#how to reduce business chaos

[mentorshelly]

Signs You’re Overdue for a Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) Overhaul in Your Small Business

Let’s be real—when you first started your business, you were the CEO, HR, marketing, admin, and janitor all in one. You did what you had to do to get things off the ground.But now your business is growing. You’re hiring. Delegating. Scaling.And things are slipping through the cracks. If your small business is running on outdated instructions, word-of-mouth training, or “this is how we’ve always…

[iloveacaibowls111]

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹

18+ MDNI, smut

dilf!toji wants a kid pt. 2

you don’t move.

can’t, really.

not with the way your breath is still caught somewhere in your chest, skin hot where toji just kissed you, where his palms were wrapped around you like he owned every inch. and god, you don’t even need to look down to know your robe is a mess - half-slipped off your shoulder, loosely tied at your waist, the heat of his body still lingering like static.

from the kitchen, you hear cereal being poured with the chaos only a toddler can summon. clinks. sloshes. maybe a plastic spoon hitting the ground.

toji’s already out the door, heavy-footed and shirtless, muttering something like “gimme a sec, bud” while grabbing the milk from the fridge.

it gives you just enough time to almost pull yourself together.

almost.

because two minutes later, he’s back - and he means business.

he doesn’t say a word. just closes the bedroom door behind him with a soft click, strides over to you like a man possessed, and then he’s on you again.

“been thinkin’ about this all morning,” he rasps, one knee pressing between your thighs as he walks you backward toward the bed. “you on the rug like that, bein’ all sweet with him…”

his hands are already undoing your robe, slipping it off your arms, letting it pool onto the floor like it never mattered. you’re left bare in front of him, flushed and aching, and the way he looks at you - almost feral - makes your knees almost give out.

toji catches you with a low grunt, arms solid as steel around your waist.

“i mean it,” he mutters, dragging his lips along your collarbone. “you’re killin’ me.”

he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing and this time lays you out across the bed. slow, almost careful. but there’s nothing gentle about the way he settles between your legs, dragging his mouth down your sternum, over the swell of your chest.

you let out a shaky breath, thighs twitching as his hand trails up to your breast, palm warm and broad and desperate.

“toji-” you gasp when he flicks your nipple with his tongue, followed by a greedy suck that sends sparks down your spine.

his voice is wrecked when he pulls back, thumb dragging over the damp mark he left behind. “should’ve locked the damn door.”

you let out a shaky laugh, hand curling in his hair. “you’re the one who left it open.”

“yeah, and i’m about to do a whole lot more if you keep lookin’ like that.” his mouth returns to your skin, kissing a path down your belly - slow, aching, possessive.

and then you feel it: his fingers brushing between your legs, groaning when he feels how wet you already are.

“…fuck,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your thigh for a moment like he’s overwhelmed. “you’re so perfect, doll.”

his fingers slip in with ease, thick and precise, curling at just the right spot as he watches your mouth fall open and listens to your soft whimpers. he keeps you on the edge - pushing, pulling, teasing. his name falls from your lips over and over, half-pleas, half-prayers.

just when as you feel that familiar coil in your stomach about to come undone around his hand.

just when you’re gasping, about to come undone around his hand, he pulls away.

“not yet, baby,” he says, voice tight with restraint. “wanna feel you around me when you cum.”

he strips out of his sweatpants fast, like they offended him, and you get your first look at how hard he’s been this whole time - cock flushed, leaking, twitching at the tip as he lines himself up with a low groan.

“i should take my time,” he murmurs, rubbing the head of his length against your soaked folds. “but I need you too much, doll.”

when he finally pushes his cock in - thick and deep - the stretch burning in the best way. the pure size never fails to reduce you to a moaning mess. 

you grab at his back, nails digging in as he bottoms out, voice catching on a soft, “toji-“

“shh,” he says, his forehead pressed to yours. “i got you.”

and then he starts moving - slow at first, rolling his hips deep until your eyes flutter shut, then faster, harder, chasing the way your breath stutters every time he hits just right.

when you felt his tip hit that one spot. the one that makes everything in your mind go blank. you let out a sweetened whimper as he says “ahh, there it is.”

you’re a mess under him. head thrown back. hair fanned across the pillow. his name tumbling from your lips like it’s the only thing you know.

“feel that?” he pants, hand pressing down on her stomach where there is a slight outline of his cock.”you take me so damn good. you really must want to be a mommy again.”

every thrust is rougher, needier, but still full of something tender - like he’s trying to give you something, not just take.

“gonna give you another baby,” he says lowly, voice breaking against your ear. “you want that, don’t you?”

you can’t even answer. you were too fucked out at this point.

you could just manage to nod, gasping, legs wrapping tight around him like instinct.

and that’s it for him. he groans your name - growls it, really - and leans down to kiss you hard, hips jerking as he spills his cum inside you with a low, broken sound.

he keeps moving even after, slower now, riding it out, brushing kisses across your cheeks and jaw while your bodies tremble together.

finally, he stills - sweaty, panting, arms caging you in like he never wants to let you go.

“you good?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

you smile dazedly, still catching your breath. “…next time, we’re going to need more time.”

right on cue-

“mom! dad! the cereal’s too soggy now!”

toji groans against your chest. “i swear this kid is pickier than gordon ramsay.”

“i know,” you say, grinning. “but right now, you’re on milk duty.”

A/N: Sorry guys this is kinda cheeks because this is really rushed

part one here

[favefandomimagines]

Simp (f.l)

Summary: Frank is pining hardcore after his coworker…very hardcore

Request: the lack of frank fics on here is crazy cos he’s so gorgeous and complex but anyways i see you write for him so i was wondering if you could do like hardcore pining, yearning frank x reader where everyone in the pitt can see the tension between them but they are both too stubborn to make the first move

AN: I love a man who yearns

The Pit never really slept. Even when the halls were quieter, and the monitors only beeped sporadically, there was a pulse in the place—steady, stubborn, alive. Dr. Frank Langdon liked to think he was much the same.

After the messy collapse of his marriage and the months of slow, aching rebuild afterward, he carried himself with a certain armor. Confident, cocky even. Unshakable.

Except, of course, when it came to her.

Y/N.

Y/N was chaos and kindness bottled in one person. She had this way of commanding a trauma bay with a clipped, efficient voice that left even seasoned nurses scrambling to follow her orders. She was brilliant, stubborn, and sharp-tongued enough to keep up with Frank—and that was saying something.

The worst part? She had no idea.

Or maybe she did.

Frank leaned against the nurse’s station, arms crossed, pretending to review a chart on his tablet while sneaking glances at Y/N across the ER.

She was laughing with Dr. Mohan by the vending machines, head thrown back, one hand lightly resting on her hip. Frank could feel the tug in his chest like a goddamn fishhook. He swallowed thickly.

Mohan said something else—probably an inside joke between them—and Y/N laughed again. Frank had never envied a vending machine so much in his life.

"You’re staring again," muttered Dana, sliding past him with a smirk.

"I’m not staring," Frank grumbled, heat creeping up his neck.

"Sure you're not," Dana sing-songed, disappearing into a patient room.

Frank sighed and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. How had it come to this? He, Frank Langdon, reduced to a pining idiot over a woman he couldn’t even bring himself to properly ask out.

Because it wasn’t just a crush. Not anymore.

It was the way his stomach twisted whenever Y/N smiled at someone else. It was the way he tuned into her voice automatically, even in a packed trauma bay. It was the way he noticed when she was tired or when she had a new pen tucked behind her ear.

It was the way he caught himself thinking of her, constantly.

And it scared the absolute hell out of him.

Meanwhile, across the ER, Y/N was not as oblivious as she pretended to be.

She could feel Frank's eyes on her sometimes—okay, a lot of the time. She could hear the subtle shift in his voice when he spoke to her, the way his teasing banter always edged just a little closer to sincere when they were alone.

And she wasn’t blind; Frank Langdon was absurdly attractive. Even after a 15-hour shift when his scrubs were wrinkled and his hair was a mess, he somehow looked like he belonged on the cover of a medical drama poster.

And God, was he good at what he did. Watching Frank run a code was like watching art happen in real time—sharp, smooth, unflinching. He had a gift.

But she also knew his history. Everyone in the Pit did.

The divorce. The bitterness that had curled under his skin like smoke. The wild, reckless way he’d thrown himself into work afterward, like if he stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t have to think.

Y/N had spent too many nights nursing friends through breakups to not recognize the signs.

And she wasn’t about to be anyone's rebound—not even Frank Langdon's.

Even if her heart did stutter every time he flashed her that cocky, lopsided grin. Even if she found herself looking for excuses to team up with him on cases. Even if she felt safer with him in a trauma bay than almost anyone else.

Especially because of all that.

She was too stubborn to make the first move. Too scared of getting her heart broken into something small and unfixable.

So she played the game, smiled back, flirted when it felt safe—but always, always kept the line between them firmly drawn.

Even if she wanted to cross it more than anything.

It wasn’t until the accident came in that night, right before shift change, that Frank realized he was absolutely, irrevocably screwed.

"Mass casualty incoming," the charge nurse warned, sticking her head into the lounge where Frank and Y/N were both trying—and failing—to eat dinner. "Multi-car pileup on 76. Five patients at least. ETA three minutes."

Frank immediately shoved his food aside and rose. Y/N was already moving too, grabbing gloves and snapping them on with practiced ease. Their eyes met briefly, and Frank felt it—an electric charge sparking between them.

"You ready, partner?" he drawled, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers.

Y/N smirked. "Born ready, Langdon."

God help him.

The first ambulance screeched into the bay, and chaos bloomed like a stormcloud.

Frank and Y/N fell into a rhythm instantly, as they always did. Y/N took charge of a young woman with a chest wound while Frank handled a man with a broken femur and a possible spinal injury. Orders flew. Hands moved. The ER buzzed and roared around them, a living thing.

Frank could see Y/N out of the corner of his eye the whole time—focused, calm, impossibly beautiful under the harsh fluorescents. Her hair was tied back messily, tendrils falling around her face.

And she was the most breathtaking thing he had ever seen.

He almost missed the nurse asking him for a medication dosage.

"Uh—yeah. One milligram. Push," Frank barked, shaking himself. He could not afford to be distracted right now.

They stabilized their patients, pushed them off to CT and trauma surgery, and somehow—somehow—managed to get a breathing space. Frank peeled his gloves off with a snap, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

Y/N slid down to sit beside him on the floor, legs stretched out in front of her.

"You good?" she asked, voice soft.

Frank turned his head and looked at her, really looked. At the exhaustion in her shoulders. The stubborn strength in her posture. The little curl of hair that had escaped her ponytail and clung damply to her temple.

God, he wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.

Instead, he said, "You were amazing in there."

Y/N smiled, a little bashful, a little amused. "You weren’t so bad yourself, Langdon."

Frank chuckled and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Stick with me, kid. I’ll teach you all my tricks."

"You wish," Y/N shot back.

But she said it warmly, almost fondly.

Frank cracked one eye open and looked at her again, heart thudding against his ribs.

One of these days, he swore, he was going to stop being a coward and ask her out.

Just... not today.

||

The lull after the trauma surge lasted all of fifteen minutes.

Frank barely made it back to the lounge before being paged again, this time for a nasty lac to the forearm—a teenager who’d slid off a skateboard onto broken glass. Frank stitched quickly, his hands steady even though his brain was still half on Y/N, still replaying the way her fingers had brushed his wrist when she’d handed him a clamp in the trauma bay.

When he finally escaped again, it was to find Y/N sitting sideways on the worn leather couch, her socked feet tucked up under her, flipping through a dog-eared medical journal. A fresh bandage peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her scrub top.

He crossed the room before he could think better of it.

"You didn’t get that cleaned up properly," he said, nodding at her arm.

Y/N raised a brow. "It’s nothing. A scratch."

Frank gave her his best unimpressed doctor stare—the one that usually made med students wither.

"Sit still," he said, grabbing the basic wound care kit from the cabinet.

Y/N hesitated for a second, searching his face, and then—maybe to humor him—stuck her arm out.

Frank perched on the edge of the couch beside her, heart beating far too fast for a guy who'd been covered in other people’s blood less than an hour ago.

He cleaned the scratch carefully, too carefully, aware of every tiny shift of her muscles beneath his fingertips. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and soap, and something warmer underneath—something that was just her.

"You're being very dramatic about this, Dr. Langdon," Y/N teased, watching him work.

"You're my partner," Frank said, more gruffly than he meant to. "Can’t have you bleeding out in the middle of a code."

"How heroic," she said dryly, but there was a small smile playing around her lips.

Frank pressed a bandage gently onto her skin, then looked up—and realized how close they were. Barely a foot between them. He could see the faint spray of freckles across her nose. The glint of amusement in her eyes.

For one reckless second, he thought about leaning in.

Instead, he cleared his throat, dropped his hands into his lap, and said, "All patched up, doc. Try not to injure yourself again for at least an hour."

"Guess I'll try," Y/N said, laughing under her breath.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Frank thought maybe—maybe—he wasn't completely imagining the way she looked at him.

Later, Y/N leaned against the nurse’s station, charting on a patient, when Dana sidled up to her with a knowing smirk.

"You know he's basically in love with you, right?"

Y/N didn’t look up. "Who?"

Dana snorted. "Langdon. Dr. Broody over there."

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, but kept her voice even. "He's like that with everyone."

"Uh-huh," Dana said skeptically. "Sure. He totally volunteers to clean people’s wounds at random. Super normal."

Y/N tapped the tablet harder than necessary, trying to ignore the way her heart skipped in her chest.

"Anyway," Dana went on, "the entire ER has a betting pool on when he’ll grow a pair and ask you out."

Y/N's head shot up. "You're joking."

"Dead serious. Robby’s got fifty bucks on you two hooking up by Halloween."

Y/N opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it, though?" Dana wiggled her eyebrows. "You like him too. Don't even try to deny it."

Y/N shook her head, laughing nervously. "Even if I did—which I'm not saying I do—it's complicated."

"Life’s complicated," Dana said cheerfully, then wandered off to help a patient who was throwing up in bay three.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment, her heart thundering in her ears.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what she felt for Frank wasn’t casual. She knew that the part of her that held back—the cautious, wounded part—was getting harder and harder to listen to.

But if she fell for Frank Langdon, really fell? She wasn’t sure she could survive it if he broke her heart.

And God, she would fall. She was already halfway there.

It got worse when another trauma rolled in an hour later.

An elderly woman with a head bleed, confused and combative. Frank jumped into action, voice calm but commanding, and Y/N found herself standing beside him almost instinctively, reading off vitals and helping to restrain the patient gently but firmly.

At one point, Frank looked up at her, and the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"You good?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N nodded, feeling breathless.

Frank’s hand brushed hers briefly as he reached for a clamp. The touch was featherlight, accidental—and yet she felt it like an electric shock all the way to her bones.

They worked seamlessly, saving the woman’s life with a coordinated dance that didn’t need words.

When it was over, when the patient was safely whisked upstairs to neurosurgery, Frank turned to her with a grin that made her knees weak.

"You’re a damn rock star, you know that?" he said.

Y/N laughed shakily. "Coming from you, that's high praise."

Frank’s grin softened into something else—something almost tender.

"I mean it," he said, voice rough. "I’d trust you with my life."

Y/N’s heart twisted.

And she realized—maybe he was already trusting her with it.

Maybe he was just as scared as she was.

Back in the break room, Frank slumped onto the couch, scrubbing his hands over his face.

He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep orbiting her like a satellite too scared to land.

Every part of him wanted her. Needed her. Not in the reckless, self-destructive way he’d used to need people, but in a way that felt terrifyingly real.

And if he didn’t tell her soon, he was going to lose his damn mind.

||

The next shift was somehow even worse.

Frank had never been this distracted in his life.

He nearly forgot to sign a trauma note, practically ignored the med students. Robby caught him staring into space during a chart review and gave him a look that screamed, get your shit together, man.

Frank knew exactly what the problem was.

Y/N.

Y/N, standing three feet away in her black scrubs that maybe Frank thought fit her too well. Y/N, tucking a pencil behind her ear, and making Frank want to do completely inappropriate things in the supply closet. Y/N, being brilliant and fierce and so far out of his reach it physically hurt.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he could feel the wall between them cracking.

She looked at him differently now. He could see it in the way her eyes lingered, the way her smile faltered sometimes, like she was trying to stop herself from doing something reckless.

He had to do something. Had to say something.

Or he was going to lose her before he ever really had her.

Meanwhile, Y/N wasn't faring much better.

Every time Frank laughed, every time he teased her with that crooked smile and that infuriating wink, she felt herself sliding closer to the edge.

She was tired of fighting it.

Tired of pretending she didn’t want him.

But still—still—fear gnawed at her.

What if he wasn’t ready? What if this was just loneliness, desperation, looking for an easy out?

She couldn’t survive being another casualty in Frank Langdon’s messy post-divorce world.

And she couldn’t survive losing him as a friend, either.

So she waited. And watched. And hoped he’d make the first move.

It was nearly seven in the evening after a long shift, when Frank decided, screw it.

He found her in the back hallway, fiddling with the vending machine, trying to coax a granola bar loose.

"Come on, you stupid piece of shit," Y/N muttered, whacking the side of the machine.

Frank leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a fond smirk.

"You know, if you wanted a snack that bad, you could’ve just asked me," he said.

Y/N jumped slightly, then rolled her eyes. "I’m fine, thanks."

Frank pushed off the wall and wandered closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He felt about a hundred years old and fifteen again all at once.

"You’re not fine," he said lightly. "You’re hangry. It’s a public health emergency."

Y/N laughed despite herself. "You’re impossible."

Frank took a breath. Now or never.

"I was wondering," he said, casual, too casual, "if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime."

Y/N blinked. "We grab dinner all the time. Cafeteria food doesn’t count."

"No, I mean—" Frank faltered, scrubbed a hand through his hair. God, he was bad at this. "Like. Real dinner. Plates and silverware. Maybe even something that costs more than five bucks."

He risked a glance at her.

Y/N was staring at him, wide-eyed, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

Frank’s stomach twisted. Had he just made a huge mistake?

"Like a date?" she said slowly.

Frank swallowed. His throat was dry as hell.

"Yeah," he said roughly. "Like a date."

The silence stretched between them.

Frank wanted to crawl under the vending machine and die.

Finally—finally—Y/N smiled. Soft. Shy. Beautiful.

"You’re serious," she said, almost wonderingly.

Frank stepped closer. "I’ve been serious for a long time," he said quietly. "Just too much of an idiot to say anything."

Y/N's lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something—and then she shook her head, laughing a little under her breath.

"You’re ridiculous," she said.

"And yet," Frank said, grinning now, "you’re still here."

Y/N hesitated for a heartbeat longer—then reached out and poked him lightly in the chest.

"One date," she said, mock-stern.

Frank caught her hand in his gently, holding it for a second longer than necessary.

"I’ll behave," he promised, voice low and sincere. "Scout’s honor."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. A real smile. One that made something warm and unbreakable light up in Frank’s chest.

“Promise me, this isn’t because of the divorce. You actually want to pursue this and not some mid-life crisis.” Y/N spoke softly.

Frank looked down at her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I promise. I want you Y/N.” He said.

"Okay, Langdon," she said. "You’re on."

Frank grinned like an idiot.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt exactly right.

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

Frank figured he could wait.

After all, he’d already waited this long.

What was a little longer, for something—someone—that might just be worth everything?

[akisteahouse]

Thinking about flirty! Reader with bumbling, flustered Azul Ashengrotto and not-so composed Jamil Viper!

Azul! Who had never been at such a complete loss before, because you were simply too big of a fish to fry! How could he possibly write up a contract with you when the end result was always you bullying him with your silver tongue, reducing him to nothing but a puddle of octopus goo? Ugh, you were impossible to work with!

Who turned from a sharp negotiator to a stuttering fool whenever you were on the pitch. This was horribly unfair! How was he meant to keep a cool head when you were perched on his desk, fingertips on his chin, lifting his head up to look at you, and oh, how your gaze bored into his eyes, how you loomed closer and closer, lips pouted, right before you denied him what you had been teasing him for the past few minutes now, shoving his fedora over his eyes before leaving - cruel, not even his stellar negotiation could get through you to kiss him-fulfil your part of the deal! However… his VIP room was always open if you ever had a change of heart, of course… ;) (pleasepleaseplease kiss him silly he’d get you anything you’d ever desire for)

Jamil! Who always felt like a character in the background, the servant of an eye-catching prince… until you showed up and promptly threw his once neatly arranged life into chaos - not that he was complaining. The never-ending compliments were a nice change, but you? Oh, you sneaky snake, distracting him from his duties -!

Who had begun to expect your presence, the coy touches here, the tad bit too flirtatious comments to be just considered banter there, and was becoming oh-so greedy for even a crumb of your affections. Talking to you after dealing with Kalim’s antics had become a need, a need to inhale your scent - which he had ingrained into his skull after you stood much closer to him than needed - a want to see your giddy smile after a horrid pick-up-line, a must to have your hands on him, even if it meant having to claw off your insatiable hands when he eventually got sent to do some task. (He never truly wanted you to let go.) Busy days spent running back and forth were a pain, but you were his oasis from the constant irritation, so do pardon his forwardness if he had to drag you to an empty guest room himself. ;)

[randomness-is-my-order]

idk why alot of people underestimate the maturity and composure of wei wuxian’s character but to reduce his personality to his mo xuanyu lunatic persona is a total disservice to his character. i get that the first impression we have of him is a pretty memorable one and his behaviour IS volatile and quirky (completely on purpose) for the better part of the volume one but what baffles me is that we are clearly shown how his outward behaviour is in stark contrast to his internal monologue. his thoughts offset his actions and root them solidly in stone-cold logic.

from my perspective at least, wei wuxian’s reaction to discovering that he’s reincarnated is hilariously understated—it’s a grumbly “meh” and straight to business right after. he coolly assesses his surroundings, the marks on his arm and ways to get rid of them. THAT is wei wuxian’s true personality—the ability to obfuscate his intelligence and insight by acting unpredictably.

also people forget that time did not pass by normally for wei wuxian in those thirteen years that he was dead. after reincarnation, he was mentally still the age he died at—ik there is some debate here but none that has convinced me otherwise—only, he was rid of all the cumulative intense mental pressure and immediate guilt that he was harbouring in the past. the wei wuxian that is the mentor for the juniors, the voice of reason and the pool of trivia and knowledge that guides them calmly through the chaos is not a wisened and more experienced wei wuxian than how he was when he died. thirteen years for him passed in a limbo. as such, the maturity we clearly see from him after the timeskip is actually what he carried in the original timeline! his demeanour is just more... chill, because he is not fighting for his life and defending a group of innocent wens with every fibre of his being against the entire of horde of cultivators waiting for one misstep on his part to pounce and wipe him out.

the difference between past wei wuxian and future wei wuxian isn’t time-gained maturity but the loss of devastatingly heavy responsibilities and continuous emotional turmoil. their mindsets, moral code, logical reasoning are still largely the same.

yes, there are differences between the two versions of wei wuxian but i think they come majorly from how the stakes have changed for him. when wei wuxian is able to slow down and is allowed to have a support system, he can solve things without risking his emotions getting the better of him (which he is actually quite good at regulating) and is also able to look back and reflect on his past mistakes with an objective lens. that is why, when wei wuxian does muse about his “younger” self, it is not so much about him outgrowing his youth through passed time but through sheer richness of lived experience. his childhood had already forced him to mature before his time and it continued till the end of his first life—where the kind of stance he took ensured that he would have to keep up emotionally, physically and mentally with not just his peers but with the elders of the cultivation world.

that’s why, after reincarnation, we never feel like wei wuxian has to play catch up with his older peers—he had already attained the emotional maturity for it in his first life and if anyone was playing catch up, it was his peers.

knowing this, it does irk me when these aspects of him are buried under a portrayal of unrestrained chaos, constant gremlin-like energy, inconsideration and incompetence—wei wuxian is the antithesis of these values. he is joyous, playful, extroverted, sometimes loudmouthed but also deeply thoughtful, adaptive, resourceful, caring, kind and mature.

this brings me to my first point—

this aspect of wei wuxian is shown to us in the first few pages of mdzs: he doesn’t act like a lunatic because he’s an agent of indiscriminate chaos but because his logic dictates so, because he must play the part of mo xuanyu and exact revenge on his behalf. his actions always have a reason behind them—they are very rarely impulsive. it’s just more and more, i see people fall for the act and disregard wei wuxian’s layered (and frankly, far more interesting) personality in favour of replacing it with a surface-level veneer that outright betrays his original characterisation.

[thef1diary]

hey pretty ! more ghost max is a need omg

- hi nonnie! Lemme fulfil your needs 🤭 moving takes a lot of effort and maybe messes with your memory a little. that’s why you had slowly lost all your panties…right? There was no other reason…right? 18+ content below

It started innocently enough—or so you thought. First, a pair of panties went missing from the laundry basket. Then another vanished from the drawer, and you chalked it up to your scattered mind. Life was busy, your routine chaotic, and it was easy to dismiss the losses as your own forgetfulness. But as the days passed, the pattern became impossible to ignore. One by one, your favorite pairs disappeared until the entire drawer felt barren.

You didn’t blame him at first, not really. After all, how could you? He never made his presence malicious and besides, wasn’t it more likely you’d misplaced them in the chaos of unpacking? At least, that was what you told yourself.

Until you found the stash.

It happened on an ordinary morning. You were rummaging in your closet, searching for a pair of flats, when your fingers brushed something soft yet jagged, buried behind the last row of shoes. Frowning, you pulled it free, and your breath caught in your throat.

Tattered lace, shredded cotton—your missing underwear reduced to scraps. You stared, your cheeks burning as you crouched down, hands trembling slightly as you unearthed the pile. Every pair you thought you’d misplaced was here, ripped apart as though someone—or something—had torn through them deliberately. The thought made your skin prickle, realization dawning in the pit of your stomach.

This wasn’t random. He’d been taking them, hiding them away, destroying them with purpose.

Your pulse quickened as you stood, the stash left untouched on the floor, heat rising in your cheeks as the truth settled over you. That explained why, today, you’d simply given up on finding them and gone without any flimsy fabric covering your cunt.

And it was then—standing there, bare beneath your skirt, your body tingling with a strange mix of embarrassment and anticipation—that you felt him.

A firm, unseen pressure brushed against your thigh, light at first, as though testing your reaction. You froze, your breath catching in your chest, before the touch grew bolder. Fingers���cool, yet achingly familiar—slid higher, parting your legs ever so slightly, teasing the sensitive skin there.

You gasped softly, heat pooling low in your belly as those lifeless touches found your slickness. Bare, wet, and exposed, you couldn’t stop the way your body shuddered when he dragged his fingers through your lips, slow and deliberate.

This is what he wanted.

The silent message was clear in every calculated stroke, his touch firm and unrelenting as he spread you open wider. One finger curled inside you, pressing against that perfect spot, while another flicked over your clit in lazy, torturous circles.

You should’ve been embarrassed, maybe even outraged, but instead, you let out a shaky breath, your lips curling into a wry smile. “Guess I should’ve taken the hint sooner,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Another stroke, another curl of his fingers, and you couldn’t help but part your legs wider, giving in completely to his unspoken demand.

Your body writhed against the invisible pressure, thighs trembling as his fingers delved deeper, coaxing you to the brink. You bit your lip, hands gripping the closet wall for support as waves of heat built in you, each stroke of his touch pulling you closer and closer to the edge.

And then it hit—a rush of release so intense it left you crying out, your body shaking as you came undone around him. Wetness spilled down your thighs, your chest heaving as you sagged against the wall, your legs too weak to hold you steady.

Now, you knew he liked you bare—his touch told you everything. And who were you to deny him?

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[antinousletmehit]

Pairing: platonic!Antinous x fem!reader/ Telemachus x fem!reader

Note: a chapter of this series will come out each day because I’ve already pre written this stuff PRE ITHACA SAGA so the future chapters regarding that may or may not be changed. Also I will go through readers and Antinous’s backstory as siblings soon.

THIS IS PART 3

Here’s where you can find part 2–> https://www.tumblr.com/antinousletmehit/771422711234887681/paring-telemachus-x-femreader-notes-first

N/N= nickname

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

Y/n strolled out of the hall, her smirk lingering from the sheer delight of watching Telemachus squirm. The cool, quiet halls of the palace gave way to the raucous noise of the main hall. Laughter, shouting, and the occasional clatter of a goblet hitting the floor filled the space.

The Suitors were sprawled around the room, gambling with dice, boasting of how Penelope looked their way and didn’t frown, and play-fighting as if they were on a battlefield. Plates of half-eaten food littered the tables, and amphorae of wine were passed around with careless abandon.

Y/n weaved through the chaos, dodging an overly enthusiastic shove between two men sparring with wooden swords. She reached for a cup of water from a passing servant’s tray, taking a sip before a familiar voice cut through the din.

“Well, if it ain’t little N/N!”

Y/n turned to see her brother, Antinous, standing near one of the tables, arms wide in mock celebration. He was surrounded by a few of the rowdier Suitors, his grin as sharp and confident as ever.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, though her tone lacked any real annoyance.

“Why not? It suits you,” Antinous replied, leaning on the edge of the table. “Little N/N, always poking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Tell me, who have you been tormenting now?”

“Who says I’ve been tormenting anyone?” she asked innocently, taking another sip of water.

Antinous laughed, throwing his head back. “Oh, come now. You have that look about you. The same one I get after outsmarting some poor fool.” He narrowed his eyes at her playfully. “Let me guess… Telemachus?”

Y/n smirked, leaning against a nearby pillar. “Who else? He’s so easy, Antinous. All I have to do is say a few words, and he’s blushing like a maiden on her wedding day.”

The Suitors around Antinous erupted in laughter, one of them slapping the table so hard the dice scattered. “The prince of Ithaca, reduced to a stammering fool by a girl!” one of them crowed.

Antinous grinned, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “Well done, sister. You’re learning from the best.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “If I’m learning from you, then maybe I should start charging him for the privilege of my company.”

“That’s the spirit!” Antinous said, gesturing for her to sit at the table with him. “Why waste your talents on free entertainment when you could profit from them? You could even outdo me one day.”

“Outdo you?” she repeated with a laugh, setting her cup down. “Is that even possible?”

The two of them shared a laugh, their sibling bond clear in the way they teased each other. Around them, the Suitors continued their games and boasts. But in the back of Y/N’s mind, an image lingered—Telemachus, standing defiant despite her taunts.

Y/n leaned back in her chair, her smirk lingering as Antinous poured himself a goblet of wine. Around her, the Suitors’ voices ebbed and flowed in waves of laughter and drunken arguments, but Y/ns focus was on her brother.

He was always the center of attention, effortlessly commanding the room. He had a knack for it, a charisma that even she had to admire. Still, as much as she enjoyed their games, Antinous’s antics sometimes grated on her nerves.

“Do you ever get tired of playing king?” Y/n asked, swirling the water in her goblet.

Antinous arched an eyebrow, his grin unwavering. “King? No, sister. I’m merely trying to keep the throne warm for the day Odysseus never returns. Someone has to take charge, after all. And that old relic is too busy mourning a dead man than to choose the man who’ll have her to wife.”

“Is that what you call drinking, gambling, and pretending you’re invincible?” she quipped. Her smirk sharper than the edge of Antinous’s blade.

Antinous laughed, unbothered by her jab. “Careful, Y/n. Envy doesn’t suit you.”

“Envious? Of you?” She scoffed, though her smile betrayed her amusement. “I’d rather be the serpent hiding in the shadows than the lion roaring in the open. You should know better than anyone how that story ends.”

Antinous paused, his grin faltering just slightly. It was fleeting, but Y/n noticed. She always did. He recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair with an air of practiced ease.

“And yet, here you are, mingling with the lions,” he said, gesturing to the raucous crowd around them. “Perhaps you’re not so different from me after all.”

Y/n didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze drift over the room. The Suitors were a sorry lot, drunken fools more concerned with games and glory than anything of substance. Telemachus wasn’t wrong to hate them. She hated them too, in her own weird way.

Her mind wandered back to the interaction with Telemachus, to the flash of anger in Telemachus’s eyes as she goaded him. It wasn’t the first time she’d pushed him, and it wouldn’t be the last. There was something about him, something raw and untapped, like a blade waiting to be sharpened.

“You’re quiet,” Antinous said, breaking her thoughts. He tilted his head, studying her. “What are you thinking about now?”

Y/n smirked, meeting his gaze. “Nothing you need to worry about, brother. Just thinking about how boring this lot is.” She gestured to the rowdy group around them. “Don’t you ever wish for something… more challenging?”

Antinous chuckled, leaning closer. “Challenges are for those who have something to prove. I don’t have anything to prove, I know who I am and I prefer to enjoy myself.”

“Of course you do,” she said dryly, taking another sip of her water.

Antinous didn’t press further, turning his attention back to the game at hand. Y/n, however, let her thoughts drift again, this time to Telemachus.

Y/n smiled to herself, setting her goblet down. The lions could keep roaring. She would remain the serpent, coiled and patient, waiting for the right moment to strike.

[gotta-winwin]

2020 <> can you hear me in the silence?

masterlist

word count: 2.3k TW: downbad!wonwoo, hints at cyana's past, fluff, comfort, one swear word italics are in english, bolded words are in japanese a/n: we love a downbad wonwoo moment and oblivious cyana- this pairing is always so fun to write! threw in a little sneak peak of cyana's past and what's to come...

Wonwoo felt a swirl of guilt and nausea each time he saw Cyana. Ever since that night - where Wonwoo had fainted backstage and Cyana had kindly stayed next to him through it all - he felt he owed the girl immensely. They hadn't talked at all since - Wonwoo knew he was continuing to avoid the girl - not because of his fear this time, but out of guilt. He knew he had been rude and callous to the girl since day one and regretted it deeply.

There was nothing he could say however, each time he tried to speak to her, his tongue refused to cooperate and his throat would close up. He'd end up looking like a fool in front of her, his usually charismatic self reduced into silence.

He figured he had always been better at showing instead of telling.

ONE:

Cyana was woefully overstimulated and it was showing. Her eyes had glazed over, as she sat in between DK and Dino, bearing the front of all the chaos.

Wonwoo knew it had been a long day for the girl. Cyana had been paraded around Tokyo, finishing interviews and photoshoots and still making time to grab dinner with Joshua and Jun. He had seen how eager she had been to crash in her room the moment they had returned back to the hotel. It was purely because she couldn't say no to Dino that she was still awake, joining them all for late night drinks.

"...and then you would've believe what she told me." DK continued on with his story, halfway through his third can of beer. His voice was loud, as the alcohol lowered his inhibitions.

"Dokyeom-ah." Wonwoo cut in before he could continue. His voice was quiet, but firm nonetheless.

The boy in question turned his head to the corner of room where Wonwoo sat. "Oh, hyung."

"Let's lower our voices, okay?" He reminded gently, still eyeing Cyana. "We don't want to get another noise complaint."

DK nodded. "Whoops." He smiled sheepishly. "You're right."

Wonwoo turned to look at Hoshi and Mingyu as well, who had both been cackling over something on Mingyu's phone. "You two as well."

The volume died significantly, and Wonwoo could see Cyana's shoulders relax. He turned back to nursing his own can of beer, watching as she blinked out of her stupor and leaned comfortably against Dino to listen to DK's story.

TWO:

Joshua would've joked that Wonwoo seemed to be stalking Cyana had it not been very true. He could see his eyes following her every move, and wondered whether or not Cyana could feel them too.

"What's going on with you?" He asked Wonwoo as they walked outside for a quick lunch.

Wonwoo frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You've been following Cyana with your eyes like 24/7 ever since our Japan concert."

He could swear he saw Wonwoo blush. "I don't know what you're talking about, man." He denied, moving past him to open the door to the cafe.

Joshua shrugged. It really wasn't any of his business, and Wonwoo always had been a little weird about Cyana since the beginning. His lips quirked up into a tiny smile, enjoying this newfound side of his friend. It was hard to see Wonwoo as anything but calm and collected.

As they sat down to order, he watched from over the menu as Wonwoo scanned the options.

"Have you been here before?" Joshua asked, confused. Wonwoo was looking at the menu like he already knew what he wanted to order.

Wonwoo glanced up before returning his eyes to the menu. "What?" He mumbled. "No."

"How'd you even find this place anyways?" Joshua wondered out loud. "Must be really popular, if you said we needed to come here." Wonwoo had approached him with the idea of going to a cafe 15 minutes away and Joshua had gladly accepted.

Wonwoo shook his head. "It's actually pretty underground." He revealed. "It took me awhile to find."

Joshua frowned. His friend was giving him more questions than answers.

Before he could ask how Wonwoo even knew of the place, the server approached them with a pad of paper, ready to take their order. "Hello, what can I get for you?"

Wonwoo gestured at Joshua to go first. Reaching for his limited knowledge of Japanese, he pointed at the pastry that had caught his eye. "I'll have one of these, please. And a latte."

The waiter nodded, looking over at Wonwoo expectantly.

"I'll have one of these, please." Wonwoo pointed to something on the menu. He paused before speaking again. "And can I take this to go?"

The waiter glanced down at what he was pointing at and nodded. "Yes, I'll have it packed up for you."

"Thank you." Wonwoo nodded in thanks as the waiter left.

--

Joshua kept his questions to himself as they ate, all the while eyeing the takeout container the waiter had placed next to Wonwoo. He finally gave up as they exited the cafe, his curiosity peaking.

"What's in the box?"

Wonwoo looked down at the container he was holding onto, as if he himself hadn't realized he had it. "It's their takoyaki." He explained, shrugging. "Apparently it's the best or whatever."

A lightbulb ignited within Joshua's mind. He recalled a conversation he had overheard two nights ago, as he passed by Dino and Cyana's shared room.

"I think I'd murder someone for takoyaki right now." Cyana had mumbled out, eyes closed as she recalled the flavour. "There was this cafe I went to as a kid that served the best takoyaki. Ever."

Dino had laughed at her want. "Is it far?"

"I don't know." She groaned out, upset. "Don't remember the name. I just know they had like- wooden exterior and bamboo walls." Her nose scrunched as she recalled the memory. "Very traditional Japanese."

"No fucking way." Joshua stared at Wonwoo, his mouth gaped open.

The younger man frowned at him, raising a hand to push his glasses up. "What." He gave him an unamused expression.

"Is that," Joshua pointed at the box in his hands. "For Cyana?"

Wonwoo's cheeks turned red. "Maybe."

"Oh my goodness." Joshua couldn't help but laugh at how adorable the situation was. "You're pathetic, oh my god. Don't tell me you found the cafe just by her description of the exterior."

Wonwoo's face was ablaze as they continued walking. "I google mapped the thing," he mumbled, embarrassed. "clicked on every place that sold takoyaki and checked the exterior for bamboo and wood." He frowned when Joshua only laughed louder. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not-" Joshua wheezed out, slapping Wonwoo on the back. "Props to you, man. That's some dedication."

"Shut up."

THREE:

"Dino?" Cyana called out from their shared hotel room to the boy who was currently in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed.

"Hm?"

She was staring at the box filled with takoyaki, still steaming and hot. "Did you go out and get takoyaki today?"

Dino popped his head out from the bathroom, toothbrush still in his mouth. "Nuh uh."

"Hm." Cyana frowned, wondering who had. Shrugging, the scent of the food overtook her curiosity as she sat down and took a bite. "Oh my god." Clasping her hands together as if in prayer, she couldn't help but shiver at the nostalgic taste. "The takoyaki gods have answered my prayers." She muttered through a mouthful.

Dino let out a snort from behind her, having finished getting ready for bed. "More like the takoyaki tooth fairy."

"I am so in love." She mumbled through another mouthful, moving the box away from Dino when he tried sneaking a bite. "You already brushed your teeth, bro."

"This isn't fair." Dino pouted, flopping onto the bed. "Everything you say has been coming true recently."

Cyana frowned, realizing he was right. Just yesterday, she had lingered in front of a store on their way to a interview. A purple and white notebook had caught her attention - perfect for storing her lyrics in. That same notebook had ended up on top of her suitcase later that night - no note, no receipt. Nobody had owned up to the act when she asked during breakfast the next day.

"From how I see it-" Dino was talking, breaking Cyana out of her thoughts. "One of us messed up- bad. And they're trying to get on your good side before you find out."

She gave him a look, taking another bite of her takoyaki. "Or~" She gave him a goofy grin. "It could be my fairy godmother. Finally showing up."

Dino snorted. "Childish."

FOUR:

They were halfway through their North American leg of the tour and Wonwoo could tell returning to LA had done something to the girl. She was no longer participating in their antics and hangouts after concerts - choosing to reside in her room instead. It resulted in Dino having to room with him and Jun, the younger boy moping around like a kicked puppy over losing his roommate.

"Something's very wrong with her." Dino muttered one night, having had enough of everyone pretending Cyana was okay.

"You're just saying that cause she asked to room alone for the rest of tour and you're pissed." Hoshi muttered back.

"No." Dino corrected quickly, getting up from his spot on the couch. "All she does is perform, practice, hide in her room, perform, practice, hide in her room." He listed. "It's like she's in a loop."

"Give her some time." Joshua sighed, and everyone turned to look at him.

"You know something." Dino pointed an accusatory finger at the older boy.

Joshua nodded. "I do. And it's nothing that concerns us. Cyana will share when she wants to share."

Dino huffed, clearly not liking being kept in the dark. "She's my twin, hyung."

Wonwoo could barely pinpoint the sadness in Joshua's eyes, but it was there. "I know. Give her time."

Wonwoo stood up, leaving the room without a word. Knocking quietly on their manager's door, he entered to see him working on his computer. "Can we get a day off?" He asked.

The manager blinked at the sudden request. "What do you want to do?"

"There's a bookstore close by, right?" Wonwoo remembered Vernon saying something about that. "Barnes and Nobles. Can we go?"

He knew it wasn't much, but Cyana had complained a long time ago that she missed having English books to read. He figured he couldn't do much to help the girl through whatever she was going through right now, but this- this he could do.

FIVE:

It was half-past four in the morning and Wonwoo was still awake. It was officially their last day on tour - tomorrow they'd be flying back to Korea. He couldn't tell whether that made him happy or sad. He was relieved though - hoping that maybe being back home would help heal everyone.

Their hotel floor was eerily quiet tonight as all the members had gone to sleep. He figured it was the crash that often came with tour ending - as if their bodies knew it was finally over and the adrenaline that kept them going washed away.

"Jun?" A tiny voice sounded from the entrance of his hotel room, making him flinch at the sudden sound.

He turned, spotting a bleary-eyed Cyana padding in, her feet bare.

"Jun's sleeping." He whispered, nodding towards the boy in question, who was sleeping soundly in bed.

He watched as her shoulders fell and she perched upon the table, her legs swinging gently above the floor. He watched her watch Jun sleep in silence.

It seemed like forever until Cyana spoke, finally raising her head to look at Wonwoo.

"Are you my fairy godmother?" She whispered, and Wonwoo felt as if she wasn't really all there. Her eyes seemed to look through him, as if she was trying too hard to look at him and failed.

He knew what she meant. He simply nodded, afraid that if he tried to say something, his words would betray him.

"Did you do something wrong?" She asked next, rubbing her sleepy eyes to look at him better. "Dino said whoever gave me those things probably did something wrong."

Wonwoo thought the question was very subjective. "Do you think I did something wrong?" He asked her instead, curious.

Cyana shook her head. "No."

"I thought I'd be nice for a change." He admitted. "I felt bad. And you were going through so much."

She didn't say anything, so he didn't say anything else either.

"Thank you." She whispered, after much silence.

Wonwoo could only nod. No need, he wanted to say. Or maybe As long as it helped you - through whatever it is that Joshua won't tell us. Whatever secret he's keeping for you. Whatever happened in LA. But he didn't say any of that- Cyana looked fragile enough.

"I like this."

Her voice shook him out of his thoughts as he looked back at her.

"The silence." She clarified. "You give nice silence."

His lips quirked at the creative way she had put it. He found she always had a strange way with words, but beautiful nonetheless. "Thank you." He didn't know what else to say.

Watching wordlessly as she walked over to Jun, sliding into bed next to him and curling herself up, Wonwoo moved to get ready for bed. By the time he returned, Jun had moved, as if his body could sense Cyana's presence and moved to compliment it - even while unconscious.

He pulled out his phone and took a picture, sending it to Jun for when the boy woke up. Settling into bed himself, he mulled over Cyana's words. You give nice silence. It made him happy just thinking about it. Silence was something he excelled at- and he always believed it to be a weakness. But if his silence was nice, and if it was something Cyana needed - perhaps it was a strength instead.

[kaileyrose28]

Horny Teens

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Horny Teens is honestly pretty self explanatory, it’s about two teens left alone in a big empty house after not seeing each other because of busy schedules, no one to enforce the ‘open doors’. So, they take advantage of the time given. Messy and dirty. (both are late teens)

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously. 

Content: First time (together not entirely), mutual masturbation, semi-dry humping, quickie, mutual orgasm, riding, protected sex. 

4,837 words. Female centered sex and gendered phrases sometimes. Second Person POV.

P.S. – It is mentioned that you have paler skin than him, not white specifically, just not as warmed-toned as him. This was originally an oc that's redheaded and white, but I won’t limit it like that here, if there are mistakes it’s not purposeful.

It’s rare—this. Time. Just time. No responsibilities clawing at Damian’s heels, no expectations weighing on his shoulders. No Gotham pulling him in one direction and his family in another. Just a quiet moment in his room, the heavy manor doors shut, the world outside kept at bay. And you.

You’re curled up beside him on the bed, flipping through one of his sketchbooks, completely at ease in a way he envies. He watches you, committing every little detail to memory—the way your fingers ghost over the pages, how your eyes soften at certain sketches, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. 

He should be used to it by now, how effortlessly you weave yourself into his world, into the spaces he guards so carefully.

But he’s not. He doesn’t think he ever will be.

He won’t say it aloud—he has no interest in reducing what they are to shallow words—but he loves you. Not in the juvenile, fleeting way people expect from those your age, but in the only way he knows how. Fiercely. Unapologetically. In a way that burrows deep, settles in his bones. 

He’s lived more lifetimes than most, has carried more weight than anyone would dare place on a child’s shoulders, and yet, here you are, fitting so seamlessly into the chaos. Like you were meant to be there.

Damian’s schedule is merciless. The little time he does get with you is often stolen in brief moments—a shared lunch at school, a lingering touch before he’s pulled away to play the part of Wayne heir, a hushed phone call before patrol. And even now, even in the quiet of his room, there’s an edge to it. 

He can’t take you out, not properly, can’t walk through the city without the ever-present threat of exposure. Paparazzi would love nothing more than to sink their teeth into something personal, something real. 

And he refuses—adamantly, violently—to let them have you. Ever. Not for any reason, because nothing would ever justify letting others have you.

So, this will have to do.

He leans back against the headboard, exhaling slowly. The manor is empty enough that no one is here to enforce rules, to remind him of open doors or the illusion of propriety. 

The preferred way to soak in having you against him, even in the simplest of ways. 

You stretch out slightly once he leans back against the headboard, your head resting on his stomach as you continue to flip through his sketchbook. 

You’ve always liked his sketches, how good they always were—he had a knack for everything, really. 

You exhale softly, soaking the peaceful moment in for a quiet little second. 

He’s always busy, somewhere, everywhere, for everyone and you don’t envy him. You admire his ability to do everything and adore the way he still makes time for you. 

Little ol’ you. 

The hand not busy with his sketch book manages to find one of his, lacing their fingers together. 

His skin is a warmer shade then yours, sometimes he makes you look paler than you are—she burns more often where he tans, unfortunately. Sometimes she’ll get a nice color going, but not always.

The contrast is something that has always fascinated him. His skin is darker, yours pale. His body built for combat, yours softly curved. His life is bound by duty and obligation, yours… free, in comparison. 

Free in ways he’s never quite been able to grasp.

His eyes fall to where your head rests on his stomach—your hair a stark contrast against the white cotton of his shirt. He absently runs his thumb against the back of your hand, feeling the ridges of your knuckles—a gentle rhythm, grounding.

“See anything you like?” He asks, his voice low.

The soft feeling of his thumb running back and forth along your knuckles is as soothing as it is cute, the way he touches you without thinking about it. 

You study the sketches, they always look so smooth, so well done. Like some kind of professional did them.

He might as well be an artist, he was so good at it. Portraits, landscapes, animals. Anything. It always looked so good. He was always so good at things, anything really. 

You admire it and envy it to some extent. The way he can do just about anything. 

You hum softly at his question, like there was ever a sketch he could make that you wouldn’t like. You’re not even sure that’s possible. 

“I like all of them.” You mumble softly, giving his hand a soft squeeze as you flip to another page in his sketchbook. 

"Of course you do." He teases gently, closing the sketchbook and turning towards you. 

You let him have the sketchbook as he teases you gently, a small smile twitching the corners of your lips. You lift your head off his stomach and look up at him when he turns towards you, meeting his gaze.

The way you admire his drawings still manages to make his chest warm—not many people appreciate things like you do. His thumb traces small patterns on the back of your hand, enjoying the softness of your skin.

The soft feeling of it is as soothing as it is cute, it’s rare, this little thing you’ve got going right now. You adore the way he’s so soft with you, so sweet. 

You scoot up to be level with him on the bed, brushing your noses together affectionately. “Mm-hmm.” You hum softly, your free hand sliding up to rest on the side of his neck.

His heart rate increases slightly at your affectionate touch. He tilts his head into your palm, resting against your touch. His eyes flit between yours before he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. “You’re allowed to have a favorite.”

He distracts you momentarily when he leans in after looking you in the eyes, giving that soft little kiss, far enough to not be a proper kiss but close enough to be a touch teasing. 

Your lips twitch with a smile, gaze finding his eyes at his words, breathing a soft sound in response. 

You love all his sketches, he’s too talented to pick a favorite. Instead of saying that you lean back in yourself, tilting your head to press your lips together in a soft kiss. 

Your hand on the side of his neck sliding around to his nape, holding gently.

His eyes flutter shut at the feel of those lips on his. He deepens the kiss slightly, parting his lips to press his tongue gently against the seam of your lips, silently asking for entry. 

You shift slightly, to reach him better and to be at a more comfortable angle. Your other hand comes up from your side to his chest, helping keep you balanced in your half-upright half lying down position. 

You both have kissed in more awkward positions than this before. 

You part your lips when you felt his tongue press against your lips, silently requesting entry even though he definitely doesn’t have to—a gentleman even when he’s pulling you apart at the seams with his mouth, it’s endearing and sweet in the same way it’s unfairly attractive. 

His hand leaves yours to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he loses himself in the kiss. A soft breath leaves your nose when you feel that hand on your waist, pulling.

He takes advantage of your parted lips, slipping his tongue inside to caress yours. The kiss turns heated as he explores your mouth with sensual strokes. His hand at your waist slides up your side, fingers brushing the underside of your breast accidentally.

His touch tickles you when his hand slides up, exploring, the accidental brush makes her stomach flutter. You groan softly against his lips involuntarily, although you’re lost to the kiss too much to acknowledge the new sound. 

As mature as you both are on the best days, during these times it’s simply who you both are. 

He’s always far too composed and yet just as desperate as any teenager would be when kisses turn a bit more and you’re always melting for him; it never mattered what he did. Just that it was him doing it. Although you both have never gone further than making out.

He pulls back from the kiss, breathing heavily. His eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you, taking in your flushed cheeks and parted lips. 

He leans in to press a series of soft kisses along your jawline and down your neck, his hand still resting on the side of your breast. He can feel you melting into him, and it makes him want to do more than just make out.

You exhale softly when his lips break away and turn to trail kisses along your jawline and down the exposed line of your neck instead. You tip your head back slightly to give him better access. 

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling of his mouth against your skin, pressing soft kisses into the sensitive, soft skin of your neck and you’re all but at the mercy of the sensation of it and his hand still resting where it is—almost tantalizing.

He’s like a drug, intoxicating and addictive. This definitely has a different feeling than usual quick make outs you both find yourselves in when he’s particularly busy and you don’t have time to do anything and choose to kiss.

His kisses pause at the hollow of your throat as he feels you soften further beneath his touch. The scent of your perfume mingles with your natural scent, a dizzyingly arousing combination. 

He glances up at you through his lashes, noting your parted lips and unfocused eyes.

You look down when you feel him pause his kisses along your neck. The way he looks at you is something else entirely, you’re not sure you’d ever get used to it. 

His pretty green eyes gazing at you through his dark lashes like you’re the very thing he wants most. Your hands lift to cup his jaw, thumbs tracing along his smooth olive-toned skin. 

Your eyes drop to his lips, practically a magnetic pull to be honest, he’s a drug that you’re addicted to. 

You bow your head down, tipping his head up at the same time and capturing his lips with your own—drawing his lips open with your tongue easily, although he’s easily the more controlled of the two, you try your best to match him.

He lets out a low groan as your tongue slips past his lips, momentarily losing his cool composure. His hands slide around your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepens. He can feel every curve of your body pressing into his own, igniting a fire low in his belly.

Whatever control you had for a moment over him evaporated when his hands slid to your back, pressing you to him until there’s nowhere else to be but flush together as the kiss deepens. 

You decide to maneuver into straddling his lap without breaking your kiss. You can feel him against you, quite obviously. 

You slide your hands from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark tresses and cupping the back of his head to keep him close. 

You tilt your head slightly, getting a better angle. Both your tongues meet in sensual strokes that keep the burn in your blood moving through your body.

His fingers dig into your back as you wrap your legs around his waist, the sudden pressure against his groin making him catch his breath. His hips move of their own accord, grinding against you as he continues to devour your mouth.

The suddenness of his hips grinding makes your skin tingle and your stomach to a somersault, heat building in your gut. The way he continues to devour you mouth like he isn’t grinding himself against you makes a shiver run up your spine. 

It’s been a while for you both to even get far into make outs, his schedule always packed. But you’ve definitely never gotten this far before and the pleasure of it makes you wonder why it never did. 

The kiss grows more hungry, more intense, noises of lips meeting and tongues against each other filling his bedroom. Your hips eventually move against his grinding, mimicking the way his hips move. Unable not to.

His hands roam from your back to your thighs, squeezing possessively as he helps lift you up and down against him. He’s losing himself in the sensation, forgetting about the time and his schedule.

Fuck, he can’t even bring himself to care.

Your spine tingles when his hands clasp around your thighs, squeezing the flesh as he lifts her up and down like she weighs basically nothing—which she knows isn’t true. 

Neither of you have ever dry-humped before but you can definitely understand why people do it, the drag of his jeans against your shorts is just the perfect sensation. 

You slide one hand down from his hair to between your bodies, to the button of his jeans—not really caring about what's been done and what hasn't, anymore. There’s just the need to do something more.

He breaks the kiss suddenly, his breath catching in his throat as he feels your hands moving to his jeans. It's been far too long since he’s been intimate with someone, as long as he’s been with you, and the way you're touching him is enough to short-circuit his brain.

You eventually manage to get his jeans button undone and tug his jeans down his hips once they’re unzipped—below his knees before leaving them where they are, considering it takes for too much effort to get jeans off. 

You settle back on him, the smooth fabric of his boxers tickling your skin. You can feel the outline of his dick a lot more like this, it’s both nerve wracking and incredibly arousing at the same time. 

You lean back down, hands sliding to his jawline as you begin to press kisses around his lips and down his jaw. Exploring him for just a moment because you can and you want to.

He groans uncontrollably as those kisses trail along his jaw. His hands tighten on your hips as he feels your warmth. With you pressing against him like this, he can feel every inch of you through the thin fabric of your shorts. His resolve weakens as his hips lift slightly, pressing against you.

You groan softly against his lips at the feeling of him pressing against you. You lift your head to press your lips together again. 

The kiss is messy and desperate, teeth grazing over lips and tongues rolling against each other. You don’t waste much time at the way he keeps groaning, you’ve never seen him like this and it’s almost an addicting feeling.

You pull back for a second to undo the button of your shorts before your lips are back on his. Sloppy and messy as you work on your bottoms, unwilling to part from his mouth to actually focus the needed attention on the fabric.

He breaks the kiss to help you anyway, his fingers fumbling with the button and zipper. He’s so hard it's painful, and the feeling of you against him is driving him wild. 

You’re not particularly fond of him breaking the kiss, but you do appreciate the help with getting the shorts undone. Both of you fumbling like the teenagers you are, focused on what could be happening too much to coordinate your movements.

Finally getting your shorts open, he slides his hands inside, gripping your bare ass and pulling you even closer. You can’t help the small laugh that leaves you at his action. 

His fingers dig into your flesh as you laugh, his own lips curling into a soft smile.

Without removing his greedy hands you lift your hips to pull your shorts down, moving off his lap to pull them off yourself completely before straddling him again. 

Feeling his erection against you through the thin fabric of both of your underwears is new and arousing. You press your lips together again in a messy kiss.

You’re so responsive, so eager, and it's driving him wild. As you straddle him again, he groans at the feeling pressed against him, his dick throbbing painfully. He breaks the kiss again to whisper against your lips. “Lift up.”

His fingers digging into your flesh is familiar and pleasant but so, so different this time around. Your spine tingles each time he groans because of you and at the way he’s pressed against you. 

You whine slightly when he breaks the kiss again, but his whispered words against your lips stifle it. You shift slightly, one of your hands flattening on his bed and the other on his stomach to balance yourself as you does what he says. 

The whine is the best sound in the world to him right now, and he groans in response. You're so innocent, so pure, and he loves it. 

You lift your hips up, knees pressing into the mattress to keep your lower body elevated above his own. “Like this?” You ask quietly, mostly because he’s the more experienced between the two of you when it comes to this particular thing.

He reaches down and pulls his underwear down his hips just enough to reveal his hard length. 

You look down between them, watching him tug his boxers down his hips just enough to expose himself. Your eyes trail along the length of his dick, taking in the one part of him you’ve never seen till now. 

He’s well groomed, which you’re unsurprised by, he’s always been meticulous about his hygiene. 

His dick, now that, that’s one of the prettiest dicks you’ve probably ever seen. 

Smooth and warm-toned like the rest of him with a pretty, glossy dark tip, veins running down his shaft, a good eight inches. You bite your lip slightly, openly ogling your boyfriend’s dick.

“Like this,” he confirms, his voice hoarse with desire. He can't help but smile at your reaction, the blush creeping up your cheeks as you bite your lip. 

You’re cute when you’re shy, he thinks, and it's making him even harder. He wraps his hand around his length, squeezing gently as he watches you stare. “Do you like what you see?”

The way his hand wraps around himself, squeezing his dick gently. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it was to watch, the ease in which he did it in front of you is so hot. 

Your gaze flickers up to his face at his question, lips twitching because you hadn’t meant to be so obvious but sue a girl, it’s your first time seeing him so exposed. 

You’ve seen a few dicks in your life, none of them as nice as his. Maybe you’re biased because he’s your boyfriend. 

“‘Course.” You mutter, dipping your head down to press a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling up again.

He chuckles softly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you back on top of him, you move easily for him. You meet his kiss easily, this one more languid than the others have been.

He kisses you back, pulling you closer as his other hand continues to slowly jerk himself off. He knows you can feel it pressing against you, and he loves the way you squirm slightly against him.

The sensation of his arm between your bodies, hand wrapped around himself slowly jerking off is almost a tease, really. You can feel it pressing against you, feel the motion of his wrist moving along his dick. 

It’s erotic in a way you’re wholly unfamiliar to but definitely like. The wetness in your panties makes that obvious despite yourself, all because of what he’s doing.

He breaks the kiss and nuzzle into your neck, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone. His hand moves a little faster now, the motion pressing his dick against your cunt with each pump. 

He can feel you getting wetter through your panties, and it's driving him crazy.

You let your head drop to his shoulder when he breaks the kiss to nuzzle into your neck and press soft kisses along your collarbone. You can feel his hand speed up its motions on his dick, each pump pressing his dick against you. 

You bite your lip slightly, your breaths through your nose fanning his neck. One of your hands moves between your bodies, if he’s jerking himself off you might as well meet him where he is. 

You slide your hand into your panties, rubbing yourself at the same pace as his hands moving on his dick. Noises leaving through your nose against him.

He groans softly against your neck, feeling your hand move between your legs. The sound of you rubbing yourself in sync with his strokes is incredibly hot. 

He can feel you getting wetter and wetter, and it's taking every ounce of his self-control not to rip off your panties and take you right here.

The soft groan that comes from him against your neck makes you shiver slightly. A soft moan slips from your throat against his shoulder as your fingers keep rubbing your clit in sync with his strokes, breathing as heavy as his. 

You’ve never done this before and you’re really questioning why, it’s so good, so easy. You keep at it for a moment before the ache to have him grows too much to ignore with simply doing what you are. 

“Damie,” you manage to say your nickname for him clearly. “Wanna have sex, need you. M’ready.” You string the words together, whether or not it’s comprehensible isn’t your problem.

The desperate need in your voice sends a jolt of shock through him. "Fuck yes," he groans, moving quickly to peel your panties off. His boxers go flying somewhere across the room. 

You’re both impressed and surprised at how fast he acted after hearing your words, the way he all but yanked your panties off and threw his boxers somewhere in the room.

He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, fumbling slightly as he tries to put it on.

You can’t help but giggle, shifting your weight when he grabbed a condom out of the nightstand drawer. Both of you have had sex before, but not with each other. This would technically be the first time with one another. 

It was exciting, especially after a year together. You’d think it would’ve happened sooner considering your both hormonal teens but his schedule made it hard. 

You can feel him fumbling with the condom, trying to get it over his dick as quickly as he can.

He finally gets the condom on, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He pulls you back onto him, positioning himself at your entrance. "Guide me in," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. 

He wants this to be good for you, your first time together.

You sit up slightly, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips as you elevate your hips above him. You look down, reaching between them to guide his condom covered dick to your entrance. 

If there’s one thing you could always appreciate, it’s the way he can relinquish control to you whenever he thinks you could benefit from it. It's sweet. 

You align him and slowly sink down, his dick sliding into you. You moan softly, hands planting on his toned stomach for balance. “Mmhf,” the noise leaves you softly, eyes fluttering slightly.

"Shit..." He lets out a choked curse, his hands moving to your waist to help support you as you slowly take him in. Holy fuck, you feels amazing. Better than he ever imagined. 

He watches where you’re connected, seeing you stretch around him making his hips twitch involuntarily. "Baby..."

He feels so good inside you, settled deep and brushing every nerve like you’ve honestly never had before. Your eyes drift up to his face after a moment, taking in his expression. 

His pretty green eyes are overtaken by his dilated pupils, the way he’s watching where you’re connected. You bite your lip, hands on his stomach pressing slightly as you move your hips. 

Feeling his dick slide out a little bit and sink back in as she moves slowly, a soft moan leaving your throat. You savor the feeling of him inside you, his schedule is far too busy to not soak in what this feels like.

"Fuck... just like that, babe..." He praises you, his grip on your hips tightening slightly. He lifts his own to meet yours, pushing up into you as you sink down. The combination of both your movements has you moving slowly, your breasts bouncing slightly with each motion, is almost too much to handle.

His praise makes your skin tingle, you’ve heard it in other scenarios but god this one just hits in a different way. The way he lifts his own hips to meet yours, pushing up into every time you sink down. 

It almost amplifies the sensation of him inside you, touching deep spots you didn’t even know existed. 

You pick up the pace slightly, slight sounds coming from where your connected. Your breasts bounce and ass jiggles each time you drop down. 

“You feel so good, Damie.” You moan, hands sliding up from his stomach to his chest for better stability.

"So do you," he groans, his eyes locked onto the connection between you. The sight of you riding him, breasts bouncing with each movement, is almost too much. He can feel his control slipping away. "Harder, baby," he encourages, his voice strained with desire.

You listen, because what else would you do? He’s so good to you, what better to do than give him what he wants. You stop for a moment to shift your position slightly, your hands sliding to his shoulders before you resume.

Just faster and harder, the slapping of skin meeting filling the room obscenely. Your breathing grows more ragged, breasts bouncing as you properly ride him. 

The moaning grows more consistent, mixed whimpering noises that come out of your nose, stealing your breath. Your thighs are trembling from exertion and overwhelming pleasure.

"Fuck..." The sight of you lost in pleasure, taking what you want from him, nearly has him losing it entirely. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding your movements. "Right there, baby... just like that..."

Your head drops back, exposing the arch of your throat, your moans choked off. His grip on your hips is hard and bruising but fuck if it doesn’t feel good. It’s the fact you know he’s capable of so much more but knowing he’d never do anything to actually hurt you. 

You don’t change your rhythm because she’s so close. So, so close. Your stomach’s tightening, the coil building faster than you honestly want. Your hands slide from his shoulders down to his hands gripping your hips, fingers curling around his wrists. 

It’s only a few more bounces on his dick before the coil in your stomach snaps. “Oh, god. I’m coming— fuck, Damien.” You reach your orgasm with a moan of his name, cunt clenching around his cock.

"Fuck, yes... come for me, baby," he encourages, his own release building rapidly at the feel of you coming undone around him. Your tight, wet heat is too much to resist and with a final, hard thrust, he finds his own release. "Holy shit..."

You slowly come to a stop, your breathing heavy and fast, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. You go slack against him, laying your hot body against his, arms sliding around his neck, letting his body hold your weight. 

That was probably the best sex you’ve had, which isn’t much, but you’ve honestly never come so fast before. The warmth of his cum filling the condom is a strange but not bad sensation inside you. 

“This is definitely happening again some time.” You mumble against his shoulder, albeit humorously.

"Multiple times." He laughs softly, one hand moving up to stroke through your messy hair. He’s still buried inside, enjoying the feeling of connection. "Though next time, I'd like to return the favor with my tongue." He whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck that makes you shiver.

You bite your lip slightly, a soft giggle leaving you. It’s not a bad image that he planted in your mind, him using his tongue, going down on you. You don’t have much experience surrounding receiving head, but damn if it doesn’t sound appealing when it’s him. 

Especially with him still buried deep in you, stimulating even without moving. You shift your hips slightly, getting comfortable. 

“Yeah? I might have something left in the tank.” You say jokingly, although not completely, before pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He breathes a quiet chuckle through his nose, giving your body a gentle squeeze.

[thatnightlamp]

VULKAN AND CUTENESS AGGRESSION

Vulkan was a big man. Strong, unbreakable, a Primarch of legend. A forge master, a warrior, a protector of humanity.

But none of that matter when he looked at you.

Because right now, as you sat peacefully in your shared quarter, minding your own business, he was struggling for his life.

Your mere existence. Your soft skin, your warm eyes, the way your lips curved into a small smile as you read, it was too much. His hands twitched, his entire being overwhelmed with the urge to squeeze you, hold you, crush you in the most loving way possible.

Vulkan had fought Orks, Eldar, and even the horrors of Chaos, but nothing tested his self-control like the sheer adorableness of you.

You turned a page in your book, oblivious to the internal battle raging inside your husband. A soft hum escaped your lips, and that was it. His limit was reached.

With a low, helpless growl, he surged forward, scooping you into his massive arms like you were the most precious thing in the universe.

"Vulkan-!" you yelped, your book falling to the side as you were buried in the warmth of your husband’s embrace.

"You don’t understand," he murmured into your hair, voice deep but trembling with pure, unfiltered affection. "You’re so small. So soft. I have to hold you."

You huffed, though you didn’t resist. You knew from experience that Vulkan’s rare but powerful fits of cuteness aggression were impossible to fight against.

"I am your wife," you reminded him, laughing as he nuzzled into your neck like an overgrown Salamander pup. "You can hold me whenever you want."

He rumbled, an almost purring sound, his grip tightening just a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel his warmth, his love, his adoration.

"You don’t get it," he muttered, voice muffled. "Every time I look at you, I just-" He cut himself off, groaning dramatically before lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing. "I love you so much, it hurts."

You rolled your eyes, still laughing, still trapped in the arms of the most powerful, most terrifyingly gentle man in the galaxy.

Vulkan, the Dragon, the Unbound Flame, the Primarch of the XVIII Legion - reduced to a lovesick, overgrown lizard who simply could not handle how much he adored his wife.

[bloomzone]

2025 : #16 journal journal journal : all u need guide

By : a journaling addict girlie

Journaling is a tool for self-discovery mindfulness and creativity too But while many of us start with enthusiasm turning journaling into a consistent habit can feel like a battle or smthng cuz life gets busy u lose motivation and before you know it your journal is gathering dust

so !

This guide will help you build a sustainable journaling practice. Whether you’re a beginner or someone looking to rekindle the habit these practical tips will make journaling an effortless part of your daily routine.

how I found out abt journaling(storytime box)

[I used to feel like my world was tiny, trapped in a cycle of bullying and loneliness and a loot of stuff My social zone was practically nonexistent I had 2 friends but I didn't trusted them enough and the people around me just made things harder so I had a trust issue and I was constantly overthinking eveeeeerything. My mind was a mess, and I had no way to let it out (I can't tell my parents back then abt my problems) . One day, I came across a video about journaling. I saw someone pouring out their thoughts into a notebook (it was bestmess ig on YouTube ) and something clicked for me. Maybe this could be my way to escape all the noise in my head ??? So, I grabbed an old notebook and started writing.At first, it felt awkward—just random, messy thoughts. But as I kept going, I realized it helped. Writing became my safe space. I could say whatever I wanted, no judgment. It wasn’t just about venting; it helped me understand myself, organize my thoughts, and let go of some of the pain from the isolation.Over time, journaling turned into something much deeper. It became a way to reflect, dream, and grow. It taught me how to be kind to myself when no one else was, and helped me find clarity in the chaos. Journaling saved me it turned my mess into peace one page at a time then when the years roll I created a routine for it !]

Why Journaling Matters

☆ Journaling offers countless benefits:

-Reducing stress

-Boosting creativity

-Deepening self-awareness

☆ Yet, staying consistent can be a challenge. The key lies in making journaling enjoyable and rewarding. Here's how you can do just that.

The Science of Habit Formation

To build any habit, including journaling, you need three elements:

1. Cue: A trigger that reminds you to journal.

2. Routine: The act of journaling itself.

3. Reward: The positive feeling or benefit you experience afterward.

The secret is to keep the process simple and satisfying too

Steps to Turn Journaling into a Daily Habit

1. Start Small

Begin with just a sentence or two for example:

“Today, I felt grateful for…”

“The best part of my day was…”

—Starting small makes it less overwhelming and easier to stick with.

2. Anchor It to an Existing Habit

—Pair journaling with something you already do, like drinking coffee or winding down before bed. This "habit stacking" technique helps u remember to journal.

3. Set a Timer

Worried about time? Commit to just 5 minutes. Knowing there’s a limit makes starting feel less daunting.

4. Use Prompts

Struggling with what to write? Use prompts like:

“What made me smile today?”

“What’s a challenge I faced, and how did I handle it?”

—Prompts give your thoughts direction and beat blank-page syndrome. There's million of prompts idea on Pinterest u need just to take action

5. Celebrate Your Progress

Track your streaks or mark your journaling days on a calendar. Seeing your consistency builds motivation.

6. Create a Cozy Space ( not important )

Set up a comfortable spot for journaling—a comfy chair, your favorite pen, or soothing music. A cozy environment turns journaling into a ritual you look forward to.

7. Experiment with Formats

If traditional journaling feels stale, try something new:

☆ Bullet points

☆ Sketches

☆ Gratitude lists

☆ Digital journaling apps

Creative Ways to Journal

☆ Gratitude Journaling: Write down 3 things you’re grateful for each day.

☆ Habit Tracking: Combine journaling with habit tracking to monitor small goals.

☆ Morning Pages: Inspired by Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, write 3 pages of free-flowing thoughts first thing in the morning.

☆ Reflection Logs: Reflect weekly or monthly on what went well, what you learned, and what you’d like to improve.

Overcoming Common Obstacles

1. “I Don’t Have Time.”

Journaling doesn’t need to take hours. Even a single sentence is progress.

2. “I Don’t Know What to Write.”

Start with prompts or simply answer: “What’s on my mind right now?”

3. “I Keep Forgetting.”

Set phone reminders or pair journaling with a daily habit.

4. “It Doesn’t Feel Useful.”

Journaling isn’t about perfection it’s a tool for you Over time you’ll notice its positive effects.

Journaling as a Tool for Self-Growth

— Journaling isn’t just about recording events or thoughts—it’s also a way to grow mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. Here’s how you can take your journaling practice to the next level:

1. Use Journaling for Goal Setting

Journaling can help you identify and track your goals. Write down your short- and long-term objectives, and use your journal to reflect on progress, challenges, and adjustments.

Example:

☆ Weekly Goals: Write down 3 specific goals every Monday and reflect on them at the end of the week.

☆ Vision Journaling: Imagine your ideal future and describe it in vivid detail.

2. Practice Emotional Awareness

☆ Journaling is a powerful way to process emotions. Try these techniques:

☆ Emotion Check-Ins: At the end of the day, write about how you felt and why.

☆ Reframing Challenges: If something negative happened, write about it from a different perspective.

3. Develop Gratitude and Mindfulness

☆ Use your journal to cultivate mindfulness by focusing on the present moment:

☆ Mindful Observations: Write about your surroundings, the weather, or how your body feels.

☆ Gratitude Expansion: Instead of listing things you’re grateful for, write a short paragraph about why each one matters.

4. Uncover Patterns and Insights

Over time, your journal becomes a mirror of your habits, thoughts, and emotions. Regularly revisit old entries to:

- Identify recurring themes.

- Discover how you’ve grown or changed.

- Spot areas where you might need more balance or self-care.

FAQs

Q: How long does it take to build a journaling habit?

A: Experts say it takes 21–66 days. Consistency is key, even if it’s just a few minutes daily.

Q: Should I write by hand or use a digital tool?

A: Both work! Handwriting feels personal, while digital tools offer organization. ( In my opinion handwriting one are better !)

Q: What if my journaling feels repetitive?

A: Life has routines, and so will your journal. Use prompts or try new styles to keep it fresh.

Q: Can I journal if I’m not a good writer?

A: Absolutely! Journaling is about self-expression, not perfect prose. Bullet points or doodles work too.

Journaling is a gift you give yourself—a way to check in, reflect, and grow. Whether you’re jotting down a single sentence or filling pages, the act of journaling is what matters most.

@bloomzone 📇

[eepwtf]

MY ATOMS HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOURS.

jock!ben x nerd!reader

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

tw; boarding school au, slight academic rivals, homophobia, toxic masculinity, might make this a continuation perhaps, ben being a big gay yearner, slight cannibalistic imagery used, shotgunning, weed hazy make out sesh… no actual smut like i said, i’ll probably make a continuation for that! wc; 12k...

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⎯⎯⎯  𖣂 ⎯⎯⎯

THE boarding school was a monolith of old money and grandeur, tucked away in the rolling countryside where the world felt muted and distant. the architecture itself seemed to loom over its occupants, cloaked in ivy and perpetually blanketed by a haze of mist. it was a place meant for the finest, the best, where boys were molded into men who would conquer whatever battlefield lay ahead, whether in the world of business or the trenches of war.

you didn’t belong here—not really. you were the outlier, the scholarship kid among pedigreed names that dripped from tongues with the weight of generations. yet, even in a world built to dismiss you, you excelled. your mind was a razor, carving through equations and essays, leaving the sons of wealth and privilege scrambling to keep up. you had a knack for reducing their inherited confidence to a quiet simmer of insecurity, your brilliance a sharp contrast to their entitled mediocrity.

then there was ben, the golden boy of said school.

ben had everything: the chiseled features of a carved from marble, the charm that made others forgive his outbursts, and a physicality that turned the sporting fields into his personal stage. he thrived in the chaos of competition, the thrill of victory lighting him from within. but you—oh, how you irritated him.

it was in the classroom where his temper simmered, where his smirk faltered just enough to reveal the cracks. he hated the way your hand shot up before anyone else’s, the way your answers came not with arrogance but an ease that suggested you didn’t even need to try. every time you walked past his desk with another perfect score, another commendation from the professors, ben felt the bitter taste of inadequacy curl on his tongue.

he wasn’t used to losing, least of all to someone like you—a quiet, unassuming boy who didn’t play by the rules of their unspoken hierarchy. he couldn’t pin you down, couldn’t challenge you to a fistfight on the quad and settle it like he did with everyone else. you lived in a world of ideas and intellect, a realm where his strength and bravado were meaningless.

and so, ben did what he did best: he turned his frustration into cruelty.

it started small. a snide remark as you passed him in the hall, his voice low but cutting, designed to stick in your mind. then came the more deliberate acts—your books knocked off your desk when he sauntered by, a "careless" shove in the crowded dining hall that sent your tray spilling to the floor. his friends laughed, their amusement a chorus that fueled his superiority. but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

he wanted to break you.

he couldn’t stand the way you remained steadfast, unshaken by his efforts to knock you off your pedestal. your defiance wasn’t loud or confrontational; it was in the way you picked up your books without a word, the way you returned to your seat and continued to outshine him. it was maddening, a mirror held up to his own shortcomings, reflecting a boy who was not the best, not even close, despite everything he’d been told his entire life.

the tension between you grew like a festering wound, unnoticed by the professors who were too enamored with ben’s charm and too indifferent to your quiet suffering. in the dormitories, where the shadows stretched long and the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and boyhood sweat, ben would corner you with his pointed glares and low mutters. you could feel his hatred radiating off him, a scorching heat that threatened to consume you both.

and yet, beneath the animosity, there was something else. something ben didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. a fascination he couldn’t shake, an obsession born of the way you refused to yield to him. it gnawed at him, this unwanted fixation, turning his frustration inward even as he directed it at you.

for your part, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long, the way his anger seemed almost personal, as though he despised not just your intelligence but something deeper, something he couldn’t name. you began to feel the weight of his gaze like a tangible thing, pressing against your skin, making your pulse quicken in ways you didn’t want to admit.

THE lacrosse field was a battlefield, churning with the restless energy of aggression. the boys moved like packs of wolves, bodies colliding in fierce pursuit of the ball, cleats tearing into the damp, overworked earth. you didn’t belong here. not really. the game wasn’t yours, not in spirit nor in skill. your talents lay elsewhere—in the orderly realm of equations and analysis, where every move was deliberate, not reactionary. but the school demanded bodies as much as minds, and so you played, driven not by passion but by necessity.

ben, on the other hand, owned the field. his movements were fluid, muscles taut beneath his jersey, every step bursting with the kind of confidence only bred from years of unearned praise. the coaches shouted his name from the sidelines, their booming voices dripping with approval. he thrived on it, fed off their praise like a starved beast. and yet, even in his glory, his focus was fractured, his gaze drawn to you like iron to a magnet.

it was infuriating.

you didn’t belong on his field, didn’t deserve to occupy even a sliver of his thoughts. but there you were, darting past him with that maddening air of quiet competence, your presence a thorn in his side. he loathed you, not just for your brilliance in the classroom but for the way you existed in his world without bending at his will. He couldn’t stand it.

you weren’t fast, and you weren’t strong, but your sharp, calculating mind had a way of slicing through the frenzy of the game. you saw patterns where others saw chaos, predicting movements before they happened, slipping through gaps in the defense like a shadow. it wasn’t enough to make you a star, but it was enough to unsettle ben. to remind him that even here, in the one place he should reign supreme, you found ways to upstage him.

he couldn’t stand it.

the game had reached a fever pitch, players shouting, the ball whipping between sticks like a bullet. the air was electric with sweat and tension, the faint tang of impending rain mingling with the iron bite of blood from scraped knees and bruised lips. you were darting forward, the ball cradled neatly in your stick as you made for an opening.

ben saw you, and something snapped.

it wasn’t enough to win. it wasn’t enough to be the best. he needed you to know you didn’t belong here.

he moved in, a predator stalking prey, his green eyes locked on you with singular intent. his shove was perfectly calculated—not enough to earn him a foul but more than enough to send you staggering. you stumbled, feet slipping in the mud, but you didn’t fall. you were steadying yourself when his stick came down, the blunt edge catching your face with brutal precision.

the sound was sickening, a wet crack that silenced the field as you crumpled to the ground. pain exploded across your face, sharp and immediate, a fire that spread from your nose to your temple. for a moment, the world narrowed to a single point of agony, the coppery tang of blood flooding your senses as you pressed a shaking hand to your face.

and then the laughter started.

it began with ben, his cruel bark of amusement breaking the tension. he leaned casually on his stick, grinning like a boy who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. his friends joined in, their laughter swelling into a chorus of mockery that filled the air like smoke.

“didn’t think lacrosse was a contact sport, huh?” one of them jeered, the others howling in response. ben chimed in, his voice dripping with venomous charm. “guess it’s not a game for delicate types. better stick to books, nerd.”

the words hit harder than the stick had.

you stayed on the ground for a moment, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the blood dripped steadily down your face, soaking into the white of your uniform. the grass beneath you felt cold and damp, grounding you in the midst of the humiliation crashing over you like a wave. but you didn’t cry.

when you finally pushed yourself to your feet, your knees shaking, your vision swam with the effort. your face was a mess of blood and bruises, the metallic taste thick on your tongue. the coaches had yet to intervene, their eyes blind to the golden boy’s cruelty.

ben’s laughter faltered for a split second when your gaze met his. there was something in your eyes—defiance, yes, but also a quiet strength that made his stomach churn. he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, drowning out the cheers and jeers of his friends. for the first time, he felt something other than triumph in your presence.

it was guilt, sharp and unwelcome, gnawing at the edges of his bravado.

ben forced himself to laugh again, louder this time, shoving the flicker of shame deep down where it couldn’t touch him. his grin widened, and he turned back to his friends, letting their approval wash over him like a balm. but as the game resumed, the image of your bloodied face lingered in his mind, a grotesque reminder that even in victory, something about you made him feel defeated.

he told himself he didn’t care. but the knot in his chest told another story.

YOU dreamt of ben’s teeth in your skin that night, or at least you think it was a dream. the memory lingers too vividly, too viscerally, as though your subconscious left it smoldering just beneath the surface of your waking mind. in your dream—or nightmare, perhaps—it wasn’t the boy you knew from the halls and the fields who loomed over you. it was something else. something primal, something that wore ben’s face but moved with a hunger that no human being could possess.

his green eyes burned bright at first, clear and sharp, their intensity the only thing anchoring you to what little humanity remained in him. but then the green began to darken, swallowed by black until his pupils eclipsed everything else. his grin followed, shifting from the boyish smirk you had come to associate with his cruelty to something far more animalistic. it wasn’t a smile anymore—it was a snarl, predatory and sharp, his teeth bared like a beast ready to strike.

you remember the feel of his hands on you, strong and unrelenting, pinning you down with an ease that made your breath catch in your throat. his fingers dug into your arms, their grip just shy of painful, but it wasn’t his hands that truly frightened you. it was his mouth.

his teeth found your flesh, and for a moment, the world became nothing but sensation. you felt the pressure first, the sharp edge of his canines pressing into your skin, threatening to pierce it. then came the pain—hot and electric, spreading through your body like wildfire. your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your senses overwhelmed by the strange, horrifying intimacy of it.

and yet, even as your dream-self writhed beneath him, a strange thought took root in your mind. it wasn’t just fear you felt. it was something darker, something that churned in your gut like a sickness. there was a perverse fascination in the way he consumed you, a twisted part of you that reveled in his domination, in the way he claimed you as his prey.

when you woke, your body was slick with sweat, the sheets tangled around your limbs like the remnants of a trap you had barely escaped. your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breathing, the phantom pain of his bite still throbbing beneath your skin. your heart raced, not just with the adrenaline of the nightmare but with something else—something you didn’t want to name.

you told yourself it was just a dream, a grotesque product of your mind’s restless wanderings. but as you lay there in the predawn darkness, your room quiet except for the faint rustle of wind against the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been more than that.

because when you thought of ben, when you recalled the way his gaze lingered on you during the day—those fleeting, almost imperceptible glances—you felt a similar unease, a similar pull. he thought you didn’t notice, but you did. you noticed the way his jaw clenched when you outpaced him in class, the way his hands gripped the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

you noticed the frustration in his voice when he barked orders on the field, the way it always seemed sharper, louder, when directed at you. and, most unsettling of all, you noticed the way his anger gave way to something else entirely in those rare moments when your eyes met.

it wasn’t just hatred that burned in his gaze. there was something deeper, something raw and untamed, something that made your skin prickle with a strange mixture of fear and anticipation. it was as though he was waging a war with himself, his fury at you battling against some unspoken truth he refused to acknowledge.

maybe your dream had simply dredged up all the pieces of him you couldn’t reconcile—the cruelty, the rage, the intensity that bordered on obsession—and twisted them into something monstrous. or maybe, just maybe, your subconscious had glimpsed something real, something lurking beneath the surface of ben’s golden-boy façade.

you lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling as the first pale rays of dawn crept through the window. the memory of his teeth haunted you, the phantom sensation of his bite refusing to fade. you told yourself it was absurd, that you were letting his presence in your life warp your thoughts.

but deep down, in the quietest corners of your mind, you couldn’t deny the truth. you had seen the way ben looked at you. and worse still, you had felt the way his presence made something inside you stir—a festering thing, raw and ugly, that refused to be ignored.

the morning air felt heavy, clinging to your skin with a dampness that did nothing to ease the lingering unease from the night. you shook yourself off, trying to dispel the fog that clung to your mind, your hands coming up to rub at your eyes in a futile attempt to erase the dream—or nightmare—that still burned at the edges of your memory. the pressure of phantom teeth seemed to linger on your flesh, a strange sensation you couldn’t quite shake.

your uniform hung stiff and scratchy against your skin as you pulled it on, the starched fabric doing little to comfort you. the ritual of dressing, buttoning and tucking with practiced efficiency, was almost enough to settle you. almost. but when you glanced at your reflection, bleary-eyed and pale, the faint shadows under your eyes told the truth you couldn’t ignore. you looked like someone who hadn’t slept, not properly, not peacefully.

the hallways were already stirring with life as you stepped into them, the low murmur of voices mixing with the squeak of shoes on polished wood. you kept your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary interaction, your thoughts still churning with the vestiges of the dream. your skin crawled at the thought of ben—not the boy from the nightmare, but the one who existed here, in the real world. the one who seemed to take up far too much space in your mind, even when you weren’t asleep.

you were halfway down the corridor, lost in your thoughts, when a hand gripped your shoulder, pulling you to a sudden halt. the touch jolted you, your pulse spiking as you turned quickly, your body bracing instinctively for something worse than what it was.

“don’t you know it’s rude to creep around?” you snapped, the words spilling out before you could soften them. your voice was rough, gravelly from the lack of proper rest, but the irritation in it was genuine.

your friend raised an eyebrow, unbothered by your tone. “you look like shit,” they said bluntly, their arm swinging casually around your shoulders as if to soften the blow of their words.

you rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching in faint exasperation. “i was studying,” you replied, the lie slipping out easily, though the weight of it settled uncomfortably in your chest.

studying. sure. if “studying” meant spending the night caught in a cycle of half-sleep and vivid, unsettling dreams about ben—dreams that left you waking with your heart pounding and your skin clammy. dreams that made facing him now feel like a task monumental enough to deserve its own place in Dante’s Inferno.

your friend gave you a knowing look, their gaze sharp despite their casual demeanor. “studying,” they repeated, dragging out the word as if testing its weight. “rightt.”

you shrugged them off, stepping out from under their arm and continuing down the hall. “drop it,” you muttered, not looking back.

but as you walked, the knot of unease in your stomach only tightened. you didn’t want to see ben today, not after last night, not after the way his imagined teeth had sunk into your flesh with such terrible intimacy. but you knew you would see him—of course you would. he was everywhere, an unshakable presence in your life that clung to you like a shadow. and despite yourself, a small, treacherous part of you wondered what it would feel like if the dream wasn’t entirely a fabrication. if the pressure of his teeth wasn’t just some cruel trick of your subconscious.

you shook the thought away, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you forced your feet forward. it was a new day, you told yourself. you would face him, endure his glances, his comments, his presence, and you would survive. even if the memory of his grin haunted you all the while.

of course, your friend, blissfully unaware of the strange, festering thing coiling tighter in your chest, slung their arm around you again, jostling you with a kind of ease that only highlighted your growing sense of unease. their presence might have been grounding if it weren’t for the chaos swirling behind your eyes, the dream—or nightmare—still clinging to your thoughts like cobwebs you couldn’t brush away. each step down the corridor felt mechanical, your body moving on autopilot as the slick, oily remnants of the dream seeped deeper, threatening to consume your focus entirely.

christ, you thought bitterly, why couldn’t your mind just give you peace for once? the dream’s claws had sunk deep, its venom spreading even now, and the weight of your friend’s arm was a tether you couldn’t decide whether to cherish or resent. you couldn’t even focus on their words, the low hum of their voice turning into static, a meaningless buzz drowned out by the feverish imagery curling through your mind.

that is, until their voice cut sharply through your spiraling thoughts:

“she has, like, a nice fucking ass.”

the vulgarity slapped you out of your haze, and you blinked, frowning instinctively. the raw disbelief on your face was almost comical as you turned to your friend, your voice rough with irritation. “what the hell are you talking about?”

your friend snorted, their bark of laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet hall. they shoved lightly at your head, their hand ruffling your already unkempt hair with an irritating kind of fondness that only deepened your scowl. “jesus, man, how long did you study last night?” they teased, their tone dripping with faux concern as they rolled their eyes. “i’m talking about the new teacher. you know, the one half the guys are practically drooling over.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head as they continued to chatter, unbothered by your lack of engagement. their arm stayed slung across your shoulders, anchoring you to their easygoing rhythm, their words spilling out in a cascade of exaggerated admiration. descriptions of the teacher’s figure, her looks, and the collective hormonal obsession of the student body filled the air. it was almost laughable how much they cared about something so fleeting.

but their words served their purpose—they drowned out the dream, tamping down the ghost of green eyes and imagined teeth, pulling you further into the mundanity of the day. you grunted noncommittally, letting their words wash over you without actually processing them. you didn’t care about some teacher everyone was ogling like a piece of meat, but their chatter had pulled you far enough from your own thoughts to notice the weight pressing against your ribs had shifted. something darker, heavier, had begun to bloom there.

and then, like a blade of glass slicing through skin, you saw him.

ben stood further down the corridor, leaning against the wall with the kind of casual confidence only he could pull off. he was flanked by a few of his cronies, boys who lingered like shadows, echoing his movements and amplifying his presence. but it wasn’t his posture or his pack of admirers that stopped you dead in your tracks. it was his eyes.

they were locked onto you, glinting like shards of polished emeralds in the muted light of the hallway. you froze under the weight of his gaze, something sharp and disquieting curling in your stomach as he looked—not at you, but at the arm slung so comfortably over your shoulders. his jaw shifted slightly, tension flickering at the corners of his mouth, though his expression remained infuriatingly neutral.

your first thought was that it was hatred. of course it was. what else could it be? ben had spent months making your life a quiet misery, his snide remarks and calculated glances digging under your skin like splinters. the idea that his stare could mean anything other than disdain didn’t even cross your mind.

his lips curled upward, but it wasn’t a smile—not really. it was more like the barest hint of teeth, a silent warning that you couldn’t quite decipher. and yet, something in his eyes felt different, something darker and unfamiliar, like the faint glimmer of green fire.

your friend, blissfully unaware of the tension coiling in the air, kept talking, their voice a low hum in the background as you stood frozen, caught in the snare of ben’s gaze. the weight of their arm around you, once grounding, now felt suffocating, a heat rising in your chest that had nothing to do with your lack of sleep.

ben shifted slightly, his frame leaning off the wall as his gaze flickered back to your face. it lingered for just a moment too long before he turned away, his attention snapping back to his friends as though the moment had never happened.

you exhaled shakily, realizing you’d been holding your breath. the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a strange mix of unease and... something else. whatever it was, it made you feel raw and exposed, your skin prickling with the faint sensation of being watched, even as you forced yourself to keep walking.

your friend gave you a nudge, oblivious to the storm raging inside you. “earth to you,” they said, their voice teasing. “you okay? look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

you forced a shrug, your movements stiff. “i’m fine,” you muttered, though the tremor in your voice betrayed the lie. fine. sure. if you ignored the way your heart still raced, the way ben’s stare had burned itself into the back of your mind. fine, if you ignored the strange, festering feeling that had been planted in your chest and was now threatening to bloom.

ben sat across from you, his body a picture of restless arrogance, sprawled as though he owned the desk and everything around it. his fingertips tapped a jagged, uneven rhythm against the varnished wood, a staccato counterpoint to the droning monotone of the professor’s voice. the lesson, whatever the hell it was about, was already a blur in his mind—some dull lecture he’d never bother to commit to memory. he let out an gratuitous sigh, sinking lower into his seat with an air of theatrical boredom, the edges of his lips curling in a smirk as a few nearby classmates glanced his way.

but the act was just that—an act. his attention wasn’t really on the class, nor the eyes that occasionally flicked toward him, drawn like moths to the flame of his ever-present bravado. no, his focus was on you.

it always came back to you.

his green eyes found the back of your head as they so often did during these torturous classes. you sat two rows ahead, perfectly aligned to torment him with your quiet diligence. he watched the way you leaned slightly forward, the slight tension in your shoulders betraying the focus you poured into every word spilling from the professor’s lips. your hand moved quickly, a blur of determination as you scrawled across the page in front of you. he couldn’t see exactly what you were writing, but he knew it was notes.

of course, it was notes.

you always took notes, didn’t you? like some kind of academic machine, recording every detail, every thread of information the professor dared to offer. and for reasons ben couldn’t quite articulate, it infuriated him. or maybe “infuriated” wasn’t the right word. maybe it was more complicated than that—more warped.

his fingers stopped their tapping as his gaze narrowed, following the precise movements of your pen. he imagined the lines and curves you etched into the paper, the careful way you transcribed thoughts into words, words into meaning. the idea of it made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t entirely understand.

ben wanted to see it.

no—he needed to see it.

he needed to know what went on inside that overactive mind of yours, what ideas and thoughts swirled in your brain like storms. what made you so goddamn meticulous, so disgustingly perfect in your execution of everything you did? his teeth clenched, his jaw tight as he stared harder, as though sheer will alone could penetrate the barriers between his mind and yours.

he didn’t just want a glimpse into your thoughts—he wanted to crack you open.

the intrusive image came to him unbidden, vivid and visceral: his hands on either side of your skull, his thumbs pressing into the delicate curve of your temples. in his mind, the bone would give way beneath his strength, splitting like an overripe fruit. he’d tear through the lining, past the fragile casing of your brain, his fingers sinking deep into the valleys and folds of sulci and gyri. he’d feel the sticky heat of your thoughts, the pulse of your consciousness against his fingertips.

and maybe then—maybe then—he could understand.

understand how you worked, what made you tick, why you were always so goddamn far ahead of him. why, no matter how hard he tried to best you, to shake you, to drag you down to the level where he felt safe, you always managed to stay just out of reach. it was maddening. it was humiliating.

and it was intoxicating.

ben’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his fixation on you tightening its grip around his ribcage. he wanted to hate you—god, he wanted to hate you. it would have been easier if he could. but there was something else, something darker, slithering in the spaces where hatred should have lived.

infatuation wasn’t the right word for it, but it was close.

you were perfect in a way that was almost grotesque to him, a reminder of everything he lacked, everything he could never be. and yet, he couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop wanting to pull you apart piece by piece until he understood the atoms, and cells inside you.

the professor’s voice droned on, a dull hum against the roar of his thoughts. his eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second. to anyone else, ben looked like a bored boy enduring another tedious class. but inside him, something wild and restless clawed at the walls of his chest, something primal and impossible to name.

SOMETHING about you clung to ben like a splinter buried deep under his skin. no matter how much he tried to scrape it out, it remained lodged there, a constant irritant—and yet, perversely, he didn’t really want it gone. it was the kind of ache that grew familiar, even welcome, as though having a piece of you stuck inside him, digging in, was better than losing the connection altogether.

he told himself it was nothing, just a weird, passing fixation. but mondays tested that lie in ways that made his jaw clench and his heart pound harder than any game ever did. mondays meant your ritual: the library. the coffee beside you, still steaming faintly as you leaned into the table, your head bowed over a fortress of books that seemed to grow taller with each passing hour.

he wasn’t sure what you read—probably something mind-numbingly boring, some dense intellectual nonsense he wouldn’t bother to crack open even if someone paid him. but you, with that maddening concentration etched into your brow and your soft, barely-there frown tugging at your lips, made it look like the most important thing in the world.

and when you read, oh god, when you read—you spoke. not loudly, no. just the faintest whispers, as if the words spilled from your mouth by accident, a soft, private litany that no one else was meant to hear. but ben heard. he always heard.

it wasn’t fair, the way your voice wrapped itself around the silence of the library, low and melodic and unbearably intimate. it felt deliberate somehow, like a knife turned just for him. it was as though you knew he was watching, knew he lingered there in the shadows of the shelves, pretending to look for some book he’d never even crack open.

if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you were reading for him.

he should be at practice. that thought nagged at him like a coach’s whistle in the back of his mind, sharp and insistent. practice, where his teammates would already be warming up, their easy camaraderie and loud laughter filling the field. that’s where he belonged, where he thrived. that was his kingdom. but mondays had become something else entirely.

mondays were for you.

ben found himself lingering near the library door, his shoulders slouched just enough to blend into the background. his bag hung limply off one arm, forgotten, as his green eyes tracked every movement you made. the way your fingers flicked over the pages, precise and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. the slight tilt of your head when you paused to scribble something in the notebook you always brought with you. the way your lips, soft and just barely parted, formed each word you whispered like a prayer.

you were calm and focused, untouched by the chaotic energy that always seemed to coil beneath his skin. you looked... at peace. it made him burn.

ben clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. he hated this feeling, this raw, inexplicable pull toward you that felt less like attraction and more like possession. you weren’t doing anything to him—just sitting there, existing, being you. and yet, it was as if you’d reached inside him and turned something vital upside down, leaving him unsteady on his feet.

he didn’t want to care about your stupid coffee cup, the way the steam curled up and caught the faint light spilling through the high library windows. he didn’t want to notice the way your glasses slipped slightly off the bridge of your nose, how you’d brush them back with an absent-minded grace that seemed so effortless it made his chest ache.

and yet, there he was, still standing there.

still watching.

still pretending to give a fuck about some random book he wouldn’t even bother to carry out the door.

ben shifted on his feet, the weight of his indecision heavy in his chest. he should leave. he should walk out, get to practice, and stop wasting his time on you. but the thought of leaving, of stepping away from this quiet moment where he could just... see you without consequence, felt like tearing that splinter from his skin. he’d lose the ache, yes, but he’d also lose the maddening comfort of its presence.

so, instead, he lingered.

and when you whispered another word, your lips brushing the silence like a kiss meant for no one in particular, ben’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. because deep down, in the part of himself he refused to acknowledge, he wanted to believe it was for him.

it was stupid, reckless even, the way ben’s feet moved without permission, as if something unseen was yanking at invisible strings tied to his ankles. he wasn’t sure why he let it happen, why he allowed this force—this festering pull inside him—to steer him closer and closer to where you sat. he could have stopped himself, forced his body to obey logic, but something in him resisted the idea of turning back.

the quiet sanctity of the library enveloped him, all hushed whispers and the soft rustle of turning pages. the faint, bitter aroma of coffee mingled with the musty scent of old books, filling his lungs as he neared your table. it was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet strangely intoxicating. the closer he got, the more he felt like the world narrowed to just this: you, the fortress of books around you, the steam curling from your cup like it held some secret.

it was too much. too close.

ben swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly dry as he hovered behind you. from this distance, he could see the tiny grooves in the back of your chair, the faint scuff marks on the floor where your restless foot tapped. his pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the low hum of the library’s fluorescent lights.

what the hell was he even doing?

he didn’t have a plan. of course, he didn’t. ben didn’t do plans; he acted. he relied on brute force, sheer confidence, and the kind of charm that usually bulldozed any obstacle in his way. but here, now, standing behind you, those weapons felt dull and useless.

you shifted slightly, leaning forward to jot something into your notebook, and ben’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator watching its prey. his stomach tightened, not with hunger, but with something worse—something sharper, more desperate.

and then, like some unthinking beast lurching forward, he moved.

the table loomed in front of him, the edge digging into his thigh as he planted himself there, far closer than he should have been. his shadow fell across your books, an expanse of muted light eclipsed by his frame. the breath hitched in his throat, and for a fleeting, wild moment, he considered bolting. running back to the lacrosse field, to the safety of shouting and fists and controlled chaos.

but the thought passed as quickly as it came, crushed beneath the unbearable weight of his need to say something—anything.

he opened his mouth, and what escaped was not a clever remark, not the smooth confidence he wielded on the field or in front of his friends, but a sound. a low, guttural grunt that made him cringe internally the second it left his lips.

you turned at the noise, your brow furrowing as your eyes flicked up to meet his. your expression was a mix of curiosity and mild irritation, as though you were trying to decide whether this interruption was worth your attention.

ben’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his palms damp and cold despite the heat radiating from his body. the words he’d been grasping for, the half-formed excuse to explain why he’d crossed the boundary of your space, caught in his throat.

what the hell was he supposed to say? that he couldn’t stay away? that your stupid books and coffee and concentrated pout had been haunting him for weeks?

no, he needed something else—something neutral, something that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot.

“i, uh…” his voice came out rough, rasping like sandpaper against the quiet of the library. he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “i need tutoring. in, uh… math.”

the words hung in the air like a poorly thrown pass, wobbling and uncertain. it was a flimsy excuse, half-true at best. sure, he wasn’t exactly excelling in math, but he could’ve asked any of his teammates for help. hell, he could’ve charmed one of the teachers if he’d wanted to. but none of them were you.

you blinked, your lips parting slightly as if you weren’t sure whether to laugh or take him seriously. ben felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck, his pride warring with the strange, gnawing feeling that he might just implode if you said no.

“i’m… not great with numbers,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his posture stiff despite the casual tone he was struggling to maintain. “figured you could help. since, y’know, you’re always… doing all this.” he gestured vaguely to the books and notes sprawled across the table, his movements broad and almost clumsy.

there. it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. a lifeline, thin and fragile, tossed out into the silence between you.

the air is dense, clinging to the library like an unwanted second skin, thick with the sour tang of aged paper, spilled coffee, and the faint decay of something almost alive. it’s the kind of air that wraps itself around your throat and sinks into your lungs, suffocating and intimate, a silent predator. ben breathes it in deeply, like he needs the burn to keep himself tethered to this moment, to you. but there’s something else here, too, something sharper, something that cuts through the miasma and lodges itself inside him.

it’s you.

it shouldn’t be so distinct, yet it is. a clean, woody undertone, with a hint of leather that somehow feels ancient and personal, like it carries stories older than either of you. it threads its way through the stagnant library air like an interloper, lacing itself into ben’s senses until it becomes the only thing he can taste. it doesn’t belong here. it doesn’t belong in this quiet, suffocating place of rot and whispers. but it belongs to you. and that’s enough.

he swallows hard, his throat tightening as though the scent has wrapped itself around his neck like a noose. it fills the hollows of his chest, seeps into the marrow of his bones, and carves itself into the darkest corners of his mind. It’s a scent that shouldn’t linger, but it does, a ghost that haunts him in the silence. you’ve branded him, burned yourself into him without even trying, and he can’t tell if he resents it or if he craves it more than his next breath.

“didn’t think you’d need a tutor,” you had said, a faint smirk on your lips, sharp enough to cut. but you didn’t say no.

and that’s how he found himself here.

the silence between you is a strange kind of beast. ben isn’t used to silence—his life is noise, chaos, endless sound that fills every corner of his world until there’s no room for anything else. his father’s voice, sharp and grating, tearing through the walls. the roar of the crowd on the field, his teammates’ shouts blending into a cacophony that drowns out the sound of his own thoughts.

but this silence isn’t like that.

this silence is alive.

it breathes. it stretches. it crawls into the space between you and grows, not oppressive but thick and full, like it’s waiting for something to happen. it hums with potential, a quiet pulse that syncs with the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and ben finds himself leaning into it, letting it wrap around him.

this silence isn’t empty. it’s full of you.

you sit beside him, close enough that he can feel the faint warmth of your body bleeding through the small gap between you. the edge of your sleeve brushes his forearm when you move, and it’s enough to send a spark of something sharp and electric jolting through him. he shouldn’t be able to feel you this acutely, shouldn’t be so hyperaware of every tiny shift in your posture, every soft inhale you take.

but he is.

the scent of you still lingers, curling around him like smoke from a burning altar, like something ancient and sacrificial. it feels alive, like it’s slithering into his veins, infecting him with the ghost of your presence. he breathes it in and lets it take root, lets it crawl through him and fill the hollow spaces he didn’t even know were there.

and the silence stretches on.

it’s not the kind of silence that demands to be broken. it’s a language all its own, a secret shared between you, full of things unsaid and unspoken truths. ben doesn’t need words to fill it. he doesn’t need to speak to know that you’re here, beside him, so close he can feel the heat radiating from you.

but the quiet is also dangerous. it lets him think. let’s his thoughts spiral into darker, hungrier places.

ben’s gaze flickers to you, catching on the curve of your jaw, the faint furrow of concentration in your brow as you scan the open book in front of you. he lets himself linger there, drinking you in like a starving man given his first taste of water. there’s something almost holy about the way you look right now, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of the page as though the words have bewitched you.

but ben doesn’t feel holy.

the hunger inside him is sharp and unrelenting, a gnawing thing that writhes beneath his skin. it twists through him, dark and consuming, and for a fleeting moment, he wonders what it would be like to pull you apart, to see what makes you tick. it’s not obsession. not really. obsession implies something fragile, something rooted in longing or insecurity. this is something deeper, more primal.

ben doesn’t need you. not in the way that people talk about need. but he wants you. he wants to unravel you, to pry you open and dig his fingers into the soft, vulnerable parts of you. he wants to understand what makes you sit here every monday with your coffee and your books, what makes you whisper to yourself like you’re reading something meant only for him to hear.

it’s curiosity, he tells himself. nothing more. just curiosity, burning hot and insatiable, spreading through him like wildfire.

but curiosity doesn’t feel like this.

curiosity doesn’t feel like his chest tightening every time you glance his way. it doesn’t feel like his hands itching to touch, to hold, to possess.

THATS how it went. mondays transformed into something entirely different, a new ritual that ben couldn’t explain and wouldn’t dare question. practice? a memory. the familiar rhythm of drills, the roar of his teammates, the barked orders of the coach—it all faded into insignificance the moment you came into focus. he told the coaches he was studying, his voice steady, unwavering, despite the lie rolling off his tongue like poison disguised as honey. they believed him, of course. why wouldn’t they?

ben didn’t bother telling himself he cared about the material. the textbooks, the equations, the neatly drawn graphs—they were background noise, static that faded into nothing the second you started speaking. he told himself he was there because it was convenient, because it was an excuse to escape, but deep down, in some festering corner of his mind, he knew that wasn’t true.

it was you.

you, with your quiet focus, the way your lips would move ever so slightly as you read aloud to yourself without realizing it. you, with your unwavering concentration, the crease that formed between your brows as you worked through a particularly complicated problem. you, who seemed completely oblivious to the way your presence had carved itself into ben’s very bones, anchoring you there like some unwanted parasite he couldn’t bring himself to kill.

ben would sit there, his body rigid and his mind anything but, trying to focus on the numbers sprawled across the page but failing every single time. he wasn’t looking at the work. he was looking at you. watching the way your fingers skimmed the edge of the paper, how your pen would tap against the table in rhythmic little bursts as you thought. every tiny movement, every subtle shift in your posture, dug deeper into him, threading itself into the marrow of his being until it felt like you had become a part of him.

when you spoke, your voice soft and even as you explained some mathematical concept that should have been straightforward but felt like greek to him, ben didn’t hear the words. he wasn’t listening to the numbers or the logic. he was too busy taking in the way you looked. the curve of your mouth as you formed each syllable. the way your eyes would light up, ever so slightly, when you solved something particularly tricky.

fuck, it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how easily you filled the empty spaces inside him, how effortlessly you seemed to occupy the corners of his mind he didn’t even know existed. you didn’t just exist in the same room as him; you invaded it. you seeped into him, into the cracks and fractures he thought he’d hidden so well, spreading like rot until you were everywhere.

and he let you.

even as he told himself he didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that this was just about studying—just a convenient excuse to avoid practice—he knew the truth. he cared too much. he cared in a way that scared him, a way that felt too big, too heavy, too impossible to contain. he cared about the way your voice would drop into a lower register when you were focused, the way your laughter—soft and fleeting—would bubble out when you realized you’d made a mistake and corrected it.

he cared about how you made him feel.

like he was tethered. like he was drowning. like he was alive in a way he hadn’t been in years.

and maybe, just maybe, a part of you already knew. maybe you sensed the way he hung onto every word, every glance, every accidental brush of your hand against his when you passed him a paper or a pen. maybe you could feel the weight of him sitting across from you, silent and heavy, his presence wrapping itself around you like an unspoken confession.

or maybe you didn’t notice at all.

maybe it was all in ben’s head, this strange, suffocating thing that had planted itself inside him and grown wild and unruly, its roots digging deeper with every passing monday.

but it didn’t matter.

because mondays weren’t about practice anymore. mondays weren’t about drills or games or any of the things that used to define him.

mondays were you.

this monday was different. this monday, you were in his dorm. the space felt alien with you in it, as though your presence had shifted the walls closer, warped the air, and made the small room hum with something electric and volatile. you sat on his bed, legs crossed, one deft hand tapping against the spine of a book you hadn’t opened yet. ben’s eyes were drawn to your fingers, tracing the slow rhythm of your movements, catching on the faint smudges of ink and the tiny doodles that crawled over the back of your hand. they looked like they were singing to him, little glyphs alive with secrets, symbols carved straight from your soul and offered up to him like a taunt.

he couldn’t stop staring.

the thought came unbidden, crashing through him like a breaking wave: if i could, i’d swallow you whole.

not in some grotesque, animalistic way—at least, he didn’t think so. no teeth or sinew or blood. it was something deeper, stranger, something even more horrifying. he didn’t want to eat you; he wanted to absorb you. to make you a part of him. he wanted to pull you inside him, past skin and muscle, past the fragile shield of his ribs, until you were tucked deep into the raw, pulsing places no one else could see. he wanted you to haunt him, to bury yourself in the cracks and crevices of his very being, until you became inseparable from the rest of him.

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

he wondered, if he did it—if he somehow consumed you, if he allowed the essence of you to dissolve into him like sugar in water—would a part of your soul become his? would it taint him, change him, twist him into something unrecognizable? and, more importantly, would it leave anything of you behind?

would he be carrying the ghost of you forever, absorbed into his marrow, etched into the fabric of his being? would you haunt him in every heartbeat, every breath, every restless night spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling and tracing the memory of you through the air?

ben’s gaze drifted back to your hands, to the tiny movements of your fingers, the way they danced against the book like they were keeping a secret. his own fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to press his palm against the back of your hand and feel the warmth of you seeping through his skin. would it burn? would it leave a mark?

his chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, the sound loud and awkward in the thick, oppressive silence of the room. you didn’t look up. you were so focused on whatever small thought was flitting through your head, your brows furrowed, your lips pressed into a soft line. you had no idea, did you? no idea that you were unmaking him with every passing second, tearing him apart piece by piece, leaving him raw and exposed in a way he’d never been before.

maybe this was what ghosts were, he thought. absorbed parts. fragments of someone else clinging to the living, refusing to let go. maybe you were already haunting him, slipping between the cracks in his thoughts, curling around the jagged edges of his mind.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

maybe he was already swallowing you. piece by piece. moment by moment.

and maybe you didn’t even notice.

ben turned toward his bedside locker, moving with a calmness that betrayed the storm inside him. his hands, rough and deliberate, fumbled just slightly as he tugged the drawer open and reached beneath a clutter of barely concealed items. a tin rattled faintly as he pulled it free, his movements revealing a quick flash of glossy porno mags and a half-used tube of KY jelly. he didn’t flinch at the sight; shame wasn’t something he had much room for these days. instead, his fingers found the prize he was looking for—a small plastic bag filled with neatly rolled joints, their pale paper taut and waiting.

the tin hit the desk with a soft thud, and ben’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace as he turned back to you. the dim dorm light caught the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but his voice came out smooth, easy, coaxing. “you should relax,” he said, rolling a joint between his fingers as though it were the most casual thing in the world. his green eyes flicked over you, your expression caught somewhere between curious and wary. “we’ve been at this all week.”

it sounded reasonable enough, like he cared about the tension in your shoulders, the furrow of your brow, the way you kept pushing yourself harder and harder. but it wasn’t reason that fueled him—it was desperation. he wanted to see you like this, to be the one who unraveled you. the idea of you finding comfort, your edges softening under the haze of weed, made his pulse quicken in a way that felt dangerous, electric.

he thought about it as he pulled a lighter from his pocket, the small metallic click breaking the thick silence between you. the flame danced for a moment before he brought it to the end of the joint, inhaling deeply, the embers flaring bright red. he let the smoke roll out slow, curling upward in tendrils that hung heavy in the air between you.

ben could almost feel it already—the way the weed would soften your movements, blur your sharp edges, make you pliant and lightheaded. the image lodged itself in his brain, searing there like a brand. he didn’t just want you to relax; he wanted you to sink into his orbit, to feel like the world outside his dorm didn’t exist anymore. he wanted you in the palm of his hand, trusting him with that quiet, unspoken vulnerability.

he held the joint out toward you, fingers brushing yours as you took it, and he didn’t miss the way the slight contact sent something sparking through his veins. you hesitated for a moment, your lips parting like you were about to protest, but instead, you leaned in, bringing the joint to your mouth.

ben watched, captivated, as your lips curled around the paper, as you inhaled slow, tentative. he wondered if you could feel him watching you, if you knew the way your every move seemed to carve into him, marking him deeper and deeper.

he leaned back against the edge of the bed, feigning nonchalance, though his body felt taut as a bowstring. smoke curled lazily around you, and ben’s voice cut through it, low and coaxing. “better, right?” he said, the words deliberate, his green eyes glinting like embers in the low light. he wanted to keep you here, tethered to him, letting him smooth out your edges until there was nothing left but the two of you and the thick haze of smoke.

and maybe—just maybe—you’d feel it too. that pull, that invisible thread that kept bringing him closer to you, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

ben’s breath hitched as he watched you, utterly transfixed by the way your eyelids fluttered shut while the smoke swirled slow and steady from your lips. you looked at ease in a way he’d never seen before, and the sight carved into him, leaving grooves he didn’t want to smooth over. when you handed the joint back to him, the faint dampness of the paper and filter from your saliva caught his attention like a beacon. it wasn’t just a joint anymore—it was touched by you, part of you lingering there. that tiny, fleeting connection left his pulse skittering wildly beneath his skin, though he’d never admit it.

“would you believe me if i said this was my first time?” you asked, your voice light, tinged with nervousness but carrying that easy charm that made ben feel like you’d handed him a piece of yourself. he took the joint from your fingers with a nonchalant shrug, though his heart thundered like a war drum beneath the surface.

“yeah,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he brought the joint to his mouth. the ember flared red as he inhaled, using the moment to steady himself. “i don’t doubt that for a second.” he exhaled slow, the smoke curling between you, a fragile wall of haze that couldn’t stop the pull he felt toward you. as the words left his mouth, ben forced a smile, throwing it your way in what he hoped passed as charming. but his smile faltered slightly when he caught the way your cheeks flushed, a soft bloom of red spreading over your skin.

god, red looked so good on you.

it wasn’t just the color—it was the way it transformed you, made you seem more tangible, more real. the heat rising in your cheeks told him he’d affected you, that his words, his smile, had reached you in some small, undeniable way. it was addictive, watching your reaction, seeing how you twisted under the weight of his gaze without even realizing it.

ben’s grip tightened on the joint, his thumb running over the paper as he took another hit, letting the sharp burn fill his lungs. he needed the edge of it, the distraction, because the truth was threatening to claw its way out of him. the truth that he wanted more than this. more than just mondays, more than stolen moments of proximity. He wanted to press closer, to watch the way that blush deepened when he was too near, to feel your breath against his skin as you stumbled through words you didn’t yet know how to say.

“you’re a natural, though,” he said, his voice a little rougher now, smoke coiling in his throat. “could’ve fooled me.”

it was a lie, of course, but he said it anyway, watching as your lips twitched into a small, bashful smile. and he wondered—did you know what you were doing to him? did you know that with every glance, every word, every touch of your fingers against his when you passed the joint back, you were branding him, marking him as yours?

"yeah, whatever, man," you mutter, the words slipping out on a breath of smoke, your tone carrying that threadbare edge of disinterest. disbelieving. coy. ben’s ears latch onto the inflection like a predator catching the faintest rustle of prey in the underbrush. coy he can work with. coy feeds his craving in a way that’s both maddening and exhilarating, like the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down a raw throat.

coy is fragile. it’s the flickering light of a candle before the flame gutters out. it’s a wounded fawn—big, trembling eyes and wobbling legs—abandoned in an open meadow where every shadow hides teeth. vulnerability wrapped in a thin veneer of bravado. It invites, dares, the predator to inch closer, closer, until there’s nothing but a gasp between them. you, he realizes, are his own personal Bambi. and he, the beast in the long grass, stalking, waiting, savoring the taste of the moment before the pounce.

“no, really,” ben murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, taking on a warmth that shouldn’t be there, a softness that belies the feral pull beneath his skin. he watches you carefully, the way your lips curve slightly around the filter of the joint, how your lashes cast soft shadows against your cheekbones in the dim light of the dorm.

something inside him sparks, an idea crawling up from the depths of that writhing, unnamed thing he keeps locked in his chest. before he can think twice, he’s moving. “here, let me.”

the joint burns between his fingers as ben takes a deliberate, slow drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs until it stings. and then, before you can react, his hand comes up, warm and sure, and it cradles your jaw like he’s done it a hundred times before. his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, just barely, but it leaves a trail of heat that lingers, sets your pulse stuttering in your throat.

you blink, caught off guard but not pulling away, and that’s all the invitation he needs. ben leans in, the space between you vanishing in an instant, his breath warm against your lips as he exhales the smoke directly into your mouth. it’s intimate in a way that feels invasive, his lips hovering a whisper away from yours. the smoke curls between you, sliding over your tongue, into your lungs, leaving its bitter trail in its wake.

your eyes widen, and ben feels the way your breath catches, just barely, but enough. enough to tell him you’re unsteady, uncertain, caught in the moment like a fly in a spider’s web. your vulnerability is intoxicating, your wide-eyed stare a silent surrender.

his lips barely graze yours, not enough to call it a kiss, but enough to blur the line between audacity and desire. his grip on your chin tightens ever so slightly, grounding you, tethering you to him in this suspended moment.

the seconds stretch thin before he finally pulls back, his eyes dark, hooded, like he’s barely holding himself together. “see?” ben’s voice is rough now, a low rasp that scrapes at the edges of silence. “easy.”

ben doesn’t get the chance to say anything—doesn’t even get the time to process the swirl of thoughts clawing at his mind—because your lips crash against his. the force of it sends him sprawling back into the pillows, his head hitting the worn fabric with a muffled thud.

oh.

oh, this is something he can work with. this is something he’s dreamed of, imagined in fragments during sleepless nights when the thought of you wouldn’t leave him alone. but this—this is better.

this is you. raw. over him. devouring him like he’s something worth breaking.

ben’s always been a master manipulator, a professional at weaponizing sexuality, at using it to tilt the odds in his favor. it’s a game to him—one he always wins. and now? now he has you, ravenous and unrestrained, a perfect storm pressing him into the mattress. he knows how this should go: make you pliable, make you vulnerable, use your hunger to turn the tides in his favor. but the second your lips meet his, it’s like the script is ripped out of his hands, and all he can do is follow where you lead.

and god, are you leading.

you don’t taste like he expected. ben thought you’d taste bitter, sharp, like the sting of smoke lingering on the back of his tongue. but instead, there’s something sweeter, softer beneath the haze of weed—something that feels like a reward he hasn’t earned. the thought sends a shiver through him, his hands gripping at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the world.

you’re relentless, teeth dragging across his bottom lip, tugging with a force that’s just shy of painful. a sharp gasp escapes him, swallowed by the heat of your mouth. you’re moving now, climbing on top of him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. your weight settles over him, and he’s distantly aware of how you’ve slotted yourself perfectly between his legs, forcing them open, pinning him in place with nothing but your body.

the desperation in your movements is a mirror of his own—hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, deeper, harder. until he wonders if you mean to tear him open and climb inside. it’s messy and frantic, all teeth and tongues and muffled moans, the kind of kiss that’s more a battle than an embrace. but ben loves it. He loves the way your hands roam across him like you’re mapping him out, pressing against his thigh, his waist, his chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

your fingers find his throat, wrapping around it with a precision that makes his breath catch. it’s not enough to choke him, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him still, to remind him who’s in control. and that—oh, that sends a spark of something electric racing through him, pooling low in his stomach. his neck has always been a weak spot, something he’s never fully admitted, and the way your grip steadies him, grounds him—it’s almost too much. it feels like you’ve reached inside his chest and curled your fingers around his ribs, cracking them apart to get at the soft, beating thing underneath.

a small, breathy whimper escapes him before he can stop it, barely audible but undeniably there. it’s embarrassing, humiliating, but he can’t bring himself to care when your mouth is on his again, swallowing the sound like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his hands find your back, sliding under the fabric of your shirt to press against the bare skin beneath, feeling the way your muscles shift and tense under his touch.

ben’s lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a move that’s both practiced and desperate. you both moan at the contact, the sound muffled but unmistakable, a shared release of tension that only feeds the frenzy between you. his heart thrums in his ears, loud and insistent, and he can’t help but think of prey animals in their final moments, blood pounding as the predator’s jaws close in.

“if i’d known you’d like shotgunning this much,” ben pants against your lips, his voice rough and uneven, “i would’ve done it sooner.”

the words are punctuated by a low groan as you press into him harder, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him impossibly closer. the scent of you—smoke and sweat and something uniquely yours—fills his senses, drowning out everything else. it’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and ben can feel himself unraveling beneath you, his carefully constructed facade slipping away piece by piece.

your lips travel from ben’s mouth to his jaw, teeth sinking into the flesh like you mean to strip it away, gnaw it clean from the bone. it’s violent, carnal, the sound of your bite wet and obscene, and ben feels the sharp pressure like a knife slipping under his skin. he’s powerless to stop the groan that escapes him, low and guttural, as your hand clamps down on his jaw, your fingers digging into the hinge with a precision that feels surgical, deliberate, inhuman. he’s the mangy dog under your heel, and the dull ache of your grip feels like worship.

his green eyes squeeze shut, his breath hitching as the pain shifts to something addictive, something alive. every nerve in his body sparks to life beneath your touch, the sensation of your nails scraping against his flesh leaving a trail of fire in their wake. his blood sings for you, a desperate hymn to the beast in you that has claimed him for its feast.

“and i think you don’t hate me as much as you pretend,” you growl against his throat, the words coming out like gravel churned in a rusted, grinding machine.

ben laughs, the sound ragged, hollow. “i think you’re full of shit,” he manages, but the way his head tilts to bare his neck betrays him. your hands are satin-soft as they explore him, but the sharpness of your intent is anything but. ben’s hands, by contrast, are rough, leather-worn, and scarred—hands made for tearing, clawing, and surviving. yet here, under you, they’re useless, twitching at his sides as if unsure where to land, as if afraid to touch the thing consuming him.

your hips grind against him, deliberate and cruel, and he feels every drag like it’s carving him open, splitting him down the middle. the pressure is maddening, a firestorm radiating from every point of contact. “oh, fuck,” he breathes, the words barely more than a rasp. his head falls back, exposing more of his throat to your hungry mouth, his body betraying him further with every grind of your hips.

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands grab at his shirt, tugging with a force that feels like you’d tear it clean off him if it wouldn’t come loose fast enough. “take this fucking thing off.”

ben’s too far gone to resist, his laugh airy and broken as his fingers fumble to obey. “mm, yes, sir,” he teases, the words forced through a grin that barely holds together. he doesn’t miss the flash of something dangerous behind your irises—a flicker of control you’re savoring like a wolf tasting the first blood on its tongue.

ben’s known guys like you. guys who’ve been crushed, splintered into jagged pieces by the weight of the world. broken little boys fumbling to piece themselves back together but too desperate, too fucking hungry for control to do anything but burn. and ben? ben’s always been the kindling, the spark, the gasoline-soaked rag ready to go up in flames for someone like you.

your hands work with fervor, helping him strip the shirt off his body. it’s discarded to the ground like the wrappings of a fruit too ripe to resist, and your fingers trace the lines of his chest. your fingernails rake across his chest, leaving pale, raw lines in the tan expanse of his skin. they sting, those scratches, like ghost wounds from some darker thing, as though you’ve marked him for death. ben doesn’t care. he wants to wear your marks, wants to let them fester, to let a part of you be with him.

your mouth crashes against his again, desperate and sloppy, all teeth and tongues. he can taste the bitterness of smoke still clinging to you, mingling with the salt of his own blood where your teeth have nicked his lip. the metallic tang hits his tongue like a blade, and he moans into your mouth, a sound thick with surrender.

as one hand pops the button of his pants and slips beneath the waistband, the other wraps around his neck, digging into his flesh like it’s meat you intend to rip apart. your lips travel down his throat, sucking, biting, leaving bruises that bloom like rot beneath his skin. you pull back long enough to mutter against his neck, “i’m guessing you’ve done this before.”

ben can barely suppresses an eye roll. don’t get respectful on me now. he doesn’t need your reverence, your curiosity. he needs you to keep consuming him. he nods, the motion jerky and strained. “obviously.”

he reaches for your belt, his fingers trembling as they tug the leather free from its loops. he’s rushing now, frantic to get it off, his hands moving like they belong to someone else. “condoms. lube. drawer,” he rasps, the words cracking as they leave his throat. his hands are shaking, distracted by the way your teeth drag over his collarbone, the way you bite down hard enough that he thinks he can feel the crack of bone beneath the surface.

your hand fumbles blindly through the chaos of his locker, searching for the stash he swore was there—a condom, lube, anything to keep the fire between you burning. your fingers brush over cold metal, loose papers, the faint grit of something unidentifiable, but the haze in your brain and the heat building in your gut make the task feel impossible.

behind you, ben curses under his breath, the sound more growl than word as he wriggles out of his jeans. the fabric catches on his knees, and he fights with it, hips lifting off the mattress as he struggles to free himself. there’s something almost pitiful about the way he moves, so desperate and clumsy in his rush to shed the last barriers between him and you.

you’re so focused on your task—so consumed by the feverish need to keep this moment alive—that you don’t hear the door at first. the creak of the hinges barely registers, a ghost of a sound swallowed by the pounding in your ears. but then:

“ben?!”

the voice slams into the room like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile intimacy you’d built. it’s loud, sharp, cutting through the thick fog of arousal like a jagged blade.

your hand freezes mid-rummage. ben freezes too, mid-push, his jeans tangled around his thighs in a way that makes him look utterly ridiculous. ben groans—a guttural, agonized sound that’s halfway between a growl and a plea for mercy. “oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his head falling back against the pillow. his voice is muffled, but the irritation in it is clear, as palpable as the sweat clinging to his chest.

the voice called again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of the doorknob jiggling. “ben, you in there?”

ben’s brain scrambled for a plan, any plan, but his thoughts were a tangled mess, caught between the ache of his body and the dread clawing its way up his spine. of course it had to be now. of course his teammates couldn’t pick a better time to come barging into his dorm, not when he was like this—half-naked, flushed, with you practically draped over him like some pagan offering.

he looked down at himself—his jeans bunched awkwardly around his knees, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, his boxers doing a piss-poor job of hiding just how far this had gone. the situation was bad. no, worse than bad—it was catastrophic.

“shit,” ben whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp as he reached for his jeans, yanking them up in a hurried, graceless motion. the denim stuck to his skin, damp with sweat and urgency, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the zipper.

you didn’t move at first, still hovering over him like a statue caught mid-motion, your eyes wide and dark with something that wasn’t fear—but something close to it. “do we answer?” you whispered, your voice low and hoarse, and ben almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

“yeah, sure,” he muttered sarcastically, his hands fumbling at his belt. “let’s just invite them in, have a nice little chat while i’ve got a fucking hard-on.”

the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. “ben, come on, man! open up!”

they wouldn’t leave. ben knew they wouldn’t. his teammates were persistent, nosy bastards who treated each other’s business like communal property. if they thought something was up, they’d dig until they unearthed it, and ben couldn’t let them. because if they saw you here—if they saw him like this, disheveled and flushed and exposed—it wouldn’t just be teasing. it would be annihilation. they’d tear him apart, not in private, but where it hurt most: the locker room, the field, the hallways. his every movement would be shadowed by whispers and pointed laughter. they’d know.

they’d know he wasn’t like them, wasn’t the ben they thought they knew—the one who made dirty jokes and leered at teachers and bragged about conquests that never existed. they’d know he was a fraud.

ben shoved at you lightly, a signal to get off him, to move, to do something, but the moment his hands touched your sides, you didn’t budge. if anything, you leaned in closer, your lips quirking into that infuriating small smile.

“oh, this is funny to you?” he spat, his voice a harsh whisper, trembling with frustration and fear.

your lips twitched, the corner of your mouth curling into a grin you couldn’t quite suppress. “it’s a little funny,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

ben rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair in exasperation as he stumbled off the bed. his jeans still weren’t properly fastened, and he could feel the waistband slipping down with every step. he grabbed a discarded hoodie from the floor and threw it over his head, the fabric clinging to his sweat-slick skin as he stalked toward the door. he needed to look normal. casual. like he wasn’t all over you, like you weren’t tearing him apart.

before opening the door, he turned to you, his eyes flashing with a mix of desperation and warning. “not a word,” he hissed, the words as sharp as a blade pressed to your throat.

ben took a deep breath, his face schooled into a mask of nonchalance, as he yanked the door open. his teammates stood there, grinning like idiots, and ben felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him.

“what the hell took you so long?” one of them asked, stepping forward as if he had any right to barge in.

“busy,” ben grunted, leaning against the doorframe to block their view of the room. he prayed they couldn’t see you through the narrow crack, prayed they wouldn’t notice the flush on his cheeks or the faint bruises forming on his neck.

“busy with what?”

“homework,” ben said, deadpan, and the lie was so ridiculous that even he almost believed it.

[mondaysamiright]

Heat of the Moment

Pairing: Amelia Shepherd x fem!reader

Summary: Two idiots in love and the good ole blurting out confessions of love. 

Author's Notes: So Y/N is the daughter of Teddy Altman (idk why I just picked someone lol) and a paramedic with Seattle Fire. She is a part of one of their EMS units (emergency medical services) and works for Station 19 (of course). Sorry it's a bit long!

The fire raged in front of them, an angry orange beast that roared louder with every passing minute. Y/N Altman, standing with her EMS unit on the street, stared up at the burning building. A couple of other paramedics from the other EMS unit hesitated, looking toward the distant wail of the fire truck’s sirens.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

“There’s someone still inside,” one of the neighbors screamed, pointing to the third floor. “They didn’t make it out!”

Without waiting for backup, she darted toward the building, ignoring the shouts of her fellow medics. Flames licked the door frame as Y/N barged through, smoke stinging her eyes and the acrid scent filling her lungs. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, the sound almost drowned out by the crackling fire as she moved quickly through the narrow hallway.

The heat was unbearable, and the smoke reduced her visibility to almost nothing. She could feel the warmth creeping closer to her skin, but she pushed through, her mind focused solely on finding the person trapped inside.

There. In the corner of the room, collapsed beneath a window, she spotted the figure. They were slumped, unconscious, face streaked with soot. Y/N dropped to her knees and assessed them briefly before hefting the limp body over her shoulders, gritting her teeth against the weight.

Her legs burned as she stumbled her way back through the inferno. The flames had spread, closing in fast. Y/N pushed down the panic, adrenaline surging through her as she fought her way out, sweat dripping down her brow. She could feel the heat blistering the skin on her arms, the bite of fire making its presence known in sharp, painful bursts, but there was no stopping now. The person on her back needed to survive.

The moment she burst back through the door, coughing violently, the fire trucks were arriving. Medics rushed forward, taking the unconscious patient from her. Y/N, panting hard, bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

Maya Bishop, her boss, was there in seconds. “What the hell were you thinking?” Maya’s voice was sharp, a mix of fury and concern. “You could’ve been killed!”

“I got them out, didn’t I?” Y/N rasped through her coughing, waving her off. The burns on her arms were starting to throb, but she ignored the pain.

“I want you checked out when we get to the hospital. No arguments, Altman,” Maya ordered, her tone brooking no room for defiance. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grey Sloan Memorial buzzed with the usual controlled chaos, and Y/N, now in the ER, stood leaning against the wall, arms folded, her patience wearing thin. Her burns were minor—she’d had worse. All she wanted to do was get back to the station and sleep off the exhaustion. But of course, she was stuck here. Because rules. 

 She was ready to leave—already calculating how fast she could slip out unnoticed—when the doors to the ER flung over and Y/N couldn’t help the groan that escaped her lips. 

“Y/N Altman!”

Amelia’s voice cut through the busy ER, her white coat flying behind her as stormed across the floor. She’d heard that tone before. It was the 'I’m-going-to-kill-you' tone. Amelia came to a stop right in front of her, her eyes blazed with a fury. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Y/N crossed her arms tighter, meeting Amelia’s glare with one of her own. “Good to see you too, Dr. Shepherd,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I was doing my job. You know, saving lives?”

Amelia’s jaw clenched, “Running into a burning building?” she shot back. “Without waiting for fire? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please, I’m fine. It’s not like I haven’t dealt with dangerous situations before.”

“That’s not the point! You’re not a firefighter, Y/N. You had no business going into that building.”

Y/N straightened, the annoyance in her chest flaring as she pushed herself off the wall. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly concerned about how I do my job? You’ve never cared before when we’ve argued over cases.”

Amelia let out a frustrated laugh. “This isn’t about a patient, Y/N!  This is about you almost dying because you thought you could play the hero!”

Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown by the emotion in Amelia’s voice. “I wasn’t playing hero,” she said, “I was doing what needed to be done.”

“No,” Amelia snapped, stepping closer, her voice shaking now. “You were doing something reckless. Something that could’ve gotten you killed.”

Y/N stared at her, bewildered. “Why are you so upset? I’m fine. The patient’s fine. It’s over.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Amelia said, her voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You could’ve died, Y/N. And you just—brush it off like it’s nothing.”

“I don’t understand why you’re—”

“Because I love you, you idiot!”

The noise of the ER seemed to vanish in an instant, the beeping monitors and hurried footsteps fading into the background as Amelia’s words hung in the air. Y/N’s mind went blank, her usual quick wit frozen. 

Y/N blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. “What?” she said, the word barely escaping her lips.

Amelia swallowed hard, her eyes now glistening with unshed tears. “I love you,” she repeated, her face a mix of anger, fear, and something softer that Y/N had never seen before. “And I can’t stand watching you do this to yourself. Running into danger like you don’t care about what happens to you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Amelia’s chest heaved, her voice cracking as she spoke again. “I care about you, Y/N. More than you know. And every time you do something like this, it terrifies me. I can’t—” She broke off, shaking her head as tears finally spilled over. “I can’t lose you.” 

Y/N opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. She had no idea what to say to this version of Amelia. The emotional wall between them had always been sturdy, but now, it was crumbling, and Y/N felt completely unequipped to deal with the fallout. 

Amelia took a shaky step back, looking away as she swiped at her eyes again, her voice cracking. “I can’t do this. I can’t just watch you destroy yourself. It’ll kill me. I care too much.”

Without another word, Amelia turned and practically ran out of the ER, leaving Y/N frozen in place. The bustling activity of the ER resumed around her, but Y/N couldn’t move, couldn’t think past the whirlwind of emotions that had just swept over her.

For a long moment, Y/N just stood there, her heart pounding as Amelia’s words echoed in her ears. Finally, Y/N snapped out of her stupor. She needed to find Amelia. She couldn’t leave it like this.

Y/N jogged out of the ER, scanning the hall until she spotted Amelia near the elevators. She caught up just as Amelia angrily punched the button for the elevator, her tears falling freely now.

“What do you want?” Amelia snapped, “You came to give me a sarcastic comment? Make fun of me for crying, for caring about you?”  

Y/N’s heart twisted. There was no sarcasm left, no sharp retorts. “Amelia…” Y/N started, stepping closer, but Amelia took a shaky step back, her fists trembling at her sides. 

“Don’t,” Amelia choked out. “Don’t try to make this better. I hate you for making me feel like this.” 

Before Y/N could open her mouth to speak, Amelia’s fist connected with her chest, the impact startling but not painful.  “I hate you,” Amelia choked out. Her fists struck again, harder this time. “I hate you.” 

The words stung more than the hits themselves, but Y/N knew—knew deep down—that Amelia didn’t mean it. She stood still, allowing Amelia’s fists to land again and again, her own hands at her sides, not moving to block or stop the blows. 

“I hate you for making me love you!” Amelia said, her words coming out in a sob. Her fists, once forceful, were losing strength, each hit becoming weaker, more desperate. 

Then at once, Amelia fell against her, her face buried in Y/N’s uniform as she sobbed, her fists gripping the material tightly. Y/N wrapped her arms around her, holding her close as Amelia cried, the sound muffled in her chest.  Y/N could feel every shake of Amelia’s body, could feel the warmth of her tears soaking into her shirt, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was holding her, being there for her in this moment.

Y/N held her tighter, her hand moving to the back of Amelia’s head, gently stroking her hair. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours, as they stood in the quiet hallway, the chaos of the hospital continuing around them. Y/N didn’t move, didn’t speak beyond the quiet, comforting words she whispered into Amelia’s hair. Eventually, Amelia’s sobs began to subside, the harsh gasps for air slowing, her grip on Y/N’s shirt loosening. She still clung to her, her head resting against Y/N’s chest, but the desperation was fading, replaced by exhaustion. 

“I don’t want to keep losing people I care about,” Amelia whispered. “And you… you make me feel like I’m going to lose you every time you do something like this. I love you, Y/N. And it terrifies me.” 

Y/N said nothing for a moment, just tightened her arms around Amelia. For a long moment, they just stood there. The warmth of Amelia's body against hers, the steady rise and fall of her breathing—it was enough to ground Y/N in a way she hadn’t expected.

She didn’t want to speak, not yet. But eventually, the words bubbled up, ones she’d been avoiding for too long. 

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered, her voice soft in the silence. She felt Amelia stiffen slightly, then relax again in her arms. “I didn’t realize… I didn’t think about how much it affected you. I’ve always been… reckless, I guess. And I know we argue. A lot. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Amelia’s breathing had slowed, her head still resting against Y/N’s chest, listening.

“Despite all the fighting,” Y/N continued, her voice a little shaky now, “you’re… you’re the one I look forward to seeing. You drive me crazy, Amelia. But it’s in the best way possible. When I walk into the ER, and I know you’re there, it’s like—” She paused, trying to find the right words. “It’s like, no matter what happens that day, I get to see you. And that’s enough.”

Amelia’s grip on Y/N’s shirt tightened, but she remained quiet, listening.

“I can’t imagine not having you around,” Y/N admitted softly. “We argue, yeah, but you’re the one thing that’s constant in all the chaos. And I think, maybe I’ve been scared to admit it to myself, but…” Y/N’s voice faltered for a moment before she took a deep breath. “I love you, Amelia.”

For a second, there was nothing but silence. Then Amelia pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at Y/N, her eyes still glistening with tears but softened by the weight of Y/N’s words. She stared at Y/N, her lips parting as if to speak, but before she could, Y/N leaned down and pressed her lips to hers.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, as if they were both testing the waters. But then, Amelia slowly slipped her hands up to Y/N's shoulders and around her neck, pulling her closer. Y/N responded in kind, her hands dropping to Amelia's waist and her fingers gently splaying across the small of her back.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads resting together, both of them were breathless but smiling. “Well this is nice,” Y/N said after a moment.

Amelia let out a soft laugh. “As opposed to arguing all the time?” 

Y/N chuckled, her fingers tracing small circles on Amelia’s back. “Yeah. This is a nice change. Although…” Y/N started, a hint of a teasing smile on her lips, “You have to admit, the arguing was kind of fun.” 

Amelia rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the matching smile that spread across her face. “Only because you always thought you were right.” 

“I was right,” Y/N shot back, “Most of the time, anyways.”

“You… are so impossible,” Amelia said, though the smile on her lips gave away the affection behind her words. 

Y/N grinned. “I’ve been told that once or twice.”  

Amelia laughed, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of her lips, “Come on. You still need to get checked out.”  

Y/N groaned but didn’t argue, following Amelia’s lead as they made their way back to the ER, their fingers laced together. As they rounded the corner, they ran right into Maya, who was pacing the hall, her arms crossed and her expression stormy.

“Altman! There you are!” Maya’s voice was sharp, frustration evident as she stalked toward Y/N. “I thought you’d taken off again! You were supposed to get checked out ages ago. What the hell, Y/N? You could be—”

“Maya, I’ve got it,” Amelia interrupted. “I’m taking her to get checked out now.”

Maya blinked, her eyes darting between the two of them before she noticed their joined hands. Her stern expression faltered, a knowing smile slowly spreading across her face as she put the pieces together.

“Oh,” Maya said, her tone shifting entirely. “Oh!” She exclaimed, her grin growing. “About damn time, Altman.”

Y/N flushed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah, well… it kind of just happened.”

“Please. You two have been dancing around each other for ages. I’m just glad you finally figured it out.” She raised an eyebrow and smirked. “So, does this mean there’ll be less arguing now?”

Y/N snorted, casting a sideways glance at Amelia before responding. “No promises,” She said, her words overlapping with Amelia’s, “We’ll try.” 

Maya rolled her eyes. “Just get her checked out, Shepherd. And Altman, you’re still not off the hook. Come find me after.”

[imaginechishiya]

Falling

Pairing: chishiya x reader (no pronouns mentioned)

Summary: when chishiya thought you had died during a game, he realises he does have feelings after all

Warnings: angst, fluff

Word count: 977

You hated Spades games. No matter how much you worked out at the gym at the Beach, they still physically drained you. This game was especially tricky and brutal. It was a six of Spades and many were killed instantly.

You weren't close to any of them. Not that it makes their deaths any less horrible. This world was merciless. But sometimes you wondered if that's just how the real world was as well. People just didn't notice it as much as they did here.

When the chaos unfolded during the game, you missed Chishiya a little. He wouldn't even have flinched at the explosions. He would have been as calm and as collected as ever, relying on his intellect.

It's what you learned to admire about him. It made him seem odd to others. But you knew most of it was a façade. He built high walls around him. No one would ever be able to break them down and see what's inside.

One late evening, when Chishiya and you accidentally bumped into each other on the rooftop, both of you avoiding the ongoing party downstairs, an unfolding deep conversation was all it took to chisel the smallest bit of a crack into one of those walls.

And ever since then, the rooftop meetings became more frequent. The conversations deeper. The words more meaningful. He wasn't one to show emotions. But the distance between the two of you slowly started to reduce. Mentally and physically.

A barely visible smile as he walked past you in the lobby when he was on his way to an executives' meeting. A small touch here and there when no one was around. His fingertips softly grazing your cheek, his thumb tracing your lip ever so slightly.

His actions spoke louder than words.

You smiled at the thought of him as you walked out of the almost collapsed building. You'd probably be meeting on the rooftop later tonight.

You walked around the corner, watching the cars of the Beach drive away. "Hey!" You shouted, sprinting after them and waving your hand. But they were already too far gone. "Great, now I have to walk to the Beach." You sighed.

Luckily, it was a warm and moonlit night. It took you about two hours to get back to the Beach.

The first thing you did was walk up to the roof, expecting Chishiya to sit in his usual spot. Sometimes, when he had not put the hood of his white jacket up, his hair was a little disheveled from the wind. If only he knew how truly beautiful he was.

To your surprise, Chishiya was not on the rooftop. You walked back down, scanning the rooms which were the least busy. He wouldn't be in any of the overcrowded party areas.

You spotted Kuina, playing with her fake cigarette while talking to some other people. "Hey, Kuina! Have you seen Chishiya?"

"Do you have to discuss something with him again? Privately?" Kuina grinned boldly. She didn't know about Chishiya and you. Which didn't mean she didn't suspect something.

You nodded. "Honestly, he seemed rather odd when I last saw him. Perhaps something has happened and they're in a meeting right now." She explained.

You thanked her and left for your room. You might just take a shower and go to bed early. The game tired you out anyway. And who knows how long that meeting would take.

You stopped right before your room. The door was slightly open which was weird. You always closed your door. You weren't able to lock it, Beach rules, but you never left it open. The room was dimly lit. A light, you guessed, came from the bedside lamp.

You knitted your brows as you opened the door further, stepping inside.

Chishiya sat at the edge of your bed, motionless, your light blue hoodie in his hands. He looked up immediately as he saw someone coming in. And for the first time, his face faltered, his eyes opened widely, looking at you as if he saw a ghost.

"They said you died. They said everyone who didn't come back with them has died during the game." His voice was so quiet, so ...broken.

You scoffed, "those fuckers left without me! They were already driving away when I wasn't even out of the building yet."

Chishiya jumped up, your hoodie falling to the floor. He was in front of you, breathing heavily. He hesitated to touch your face at first, his fingers trembling, but when he finally did, his breathing calmed down.

"Chishiya, I'm fine. I'm here." You barely finished your sentence before his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was passionate. He savoured the feeling of your soft lips against his. Lips he thought he would never be able to kiss again.

His hands were in your hair, pulling your head closer to him. "I thought you were dead." He repeated, leaning his forehead against yours.

"I promise you I'm okay." You said softly.

"I didn't know what to do. I couldn't even think. There was this dark mist in my head and everything became blurry. Like I was stuck in a nightmare, having nowhere to go." You were about to respond but he cut you right off, "don't you ever scare me like that again. You can't just come into my life and turn everything upside down. My life was perfectly safe, every risk calculated. But then you came and changed everything. I have never felt like this before and I'm scared. I cannot lose you."

You were completely taken aback, speechless. You would have never expected anything like that ever leaving Chishiya's mouth. You were surprised he was able to think like that. To feel like that.

And so was he. He never expected anything like this to happen. He never expected to fall in love.

[levandright]

hii!! hope you’re taking requests rn (if not, feel free to hs delete this ask) <3

what about idol!heesung x idol!leader!reader?? js some fluffy winding down content where they both relax for a day together after finishing up their leader duties 😔

A Pause In The Chaos

pairing : idol!heesung x idol!reader ୨ৎ content / warning(s) : fluff, est relationship ୨ৎ word count : 793 ・ archive

synopsis. after a long day of promotions, all you want is to rest with your beloved boyfriend. together, you escape into the quiet city night, finding peace beneath the stars and streetlights. lev notes : thank you for requesting <3 and oh my goshhh T-T this is so cute. hopefully i got your ask done well & you like it <3 finished this as soon as i could (pretty fast since i didn't have school when i wrote this)

being an idol was rough. you loved it, sure. but that didn’t make the job any less demanding, especially as the leader of your group.

after a long day promoting your newest comeback, all you wanted was to unwind, free from any thoughts of work. just as you settle in, your phone lights up with a message. seeing heesung’s name instantly lifts your spirits; he’s been just as busy, caught up with preparations for the romance: untold - daydream repackage, and it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him in person.

“y/nnie, are you free today?” his message reads.

you quickly reply, smiling at the screen.

“yes :) we just wrapped up for the day!”

a response comes almost immediately.

“perfect! we just finished too.” “you up to just hang out? no plans—let’s just do whatever we feel like.”

you smile, already feeling lighter.

“i’d love that.” “great! i’ll pick you up by the usual spot near your dorm ;)”

chuckling, you slip into comfortable clothes, pulling on a beanie and mask to stay low-key. in the living room, a few members lounge around chatting.

“y/n! heading out?” one of them asks, noticing you by the door.

“yeah, hanging with hee,” you nod, pulling on your shoes.

“be safe and have fun!” they call out, hoping your time together remains undisturbed by fans.

“will do,” you say with a grin, slipping out through the quieter exit.

as you approach a convenience store near your usual meeting spot, you catch sight of heesung’s familiar figure waiting for you. you break into a jog, grinning beneath your mask as you close the distance. noticing you, he chuckles and opens his arms wide, waiting.

you melt into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest.

“i missed you so much,” you whisper, nuzzling closer.

he strokes your hair softly, a gentle hum of agreement. “i missed you too.” tilting your face up, he pulls down his mask just enough to place a tender kiss on your forehead. for a moment, everything feels right, the world reduced to the warmth you both share in each other’s arms.

heesung’s arms linger around you, both of you savoring the embrace. when you finally pull apart, he gives you one of his trademark smiles, the kind that makes you feel as though the world outside has faded into soft blur. with your fingers laced together, the two of you start strolling down the quiet city streets.

as you walk, the weight of the day’s stresses begins to lift, and conversation flows easily. you laugh, sharing funny moments from promotions, and he listens, hanging onto every word as though he hasn’t seen you in years. he shares his own stories, recounting funny moments in his practice sessions and the odd ways his members keep each other awake during long nights.

eventually, you make your way to a park. the swings creak softly in the cold night air, empty and inviting, lit by nearby street lamps that bathes the area in a warm, golden glow. you both settle onto the swings, and you kick off the ground. letting yourself drift back and forth. heesung does the same, the swing creaking in sync with yours. you exchange glances, both smiling feeling like kids again.

you talk about how much you missed each other and share how demanding everything has been, yet neither of you ever really wanted to trade it for anything else. there’s a bond, a mutual understanding in your shared love for performing and your quiet wish for more time together.

after a while, heesung suddenly stands. “stay here. i’ll be back in just a second, okay?” you watch him walk away with curiosity, but you keep swinging, letting the cool night air wash over you.

moments later, he returns with two corndogs and your favorite drink. he holds them out, grinning. “fuel for us hardworking idols,” he jokes, and you laugh, taking one of the corndogs.

the two of you munch on the food, quietly content in each other's company. there's no need for words. you simply enjoy the simple, comforting act of just being together, with the occasional nudge of his shoulder against yours. after finishing the food, you look up at the stars. heesung follows your gaze, his hand reaching for yours again.

“it’s nice, isn’t it?” he murmurs, glancing at you as you gaze at the sky. you nod, leaning your head on his shoulder.

under the soft light of the stars and streetlamp, with heesung by your side, everything feels peaceful and right. you breathe deeply, closing your eyes for a moment, letting yourself truly rest. knowing that even in the chaos of your world, you have this pocket of quiet with him.

perm taglist.@honeybelleee @honeychocos @manaah02 @kozumesphone (open!) requests. open!

©levandright

[viridian-vidalia]

I was busy thinking about Conquest from Invincible and so now y'all get to hear about how he's one of the most tragic characters.

Conquest is the oldest living Viltrumite in the universe, he has been alive for at the bare minimum 5000 years. More likely, he has lived for 7-9 thousand years. He was likely alive for all of Argall's rule. He was alive to witness as Argall descended from benevolence to madness. He was alive when Thadeus was made the first betrayer, when the Empire collapsed. He was alive when the Civil War broke out, he was alive when Thragg took power, and he was alive for the Scourge Virus to eradicate 99% of their population. Conquest has been the personal attack dog of the Empire for 2000 years, and in that time he has gone mad.

Conquest is considered a monster even by modern Viltrumite standards. He might have been kind, once upon a time, in a millenia long past. But that is a forgotten time, the only one still alive to remember it, being Conquest himself. And even in the depths of bloodthirsty madness, Conquest still hates what he does. But even as much as he may hate it, none would dare disobey the Lord Regent, for he is the apex of Viltrum's children.

Imagine being Conquest, being there to witness first hand as your emperor goes mad, witness how the death brings chaos throughout the Empire. And ultimately to see your once great civilization be reduced to blood thirsty savage conquerors. And then, you are reduced to nothing but a weapon, used to do things that even the most violent of Viltrumites view as atrocities.

Conquest is old enough to have watched stars turn to supernovas, to bathe in the Cosmic dust of a light's carcass. And he has seen stars be birthed, spreading a newborn light within the universe. Conquest is a tragedy who's story will never be told, because the only one who can remember it, has gone mad with the burden of his existence.