kind that says you don’t need to do anything now. I’ve got you.

He shifts closer, his lips trailing down your spine, slow and intentional, until your breath hitches.

“All this tension in your body,” he whispers, guiding your legs apart gently, “and you didn’t ask for help once? That’s not very fair, baby.”

“Don’t move. Don’t think. Just let go.”

He shifts, lays you down gently, but with clear intent. His body presses against yours — firm, slow, but unyielding — and you can feel all of him, his breath hot against your cheek.

You feel him roll his hips, slow, teasing — a promise.

“You don’t have to beg,” he says, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. “You’re mine. I’ll make you forget everything else.”

He grinds against you slowly, deliberately, building tension. Every movement is laced with control. Not rushed, not soft, but measured. He’s pulling every sound out of you like it’s his right.

“That’s it,” he growls softly, mouth at your throat. “Yuu feel that? That’s me. Taking it all away. All the stress. All the noise. Gone.”

Your back arches, nails digging into his shoulders. He’s everywhere; touch, voice, weight, and you’re coming apart already, barely able to think.

Good girl,” he whispers into your skin. “You take me so well even when you’re falling apart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall apart in his arms, trembling, moaning his name like a mantra. He holds you through it, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your chest, your stomach.

“You did so well,” he breathes. “All done. Just stay right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls you close, still warm, still hard, but content to hold you for as long as you need because in his arms, you’re not just cared for.

You’re his.

[spearbxcheol]

SpiderHan!

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ૮₍ ´• ˕ • ₎ა ｡✧:˚*:･｡

Spider-Man!Han Jisung x Reader.

𖤐 drabble/one-shot?, action, mild violence, implied hostage situation.

𖤐 SpiderHan really had its moment in the fandom and honestly?? we need that comeback, maybe i'll write more of him? 💭

Jisung rolled his eyes at the guy who tried to run away from him on the street. He had just caught him stealing from the 24/7 grocery store — and that wasn’t happening. Not on his watch.

“Hey! Do you seriously think you can outrun me?” Jisung’s voice rang out as the man started gaining distance. “It’s almost 3 a.m., and I promised myself I’d sleep early today. Don’t ruin this for me!”

As he finished complaining about the guy — now nearly turning the next corner — he pointed his hand, and the next thing he knew, his web shooter launched him forward at high speed. His spider-sense kept him safe, guiding him past obstacles and avoiding the lamppost just in time.

The thief didn’t even notice Spider-Man hanging from the lamppost ahead. Jisung could feel a smirk forming under his mask the moment the guy almost tripped from the shock of seeing him there. Jisung gave him a little wave.

“Oh my god!”

What neither of them noticed was you — standing there, frozen, eyes wide in shock. You’d only ever seen Spider-Man on the news, chasing bad guys... and now he was right in front of you. You snapped out of your trance when your dog started barking wildly, reminding you why you were even walking down the street at this hour in the first place.

But before you could grab your dog and walk away, the thief was faster. He yanked your arm, pulling you in front of him and pressing a knife to your throat. You gasped and shut your eyes.

“Back off and I’ll let them go!”

Jisung’s mind raced. It had all happened in a split second. Then he looked at you — and his eyes widened. You were Y/N. The same Y/N who always sat next to him in the class you both shared. You two would laugh at the dumb jokes the professor cracked mid-lecture. You weren’t close, but shared a mutual friend.

“Are you deaf, Spider-Boy?”

The man was holding you tightly, using your body as a shield between him and Spider-Man. Your dog — now off-leash because you’d dropped it — was barking non-stop. You opened your eyes and met the superhero’s gaze.

“Help me, please.” you mouthed.

Jisung didn’t hesitate. He aimed and shot a web at the man’s hand, pulling the knife away and tossing it aside. Then he leapt down from the lamppost, landing right in front of the two of you.

In one swift, precise move, Spider-Man pulled you behind him. You let out a breath, your heart racing. You stepped back as he grabbed the thief by the collar and punched him hard in the face, right on the nose.

The adrenaline surged in Jisung’s body. He had never saved someone he knew before — and now, with you, it all felt heavier. The real weight of his powers. It scared him.

He turned to you. You were holding your dog in your arms again, and even from where he stood, he could see you were shaking. When your eyes met the white lenses of his mask, you took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I almost ruined everything.”

“No, you didn’t ruin anything,” Jisung said, his voice a little tight. He shook his head. “He’s the one who’s in the wrong here.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you nodded. “And what about this little guy?” He extended a hand toward your dog, but was met with a bark.

“Sorry about him!” you apologized, trying to calm your dog, but Jisung smiled behind the mask.

“That’s good! He’s a good boy. Honestly, if I wasn’t here, I bet he would’ve saved you all by himself.” You let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Yeah…” The air between you both was strange. Your body was still trembling after what happened. It hadn’t been a great experience being held hostage at knifepoint. Spider-Man seemed awkward, completely unlike the reports you’d read online. Like he didn’t know what to do once the fighting stopped. And the thief? Still unconscious on the ground.

“I’m going home” you said. “Thanks for saving me, Spider-Man.”

Jisung felt his cheeks heat up at your smile and words. The only thing he could think to do was raise both thumbs up like an awkward teenager as you walked past him, heading back the way you came.

“That was painfully weird.” he muttered to himself, glancing at the guy on the ground. ��Please don’t post anything weird about me on the internet…”

He sighed, walked over to the man, pinned him to the wall with webbing, and called the police. Another job by the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

[bitchesgetriches]

Hi bitches! I work at a group home that will be teaching young adults with Intellactual and Developmental Disabilities (IDD) the skills nessesary to live independently with weekly visits from staff. For many of our folks, this'll be the first time living away from mom and dad and the first time they're given the rights and respect of an adult.

Which makes me concerned about sex education. It seems mom and dad forgot that disabled people can be horny and have treated their young adult as such. While our group home understands Dignity Of Risk and how we can't legally impose restrictions on personal relationships.

What resources, books, guides, etc should I have available? How do I present myself as someone who's cool and can talk about sex and can be trusted with deep secrets like needing to get a sex checkup and will keep things as private and low key? Im 26, I'm not that much older than these guys.

This is a little outside of our purview... so I went to the experts: Planned Parenthood!

PP has lessons specifically on teaching sex ed to adults with disabilities. Learn more here.

Kitty and I are both lifelong devoted aunties. I remember when my (Piggy) teenage niblings were learning sex ed, I had an arrangement with their parents. Their parents knew I would privately tell the kids they could ask me anything... and I gave the kids examples of things they could ask. This also meant spending one-on-one time with the kids doing activities where they felt safe and private enough to talk to me.

I know adults with disabilities are a little different from preteens, but I think the principle is the same: explicitly tell them you're a nonjudgmental, safe resource, and then give them safe and private opportunities to talk to you about their concerns.

Good luck! Here's some more of what we've written about disabilities:

The Social Safety Net for Disabled People Is Broken 

Long-Term Disability Insurance Is a Necessity… and a Scam 

Short-Term Disability Insurance Is a Waste of Money… With Two Very Specific Exceptions 

Why There’s So Little (Good) Personal Finance for Disabled People 

Did we just help you out? Join our Patreon!

[himegureisu]

In Sickness and Health

Summary: You're sick and you try to hide it from Severus, but of course, he easily catches on.

Author's Note: I tried writing tonight after months, so I'm a bit rusty. I feel like I already did this prompt differently.

----------------------

“Sev?” you softly call out, as you tentatively peek through his office door. Behind his desk, Severus was seated grading a student's essay, the sound of his quill scratching softly echoing in the room, “Is it a bad time?”

“There is never a good time, love,” Severus sighed, waving for you to come in, and you tentatively do. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m out of Pepperup Potion,” you hate asking for medication from him, especially when you were the one sick, but he did occasionally supply the Medical Wing when they were out. “Madam Pomfrey is too,”

“Of course, she’s out. These students ask for potions at the smallest inconvenience, and at times she’s much too happy to oblige,” he gets up from his desk and browses his shelves, “Who is it for?”

Your reply comes too quickly for his liking.

“For a student,” you lie, then as always overexplain. Your tell. “Madam Pomfrey sent me to retrieve it. Hoping that my reception would be much warmer than if she came here herself,”

“Her assumption would be correct,” he nods as he finds the shiny red potion and then turns around to actually see you.

His eyes narrowed as he observed your flushed, puffy cheeks, and your hands, which you fiddled with behind your back as you waited for him. In a couple of strides, his cool hand is on your heated forehead.

“Liar. What are you doing up and about?” he sternly scolded, but not in anger, rather concern, “Get back to bed, love,”

“There are classes to teach and papers to grade…” you weakly argue, but he’s already on you. His hand on yours, robes billowing behind you both, as he guides you back to your shared bedroom, “I can work, I promise!”

“And let you run yourself to the ground?” Severus scoffed at the thought, opening the bedroom door and ushering you to get settled beneath the blankets, “Not a chance, love, now stay there. I’ll bring you soup and the potion,”

“I’m not that sick!” you argue.

“I will not stand by when you are ill,” he murmurs, before placing a soft kiss on your heated forehead and then the back of your left hand where the shiny platinum ring he put there five years ago remains and will remain forever, “In sickness and health, love, remember?”

Well, how could you argue with that?

[dissociativewriter]

hello my sweetheart, congratulations once again for 400 followers <3 you deserve many many more. <3 if possible, can i please get a fluffy scenario with me and caleb when his 3 yo daughter says “dadda” for the first time 🥹💞 you are free to ignore this btw should it get too overwhelming <3 have a lovely day ahead. here, have some snuggles from me!!

ahhhhhhh hi honey!! giving you smooches cause you’re so sweet <3 thank you so much and omg this is such a cute ask! i did change it a little bit, just so that the daughter is younger now. i hope you like this!

request event

Tensions were high.

You and Caleb had been in a cold war for weeks. It felt like all your tactics were falling short as you sat in a stalemate.

The battleground? Your daughter’s nursery.

Months ago, when you were 9 months into pregnancy and terrified for the baby’s arrival, Caleb was reading and re-reading all the parenting tips and baby guides. He was scared, paranoid. He might not say it, but you could tell.

And in his mess of tips and tricks, he read the cause of this competition: babies typically start speaking at around 7 months.

Neither of you had said anything at the time, or when your baby girl was actually born. There wasn’t time to think of that, not when she came out with his bright eyes and your nose. You didn’t have time think about first words, because now there were first tears, and the new life of parenthood was quickly sinking in.

Caleb was a great father, just like you told him he’d be through all his fretting. Everything was already baby-proofed, every decision made now had him taking your little girl into consideration. His life was irreversibly changed, and he knew that having this little family with you was the bliss he didn’t think he’d ever reach.

He’d offered to take nights, insisting you needed your rest. He’d be awake anyway, Caleb explained, so he might as well take care of the baby while he’s up. And true to his word, with Caleb at your side, you were able to sleep through most nights.

Caleb always seemed grateful to hold her, grateful that he could be there through all of this. His hands shook ever so slightly every time he reached for her, the disbelief apparent in his eyes.

Everything was as peaceful as it could be with a newborn.

But then six months rolled around, and it seemed the both of you began plotting. Your daughter’s babbling filled the house, incoherent now but you both knew that soon those babbles would be words.

You were starting to wonder if Caleb had offered to take nights with an ulterior motive. You’d caught him, one late night, repeating “dada” to her. Over and over again, like a mantra. “You’ve got to say dada first, alright, little apple?” He’d whispered. “I’ve got to beat your mother on this.”

The next day, you’d made a show of using ‘mama’ around your daughter as much as you could. If Caleb wanted a competition, then so be it.

It went on for what felt like an eternity for the both of you, starting just before she turned six months old and ending when she was seven and half months old. You were anxious with anticipation, waiting to see what would be her first word.

It was around noon and the sun was high, streaming in through wide windows of the Skyhaven apartment. Caleb was in the kitchen with your daughter, prepping her food while your lunch was still cooking on the stove. He had her far away from anything that could possibly hurt her, his watchful eyes constantly snapping back to where she was, prepared to use his Evol to steady her or pull her away.

Caleb was talking to her as he stirred and mixed. He’d made a habit of it whenever they were together, constantly going back and forth with her as if she was holding an actual conversation instead of giggling nonsense.

“Okay, little apple, I hate to tell you this but your mama was very mean to me earlier.” He said seriously. He nodded with her as she babbled something. “I know, it’s hard to hear, but it’s true!” Caleb then proceeded to explain your most recent quarrel to your daughter, which was more brought on by pettiness and stress than an actual problem. He’d nodded along whenever she babbled, agreeing and further explaining as if he understood everything.

“Now tell me, little apple, who do you think is right?” He asked as he walked closer with her baby food.

She beamed as he approached, a wide smile growing on her face as she giggled, “Dada!”

Caleb froze. Mid-step, it felt like everything stopped. You padded into the kitchen from the living room, disbelief written all over your face as well.

“Did she just…?” Caleb’s voice cracked. He looked up at you, tears brimming at his eyes. “She just said dada!” he exclaimed. He rushed forward, laving the food on the counter as he scooped her up in his arms, pulling you in as well as he peppered kisses over both your foreheads.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “My baby girl’s talking. I can’t—” Tears fell onto his cheeks as the words caught in his throat. “I love you, so much. Both of you.” Caleb kissed both of you again, barely able to hide his grin.

And staring at his triumphant, prideful smile, you decided not to tell him about all the days you spent whispering ‘dada’ to her, too.

thank you @syncaleb for this ask!

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

taglist: @coffeedragonhobbyist @sleepykittyenergy @orbitraiden @dolledbunnytail

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

Maisie's guide to disguised AI

If you've been anywhere near AO3 recently, you've probably encountered AI writing at some point. As somebody who writes for, primarily, the ER fandom (and occasionally the Pitt, too), I've noticed a concerning trend over the last few days: AI-generated fanfiction clogging the tags.

Firstly, I'd like to say that if you ARE posting fics on AO3 that were AI-generated, and you're passing them off as your own, please stop. I know this is not likely to actually resonate with you if this IS you, but on the off-chance that you do see this- please use tags as intended and make it clear that you're using AI.

Secondly, before I go into some AI tells in detail, I want to preface this with a warning- just because you see one or two of these in a fic, there's no guarantee that it was AI-generated. Please approach the matter of flagging fics with care, because the last thing I want is to incite a witch hunt against innocent people just engaging in fandom.

However, when seen in tandem, these signs should act as a warning to think a little more deeply about what you're reading, and ask the question- was this human written?

1. Em-dashes

I'm getting this one out of the way quickly because it's something easily identifiable, but it should by no means discredit a fic on its own. Real people can use em-dashes, but ChatGPT uses them a LOT. Like, a distracting amount. And they're often used in conjunction with...

2. 'Not' qualifiers

ChatGPT doesn't do 'yes, and'. It seems to work off 'no, but' instead (sorry @pagingdoctorcarter , like an AI, I am stealing your phrase here. But I do have the decency to credit, I suppose!).

Take this sentence I've come up with right now:

Carter was so exhausted he was struggling to stand, legs trembling with the strain of keeping him upright.

AI might write something like this (using my own creative license here because I don't want to feed the beast):

Carter was exhausted— not the regular exhaustion that came with twelve hours on his feet. Something deeper. Heavier.

3. Repetitive phrases.

AI is not original, so it can't come up with anything original, of course. This means that it relies on basic phrases it uses over and over and over again e.g 'the kind of (blank) that (blank)'

4. The classic 'concrete noun' + 'abstract noun' combo

For reasons that I can't quite understand, AI adores this. Some humans include this combo in their work, too, but AI does it even more frequently. Some real phrases I've encountered so far include:

"a story about meatballs and betrayal"

"champagne and anxiety soaked into the upholstery"

5. Anachronisms and inaccuracies

This is especially present in a fandom like ER, where most of the time we're writing about the 90s, and this CAN be attributed to genuine human error... but if Carter is repeatedly 'swiping' on his phone screen to open a call, and everyone's always texting... could be AI.

In a similar vein, if someone is shouting 'code blue!' for things that AREN'T cardiac arrest, or mixing up names and even hallucinating random characters- think 'maybe AI'.

6. Short sentences, short paragraphs, short chapters.

AI doesn't have the ability to understand how paragraphs are structured for ease of reading and flow. So it likes short sentences. Snappy sentences.

And not just when the situation suits it. But always.

If there's a hell of a lot of paragraphs, it could be AI. AI doesn't like including many clauses. At all.

7. Generic similes and phrases that don't mean anything at all

This relates to the 'concrete noun + abstract noun combo' but, more generally, AI produces writing that veers away from specifics. It won't often describe places in too much detail, and when it comes to similes, it uses simple, overused ones OR spouts a series of words that are meaningless. If you see an abstract simile in a fic, take a second. Is it abstract because it's complex and has several layers, or is it utterly meaningless?

8. A crazy update schedule

This one is less reliable because it IS possible to bank chapters and then post a lot in one go, but if an author is posting many thousands of words in the span of a few days, consider this a small red flag- especially in conjunction with the other things mentioned. It could mean they're just pumping out AI-generated writing, and this allows them to move far quicker than any human.

9. Overly mushy dialogue

AI is a thief, but it's a happy-go-lucky thief. Characters speak like they stepped straight off Sesame Street at times, lacking any kind of emotional complexity.

10. Awful, awful jokes

AI cannot write jokes. It simply cannot. If you read a joke in a fic that feels Disney-Channel esque but also doesn't make sense at all? It very well could be AI.

For instance:

Nobody talks like this.

Also, note the 'concrete noun + abstract noun' combo again here! (This actually was an AI fic as confirmed by author before deletion, not naming them here): 'gauze and intuition'.

Conclusion

Be vigilant. Don't fall for AI crap and, if you disagree with the concept of AI work clogging AO3 tags, definitely don't leave kudos.

And if you're posting this stuff, yet again I ask you politely, please STOP.

Thank you.

[glowettee]

⋆˚࿔glowettee hotline 6: finding peace after studying.ᐟ

hey lovelies! 🤍i'm finally back with glowettee hotline

abbey sent in the sweetest question to the glowettee hotline about something i think so many of us struggle with. that persistent anxiety that whispers "you could do more" even after you've literally been studying for hours and hours? yeah, i know that voice all too well.

i was literally up until 3am last night reorganizing my color-coded study guides even though i'd already finished them, so trust me when i say i understand that perfectionist energy. there's something about academics that brings out that need for control in all of us, right?

first, i want you to know that what you're experiencing is actually super common among high-achievers. that anxiety isn't a sign that you're doing something wrong - it's actually your brain being a little too good at wanting to succeed. your brain has basically created this false equation that anxiety = productivity, when actually they're totally different things.

when i was in my worst perfectionist spiral last semester (we don't talk about the great midterm meltdown of 2024), my academic counselor shared something that literally changed everything for me. she called it "productive completion" versus "perfectionist completion" and the difference is everything.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ why your brain keeps doing this ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

your brain has been rewarded for being anxious in the past. every time you've pushed yourself to do "just one more thing" because of anxiety, your brain logged that as a win. it doesn't realize how exhausted and burnt out you're becoming.

also? uncertainty is literally uncomfortable for our brains on a neurological level. your organized nature (which is actually a superpower when balanced!) means your brain craves that feeling of "doneness" - but perfectionism keeps moving the goalpost so you never actually reach it.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ practical things that actually help ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

create a "done list" instead of just a to-do list. physically write down everything you've accomplished in a study session. when anxiety says "you've done nothing," you have literal evidence to the contrary.

implement a physical "closing ritual" to signal to your brain that work time is over. i close my laptop, put my books in my bag, and light this little vanilla candle that's only for post-study relaxation. your brain needs these concrete transitions.

use time-based boundaries rather than task-based ones. "i will study for 2 focused hours" is better than "i will study until i feel done" because perfectionism ensures you'll never feel done.

try the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique when anxiety spirals hit. name 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste. it literally interrupts the anxiety pathway in your brain.

create a "worry hour" where you give yourself permission to stress about academics - but only during that designated time. when anxious thoughts come outside that hour, tell them "not now, i'll think about you at 4pm."

practice self-compassion statements that feel authentic to you. mine is "being imperfect doesn't mean i'm ineffective." find yours and repeat it when that voice starts up.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the deeper work ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

here's the thing about perfectionism that took me forever to understand - it's often a protection mechanism. somewhere along the way, you learned that being perfect kept you safe from criticism or failure or whatever scary thing your brain is trying to avoid.

the real question to gently ask yourself is: what would happen if you did "just enough" instead of everything possible? what are you afraid would occur? usually when we dig into this, we find some core beliefs that need updating.

for me, i realized i had this weird belief that if i wasn't constantly anxious about academics, it meant i didn't care enough. which is obviously not true! you can care deeply about your studies while still having boundaries and rest.

abbey, i want you to know that your worth isn't measured by how exhausted you are at the end of a study session. your organized nature is a gift - but it should serve you, not control you.

sending you the warmest thoughts and a reminder that you're doing so much better than you think you are. your anxiety is lying to you about how much is "enough."

xoxo, mindy 🤍

leave a message after the tone…

submit your questions here!!

[r-memberme]

happy birthday | k.m

⎯⎯ Happy birthday, my darling. I have loved you in every century. I will love you in every one still to come.

warnings: its ma birthday, he's the best man ever, proposal?????

It begins like a secret.

You wake slowly—no sunlight, no alarm, only the soft brush of your name in Klaus’ voice against your shoulder, lower than usual. Reverent.

“Love,” he says gently, lips warm at your neck. “Happy birthday.”

You murmur something unintelligible, already aware of how close he is, how quiet the world feels. And when you open your eyes—candles. Dozens of them. A slow golden glow painting the walls, flickering across his face like it’s always belonged there.

There’s no one else.

Just you, him, and the hush of morning wrapped in warmth and devotion.

“I told you not to make a fuss,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-melting under his gaze.

He hums. “And yet you look so radiant when fussed over.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your shoulder, where the blanket slips just enough for his lips to find skin.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, eyes wide at the quiet opulence around the room: a breakfast tray at the foot of the bed with croissants from that café in Paris you once mentioned in passing. Coffee, hot and perfectly brewed. A single rose laid across the plate like a signature.

“But I did,” Klaus murmurs. “I always will.”

༊*·˚

Later, he walks you to the sitting room. You don’t notice it right away—he keeps the lights dim, the candles still glowing in little crystal holders. But then you turn. And see them.

Paintings.

Portraits.

Dozens of them.

You. Sleeping. Smiling. Laughing. Holding a book, sitting beneath a tree, brushing your fingers along the edge of a window, unaware you were being watched.

You cover your mouth with your hand. “Klaus…”

“I’ve been painting you since the moment I knew I loved you,” he says simply.

You blink hard, suddenly shy under the weight of it all. “I didn’t know…”

He steps closer, hands gentle at your waist, steadying you. “You never had to. You exist, and that alone is gift enough for me.”

And then he shows you the letter.

Folded and hidden beneath your coffee cup. Inked by hand. His handwriting. Sincere and steady.

My love,

Today the world was given you, and I thank whatever gods still listen that it was. That you found me. That you stayed.

You are the brushstroke in my madness, the breath in my silence, the fire in a heart I thought long frozen.

Happy birthday, my darling. I have loved you in every century. I will love you in every one still to come.

Ever yours. Ever mine.

— Klaus

Your fingers tremble as you read it, breath catching in your throat.

“Klaus,” you whisper, undone, entirely and fully.

He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand. “You are worth every century of waiting.”

You don’t speak—not at first. There’s too much in your chest, swelling and soft, aching in that way that only love can ache. Instead, you look at him like the stars bent down and whispered his name first. Like the whole world has always been leading you here.

He watches you with a quiet sort of pride, like he can feel your heart beating from across the inches between you. And then, without a word, he steps back and offers his hand.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

A faint smile, crooked and sweet. “Asking the birthday girl for a dance.”

You glance around instinctively—there’s no music. Just candles. Silence. The soft crackle of firelight from the hearth.

But he doesn’t falter.

“I can hear the waltz in my head,” he says softly, hand still outstretched. “It’s yours. If you’ll have it.”

Your fingers meet his like gravity itself decided for you.

He pulls you close, one hand resting at your back, the other guiding your joined hands up gently, reverently. His touch is so careful you almost want to cry. He looks down at you like the very act of swaying with you is sacred.

And slowly, so slowly, you begin to move.

There’s no orchestra. No polished ballroom. Just the warm hush of candlelight, the faint scent of bergamot tea and paint, and the quiet shuffle of bare feet on old floorboards.

Klaus doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once.

He holds you like you might vanish. Like you’ve already saved him more times than he’ll ever say. Like there is no past, no future—only this moment, this dance, this breath.

You lay your head against his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“Did you do this in your mind?” you murmur. “Paint this moment before it happened?”

“Every day since I met you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hairline. “And still it doesn’t compare.”

You smile against his collarbone, that ache in your chest curling warm now.

“Don’t let go,” you say, voice nearly gone with how much you feel.

“Never,” he promises. And you believe it.

You dance long after the candles burn low.

You dance until the world forgets there’s anything else but you and him.

And later, when you’re tangled together on the floor in laughter, dizzy and glowing, he says,

“This is how forever begins, love.”

༊*·˚

It’s well past midnight when he pulls a coat over your shoulders and leads you to the door.

“No more surprises,” you say, smiling sleepily, the kind of warm exhaustion that only comes from being so full of love you don’t know where to put it all.

“No more surprises,” he promises. Then leans down, kisses the tip of your nose, and lies: “Just one more.”

The air is cold. Crisp in that clean, silver way only a quiet night can be. Stars scatter overhead like candle sparks, a soft wind curling through your hair. The streets are empty. The world is asleep.

But Klaus?

He walks like the night was made just for this. Just for you.

“Tell me something,” you say, fingers laced with his. “What did you do on your last birthday?”

He hums. “I think I killed someone.”

You snort. “Of course you did.”

“But then I painted,” he adds softly. “Something you inspired before I ever knew you.”

Your steps slow. “You really mean that?”

“I never say anything I don’t mean to you.”

༊*·˚

The path winds past trees still heavy with dew. Somewhere nearby, a river hums low, quiet like a secret. And then he stops.

A single lantern glows ahead, dim and flickering—hung above a small stone bench in a clearing where the moonlight gathers.

He’s pacing.

Not dramatically. Not like he wants to be seen. Just pacing—restless, almost boyish, hands in his pockets, muttering things under his breath that are likely 40% curses and 60% pure nerves.

You sit on the old wooden bench, wrapped in the coat he forced on you earlier, legs tucked under you as you watch him wear a path into the earth beneath the trees.

“Klaus,” you say softly, tilting your head, “you’re terrifying the wildlife.”

He freezes. Blinks. Turns slowly, like he’s remembering you’re here—like he’s remembering this is real.

Then he walks toward you. Stops. Hesitates.

“I had something rehearsed,” he mutters. “It sounded better in my head. Less…pathetic.”

You smile. “I already like this version better.”

He exhales through a shaky laugh, like you’ve just handed him a lifeline.

And then—he kneels. Right there in the dirt beside the bench. Not for show, not for spectacle. Just because something in him still knows what it means to kneel for what he worships.

The box he pulls from his coat is small. Worn. No shine or flash, just old wood etched with runes, like a secret meant to be kept.

He opens it slowly.

And the ring inside?

It isn’t beautiful in any traditional way. It’s strange. Quietly wild. As if it was shaped from starlight and carved bone and old blood spilled during something sacred. Not just metal—memory. A single deep green gem in the center, the color of moss after a storm.

Klaus doesn’t look at the ring. He looks at you.

“This,” he says gently, “belonged to a woman I once loved. A very long time ago.”

You feel your heart stumble. “Klaus, you don’t—”

“I never gave it to her.”

His voice isn’t cold. Just honest. Raw and real and trembling slightly.

“I kept it,” he continues. “Through wars and cities falling and centuries of grief. I kept it—not out of love. Out of guilt. Because I thought no one would ever deserve it. No one should.”

He pauses. Swallows.

“But then I met you.”

Your breath catches.

“I met you and suddenly… eternity didn’t feel like a punishment. Suddenly I wanted things. Morning things. Your voice from the kitchen. Your shoes in the hallway. Your hands smacking mine when I eat from your plate.”

You laugh through the sudden ache in your chest.

“I have seen kingdoms fall and stars collapse. I have held this ring through rage and regret. But tonight,” he says, lifting it—offering it— “I give it to you. Not as a promise. Not as a cage. But as truth.”

You don’t even notice you’re crying until the stars blur.

“And,” he adds in a quiet rush, “I want to marry you. That’s—that’s the part I forgot to say. That’s what this is for.”

Your laugh bursts out wet and joyful. “You’re a disaster.”

“Yes,” he agrees solemnly. “But I’m your disaster. If you’ll have me.”

You nod, too overwhelmed to form real words. “Yes. Yes.”

He slips the ring onto your finger. So gently. Like the air around your skin might tear.

You lean forward and kiss him before he can stand, one hand in his hair, the other already curled against his chest. He kisses you back like he’s finally remembered what it means to belong to something other than sorrow.

You press your face into the curve of his neck, arms tight around him like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. Your breath trembles with everything you can’t put into words.

“I love you,” you whisper again, and again, and again. As if the words alone can stitch him into the fabric of your life. “I love you, Klaus. I love you so much.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

He just holds you.

Like you're something breakable and holy. Like the night might end if he breathes too loud.

And then—quietly, so quietly it nearly gets lost in the hush of the stars above and the sound of your heartbeat against his chest—he says:

“But I loved you first.”

Your breath catches.

His voice is soft. Not playful, not teasing—just full of that hushed wonder he always gets when he’s near you. As if he’s still surprised you’re real. As if saying it aloud might unravel him.

“I loved you,” he murmurs, “before I knew I was allowed to. Before you ever looked at me like this. Before you ever smiled at me like I wasn’t some ancient, cursed thing.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear with fingers that tremble slightly. His eyes are lit with something deep and fragile—like the boy he used to be still lives in there, tucked beneath centuries of ruin.

“I think I loved you the second you told me off in that bookstore,” he adds, smiling crookedly. “Or maybe when you called me a pompous arse and didn’t mean it.”

You laugh, even as tears cling to your lashes.

“And I’ve loved you every version of the way since,” he says. “In silence. In secret. In every shattered moment I thought I’d ruined any chance of deserving you.”

You reach up and cup his cheek. His breath stutters under your palm.

“You do deserve me,” you say, quietly. “You always did.”

His eyes close for a heartbeat, like the words physically undo him.

Then he leans in and presses his forehead to yours, the space between you full of everything no language has ever managed to say properly.

“But I loved you first,” he repeats, barely above a whisper.

Like a prayer. Like a truth carved in bone.

And this time, you don’t answer. You just hold him tighter.

Because some things are too big for words.

And this—this is one of them.

thank you anon for the request and remembering my birthday <3 And happy either late or early birthday to you as well🤍