#i have some ideas but not enough for all of them

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Familiar Strangers - Part Two

Pairing: The Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After an experiment goes wrong, you find yourself stuck with the Winter Soldier…and no idea how to get your husband back. You try to find a solution, to work through the problem you created, while the killing machine now living in your apartment watches your every movement with nothing short of adoration.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Violence, Steve has big brother vibes, Implied sex (no explicit smut, but things get pretty steamy so be warned), The Winter Soldier is lowkey kind of feral for you in this, Possessive!Winter Soldier, Angst, Fluffy ending, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: Finally, here's part two! I know it's been a bit of a wait, but it's nice and long, emotional, and fluffier than a newborn kitten at the end. I so appreciate all of the love the first part got! Thank you guys so much for enjoying it! As always, your comments and feedback warm the depths of my poor writer soul, so please keep them coming! I hope you guys love this one!

(This is a continuation of Familiar Strangers)

-

You wake to pure, lovely familiarity.

Strong arms wrapped around you, both flesh and metal warm and comfortable against your skin. Soft breath against your hair. Early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Bucky always wakes early. Even now, after so many years, his military training usually has him up and moving before sunrise. You, on the other hand, would happily spend all day in bed if you could.

Sometimes, if he’s feeling a little too antsy, he’ll slide out of bed with a kiss to your forehead and make you both breakfast. Other times, if he’s feeling a particularly different kind of antsy, you’ll wake to soft lips against your skin and calloused hands wandering over your body in a silent, hungry question. He still makes breakfast on those days - it just comes much later and your legs are still a little wobbly when you eat it.

When you wake this morning, one sleepy blink shows that the sun is just high enough in the sky that your alarm will be going off any minute. The idea of pulling yourself back to consciousness makes you groan, and you tuck yourself further into your husband’s embrace, chasing comfort and sleep.

Arms tighten around you, holding you closer. More tightly than usual, but not tight enough to cause any discomfort or alarm. Your sleep-addled brain takes this as an invitation to cuddle, and maybe even earn yourself a chance of him hitting the snooze button once or twice.

You wrap your arms around him with a sleepy sigh, sliding your leg between his and rolling on top of him in the way you know always makes him melt. He goes still, which is a little strange, but immediately relaxes and slides his flesh hand up your back in a soothing gesture that has you nearly drifting back to sleep. You hum in approval, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin of his chest and closing your eyes.

You feel more tired than usual this morning. You must have gone to bed late. Stayed up working on some sort of experiment-

Experiment.

Memories flood back to you like a dam breaking. Your eyes shoot open.

He feels you tense, and his hand stills on your back.

For a moment, one brief and horrible moment, you hope. You move to sit atop him, leg still between his and hands bracing against the pillow on either side of his head as you rip yourself back into consciousness and look into his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll look down and see Bucky.

You don’t.

The Winter Soldier gazes up at you. You gaze back down at him.

Fuck. You think.

“Hi.” You say instead, voice coming out awkward and hoarse with sleep.

“Hi.” He echoes, and you feel his fingers curl against you like he’s fighting the urge to pull you back to him. You almost let him, something about the look in his eyes making it difficult to think straight, but you shake it off.

You dislodge from him, rolling out of bed fast enough that he grunts with surprise, and try to smooth down your bedhead as you do your best to hide your disappointment.

“Breakfast?” Your voice is too high. Too light to be fully convincing.

He watches you in that incredibly observant way you still aren’t fully accustomed to, eyes never leaving yours but still seeming to account for every movement of your muscles, every twitch in your expression.

“Okay.”

-

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your vitals. The comparison might help me find something.” You explain absentmindedly, holding a little flashlight in front of his eyes and moving your finger back and forth. He follows the movement obediently, and so smoothly that it’s almost inhuman. You suppose it is, with his enhanced reflexes. You owe those reflexes quite a bit of gratitude, in fact. While Bucky moves with a practiced grace, he also tends to account for your own clumsiness, catching you before you even realize you’re about to trip or snatching an item out of the air a millisecond after you drop it. Such actions are often met with your surprise, and often followed by a cocky smile.

The Winter Soldier sits unnaturally still, leaning back against the couch cushions like a statue. You can’t even see the rise and fall of his chest. 

You pull the flashlight away to scribble in your notes, and his eyes remain fixed on you.

You try to ignore the featherlight touch of his gaze, fixed on you so intensely it feels like physical contact, as you press two fingers against his neck to check his pulse.

“It’s fast.” You observe, distracted.

“You’re close.” He answers, blunt, and you finally meet his gaze.

Something familiar and electric crackles in the air. You’ve been trying to ignore it. You really have. But as his cerulean eyes bore into your own, so much desire swimming in them that it makes your knees feel weak, you find that task to be increasingly more difficult.

Slowly, like you might bolt at any moment, his large hands come up to ghost over the backs of your thighs. Your breath catches in your throat at the feeling, but you don’t run.

Gently, but with a palpable restraint, he tugs you down into his lap, positioning your knees on either side of his hips without once breaking eye contact. You feel like you’ve been placed under some sort of spell. Like you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a warm hand trails up over your side, his eyes following the movement like he’s hypnotized by the goosebumps he leaves behind. By the shiver that falls down your spine. His body tenses beneath yours, restraint fraying ever so slightly as his metal hand tightens on your leg. He presses two calloused fingers to your own pulse point, though you’re sure he can already hear how your heart is jackhammering in your chest.

“It’s fast.” He says, and his voice is low. His eyes are dark.

You nod, and, like he’s testing the waters, he moves his fingers away from your pulse, sliding them into your hair, and leans in to replace them with his lips.

The contact makes your breath stop. Makes your entire body freeze. When you feel his teeth scrape gently against the sensitive skin of your jaw, that breath comes back to you in the form of a sharp gasp.

His metal hand moves, sliding underneath your shirt to feel the skin of your lower back, and he tugs you closer to him until your chest is flush with his. Until you can feel his heartbeat against your own.

His lips move lower, trailing slow, hungry kisses over your neck like he’s chasing any noise he can pull from your throat. Your hands come up to his shoulders, and you tell yourself that it’s to push him away, but your fingers curl in the front of his shirt as if of their own accord.

“Bucky.” You whisper, the name leaving you like a sigh and a plea all at once.

“Yes.” He says, voice a craving growl against your throat. “I can be Bucky. Let me be Bucky for you.”

The words make you pause, and he feels it. His arms lock around you like he’s planning to keep you in place forever.

“Don’t make me stop.” He says, voice a low rasp that you can feel vibrating in your very bones. You can’t tell if it’s a command or a plea. Can’t bring yourself to care. Without warning, he flips you so your back hits the cushions of the couch, crawling atop you with predatory intent as his hand slides down to the back of your knee, hiking your leg up around his waist.

The look in his eyes is fucking feral.

“I remember you.” The words are low, his tone an almost guttural whisper as his mouth moves down to your ear. His breath tickles the delicate skin in a way that makes you arch against him, and he presses his body more firmly against yours with a noise so hungry it nearly makes you choke. “I remember your smile. The foods you like, the things you don’t.” You can’t breathe. Can’t think. He continues, hand skating down your side to pull you closer to him as his teeth scrape along the shell of your ear and make you gasp. “I know what you sound like. What noises you can make.” That same hand slides over your leg once more, thumb tracing over a spot on your inner thigh and making your breath come even faster. “There’s a freckle here. I know that when I bite it, you make a sound that makes me lose my mind.”

Everything in you has short circuited. Every ounce of logic has drained from your mind. Your fingers scrape against his back, clawing at him through the fabric of his shirt.

“That’s the most you’ve said in twenty four hours.” You breathe, “Do you remember-“ he cuts you off with a sharp bite to your collarbone, and it feels almost impossible to force your mind to form the words. “A-Anything else?”

“No. Just you.”

“Promising.” You try to joke, but his hips move against yours and anything else you might have to say is cut off by the embarrassing noise that rips its way out of your throat.

“No matter who I am,” he murmurs, dark and possessive as he moves up to face you, to grip your chin and force you to look him in his eyes, “you’re still mine.”

And then he kisses you, and every thought you’ve ever had flies out the proverbial window.

It’s just as rough and demanding as before, all teeth and tongues and desperation. His hands are everywhere, from tangling in your hair to cradling your face to pulling at the button of your jeans. His metal fingers wrap around your wrists, pressing them to the arm of the couch above your head, holding you firmly in place, and he trails open-mouthed kisses down to your throat once again, this time with an intention that has you feeling like you’re going to explode. His free hand pushes your shirt up so he can move down to your stomach, eyes catching yours and looking almost black in the low light of the living room. Every press of his lips is a claim. Every jolt of your body is met with a starved noise, a grip so tight you think you might bruise - not that you could possibly care less - a nip to your flushed skin.

The knock at the door cuts through the air like a fucking bomb going off.

You shoot up, ripped back into reality so quickly it feels like whiplash.

The Winter Soldier’s hand, still wrapped around your wrists, pushes you back down, firmly enough that your head bounces against the cushions of the couch. “Leave it.” He growls, hooking your leg over his shoulder as he tries to continue his mission. His teeth scrape against your hip as his free hand begins to pull your pants down to expose more of your skin.

It’s too late. You’ve been pulled out of the moment and back to yourself. Back to reality.

“Stop.” You say, too quietly, too out of breath and not nearly convincingly enough. Another knock on the door. You bump your knee lightly against his head, dislodging him as you pull yourself back upright. “Stop.”

He hesitates, but he releases you, expression tortured as he does so. You scramble to button your pants, to pull your shirt down. He watches your movements like he’s two seconds away from halting them. From yanking you back to him and holding you down until he can finish what he started.

“Stay here.” You say as you rise to your feet, and, because you’re still so paranoid about accidentally ordering him, you turn back and add a quick “please.”

You duck around the hallway and move towards the door, trying to shake off the feeling of lust that still clings to you like a heady perfume. You can feel the flush in your cheeks. The memory of Bucky’s body weight pressed against yours. No, not Bucky. Though he certainly felt like Bucky. Remembered you in ways only Bucky can know you. If you were thinking straight, you would file that away as a variable to be figured out later. Mark in your mind that maybe The Winter Soldier is even more Bucky than you previously thought.

You knew it was Steve from the first knock. The guy has his own key, has since you moved in and could enter any time he wants, but you’re pretty sure he would still knock politely if the building was on fire.

When you tug the door open, still flushed and trying to dislodge the feeling of need still humming in your veins, you’re met with a different set of blue eyes. Steve, thankfully, doesn’t seem to understand the expression on your face. He already looks concerned, but that concern seems heightened by the look in your eyes. Your uneven breathing. Shit, you don’t even remember what you texted him. Something vague, you’re sure. Something along the lines of emergency. get here fast.

“Woah, hey.” He steps forward, eyes scanning the empty little hallway like something might be chasing you. He doesn’t look like a soldier. A captain. Not right now. Now, he looks like a worried friend.

To your horror, that look makes the guilt surge back through your body like a tidal wave. The helplessness of it all. The fear that you really might never be able to fully get Bucky back. And now, looking up at his best friend, it’s all amplified by the fact that you didn’t even take Bucky away from yourself, from himself, but from Steve, too.

“Oh my God.” You say the words out loud as they echo in your mind. When it was just you and the Winter Soldier, you could think about it like a problem to solve. Like something that might not be permanent. Like a mistake that could be fixed. With another person in the picture, the weight of it all is finally hitting you like a fucking truck. The tears come back, and you are sick and tired of crying, but they still sting as you try to back up and wipe them away. “Oh my God, Steve. I fucked up.”

His arms are suddenly around you. Warm and familiar and comforting because it’s Steve. Kind, understanding Steve who walked you down the aisle at your wedding and reminisces with your husband about Coney Island on your couch until you’re all laughing and teasing one another into the early hours of the morning.

“We’ll fix it.” He says, firm and confident even before he knows what the problem is. His arms wrap more tightly around you, and you crush your face into his shoulder and try to pull yourself together. “It’s okay. Where’s Bucky? We can-“

And then, faster than a bolt of lightning, he’s being ripped off of you and thrown against the wall.

The impact is hard enough to leave a pretty significant dent, and you realize very quickly that the sight of Steve holding you to him while you cried was probably not the best thing for the overly possessive and paranoid Winter Soldier to see.

“Shit!” The word leaves you in a choked shout, and you make it less than a foot into the living room before time seems to slow.

Recognition flashes through Steve’s eyes, and you’re helpless to do anything, to even open your mouth to try to explain, as he switches from comforting friend into Captain America.

You try. You really do. As he stands and begins to move towards you, you manage a panicked “Wait, Steve don’t-!” Before you’re being tackled to the ground, covered from the obvious threat of the Winter Soldier in your apartment.

It takes no time at all for him to be flung off of you and across the room again. This time, he crashes into the TV, his weight snapping the appliance in half and knocking the table it sits on back into the wall with an Earth-shattering noise before he’s bouncing back to his feet just in time to block an oncoming punch.

“Get down!” He shouts to you as you scramble to your feet.

You don’t think. You just move. It might be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, but you don’t have a ton of time to weigh the pros and cons.

You sprint, throw yourself forward, and jump onto the Winter Soldier’s back like some kind of feral spider monkey.

The next movements knock the breath out of you. He tenses up, backs away and spins around. You’re dislodged from him in one smooth and practiced movement, and he catches you before you can fall to the ground, caging you against the nearest wall like he’s going to block a blow coming your way. At no point are you even close to injured, but the swiftness of it all makes your head spin.

Steve shouts something, moving forward once again to presumably get you to safety before your neck is snapped. You ignore him, focusing entirely on Buck- the Winter Soldier.

“Stop!” You shout, to both of them. Something in your voice makes Steve pause, less than a foot away and still prepared to rip the other man off of you. The Winter Soldier is as still as ice, breath heavy but focused as his metal fist crushes into the wall behind your head.

Your hands move up to his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are dark. Angry.

“Look at me. Please, look at me.” He does. He meets your gaze with all of the fire in his own. It doesn’t burn out. If anything, it burns brighter. You keep pleading. “Stop, okay? Stop.”

He doesn’t calm, doesn’t relax, but he stops.

The silence settles over the apartment like a heavy blanket, tension crackling through the air. Your hands don’t leave your husband’s face, thumb brushing over the stubble on his cheek even as you try to collect your thoughts.

“Shit,” you say, looking over the Winter Soldier’s shoulder to the man behind him. “Did I just command him?” Panic begins to rise in your throat at the idea, and Bucky - not Bucky - shifts to crowd you into the wall a little more, like he’s trying to block Steve’s view of you.

“No.” He says, answering you simply in that low, rough voice, and you relax a little.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, observant eyes scanning the apartment. He takes in the state of Bucky, the scribbled notes littering the counter, and you sense understanding dawn on him like a wave.

You meet his gaze over the other soldier’s shoulder. See the emotions in his eyes. There’s no anger, but there is sadness. Worry. The silent conversation lasts for only a moment before you feel the body against yours move a little closer, protective and possessive.

“Let me go, please.” You say, returning your eyes to his and brushing your thumb over his cheek once more. A soft and reassuring touch.

He hesitates, like he’s planning to keep you locked against the wall until Steve leaves the apartment, but he steps back. Even then, he stands between you, body tense and eyes scanning over you like he’s prepared to bring the entire building down around him to keep you safe.

Your own gaze moves to the dent in the wall, the smashed TV on the opposite end of the room. “Fucking supersoldiers.” You growl, running a frustrated hand through your hair. “I knew we’d never get our security deposit back the day we moved in. It was either gonna be you two or another alien attack or something equally-“

“What’s going on?” Steve asks again, concern and impatience seeping into his tone.

You look from the damage to your friend, and finally back to your husband, a heavy breath finally leaving your lungs, and you explain.

-

“And Bucky agreed to it, because he loves and trusts me and completely believed me when I said I thought it would work. Which, clearly,” you gesture to the Winter Soldier, still leaning against the wall behind you and watching every one of your movements, “makes him an idiot.” You turn at that, offering an apologetic look, and add a quick, “no offense.”

He frowns. Furrows his brow, and mumbles something that sounds a lot like “offense.”

“Okay, well-“ Steve starts to say from his spot against the opposite wall.

“But-“ you interrupt him, still pacing, still wired with the millions of thoughts flying through your mind. “You’ve gotten him out of this before. You know how.” You turn, and from the look on his face there must be some sort of unhinged hope in your eyes. “So, do it. Break him out of this.”

“I don’t-“

You interrupt him again, holding up a hand. “And don’t give me any of that ‘I can’t make any promises, we’ll find a way with the power of friendship and muscles’ crap, okay?” Your voice is starting to shake. You’re looking into Steve’s eyes with a desperation you haven’t felt before. He’s your last hope. You failed. You lost Bucky. But Steve has brought him back twice and you aren’t prepared to take no for an answer.

“Hey, stop. Breathe.” Steve says, firm hands catching you by the shoulders and stopping your pacing. You meet his eyes, take in the brotherly comfort on his face, and begin to relax. That is, until a sound from behind you makes you turn.

“Oh my God, calm down.” You groan. The Winter Soldier is staring directly at Steve. At his hands on you. “It’s Steve. It’s not like he’s about to take me on the kitchen counter.”

The captain’s face turns very red, eyes filling with horror at your words. Sometimes you forget how much of a goody-two-shoes he is.

The other soldier in the room, however, hardens his gaze even more, looking about a second away from punching a hole through the wall. Or Steve.

“Okay, poor choice of words.” You admit, fighting back a cringe and stepping away. You look between the two men again, shoulders deflating, and offer one last pleading look to Steve.

“Bring him back.” You say, once last time, and you watch him steel himself. Watch him prepare to try.

He clears his throat, looking over to Bucky. “What do you remember?”

The other soldier’s eyes drift to you, and you nearly choke on air as memories of his words earlier echo through your mind.

“You uh… you might not want to ask him that.” If your comment a moment ago embarrassed him, you’re pretty sure whatever is about to come out of the other man’s mouth will make him faint like a little old lady.

Steve looks confused, brow furrowing as he looks back to you. It’s when he turns to the Winter Soldier, whose darkened gaze is still fixed on you, that he seems to understand your meaning.

“Well, that’s uh… at least something.” He says awkwardly, clearing his throat and seemingly deciding to move on from that particular line of questioning.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He finally says, clear and sure, and even the comfort in his tone can’t make you relax all the way. “We’ll figure this out. We just need time.”

Time. You don’t want time. You want results. You want this fixed, now. You want to go back in time and undo everything you’ve done. You want to apologize to Bucky, to feel him hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay.

When Steve leaves the apartment, he stops you at the door. Reaches out like he’s going to comfort you again, glances over your shoulder at your newly-appointed guard dog, and stops himself.

“He’s still Bucky.” He says, and you go still.

“I-“

“He’s still Bucky.” He repeats, firmly, and this time you need to lock your knees to keep your legs from wobbling. You didn’t know how badly you needed to hear that. To have it confirmed. “He’s not someone else. He’s just Bucky. A different version of him, but not a different person.”

You’ve known. You’ve felt it. You can see it in his eyes. In the way he touches you. In the way he’s trying.

And you love him. You love him because he’s still Bucky. Because, despite spending so long thinking of The Winter Soldier as an entirely different person, the last twenty four hours have shown you that he’s still the man you fell in love with. Different, yes. He doesn’t remember a lot about who he is. He doesn’t hold you with the same restraint. But he’s still Bucky. His mannerisms are the same. His eyes are the same. The raw, unapologetic way he loves you is still the same.

“Thank you.” You say, like an exhale. Like a sigh of relief. And Steve just nods, dares to give you a comforting, brotherly squeeze, and leaves, closing the door behind him like he didn’t just lift a crushing weight from your shoulders.

-

Despite your talk, despite the confirmation that your husband is still there, you find yourself gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to turn your knuckles white.

They’re one in the same, sure. The man standing beside you like a statue is still Bucky, but he doesn’t have his memories. At least, not all of them. He’s still the Winter Soldier. There is still a problem here, one that you created and have to fix.

A metal hand brushes your arm. A silent question.

You rip yourself away, moving over to your scattered notes and trying to anchor yourself back to the present. Trying to look over your own scribbled handwriting and find out what you could possibly have gotten wrong in your original calculations. How to fix it.

“You’re upset.”

A startled, humorless laugh breaks free, and you finally turn to him. He’s standing there, still and observant and quiet and you want to fucking scream.

He speaks again, voice too level when all you want to do is give in to the tension tightening every muscle in your body. You need to do something. Hit something or grab something or rip something apart with your bare hands just to make all of this-

“Stop that.”

You don’t know what he means. If he wants you to stop scanning through your notes. If he wants you to stop gritting your teeth and refusing to speak to him. If he wants you to stop trembling with emotions you can’t seem to contain.

“Don’t.” You finally manage, and you’re not reading the page anymore. You’re just holding it. Too tightly. Crinkling the edges with your fingers.

“Tell me what you want.” It’s the words beneath the sentence, the silent promise of ‘I’ll do it, I’ll do anything’, that break you.

“Give me Bucky back.” Just be you again. Help me fix this before the guilt swallows me whole.

“I don’t know how.”

And oh, there it is. There it all is. The pain. The fear. The heartbreak. It explodes out of you like a fucking supernova.

“Then figure it out.” You snap, and the page you’re holding connects with the counter with a smack that rings through the apartment. You face him, unable to contain your frustration with your own mistake as you shove at his chest. “What do you want? Do you want me to command it?”

He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t fight. He’s still just looking at you with that familiar sort of devotion in his eyes, and it hurts so badly that it just makes you angrier.

“It won’t work.” He says, and you know that. You know, but you don’t want to hear it.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that!” You shove him again. He lets you. Even with the force behind the shove, he still doesn’t move. “I took your freedom away, Buck! You trusted me, and I broke it. You don’t even remember-“

“I remember you.” He interrupts, like that fact is the only thing that’s ever been important, and you want to scream.

“That doesn’t matter!” You try to shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that there is no way you’ll be able to break his hold.

“It’s all that matters.”

Those words stop you. Freeze you. He doesn’t say them like a comfort. Like a promise. It’s not even meant to be romantic. It’s just a fact.

You can see it in his eyes. Feel it in his skin where it touches yours. He’s not the same. He doesn’t remember. But he knows you. Every part of him that is still Bucky, and even the parts that aren’t, know you.

You stare at him. He stares back at you. And, for some reason, you can feel every beat of your racing heart repeating two words that haven’t felt entirely true until now.

Still Bucky. Still Bucky. Still Bucky.

And suddenly you’re surging forward, slamming your lips against his so hard your teeth knock together.

His hands immediately release yours, arms wrapping around your waist and yanking you close enough that there’s no room left to breathe. You don’t care. Couldn’t care if you tried.

He isn’t gentle. He doesn’t hold himself back. His hands move down to grip the backs of your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll bruise, lifting you against him and guiding your legs around his waist as he backs you into the wall without removing his lips from your own for a second. You tug hard on his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as you try to pull him impossibly closer to you, and his metal arm dents the wall behind your head as his tongue slides into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you. The noise he makes is guttural and craving, and it shoots down your spine like a bolt of lightning.

You nearly tear his shirt in your desperation to get it off of him, to feel his skin against yours, and he doesn’t loosen his grip on you as he reaches behind him to tug it over his head, throwing it mindlessly somewhere nearby and diving back in to kiss you again like even the brief loss of contact caused him physical pain.

You’re too caught up in your own need, in the sounds he makes as your nails drag over the skin of his back and the fire that burns through your veins as his mouth moves over your neck, to even register where you are, that you’ve even moved, before you feel yourself being lowered onto the mattress in your room with a surprising amount of gentleness.

There’s a moment, when he crawls over you and looks down with those darkened eyes, that you finally feel a hint of restraint beneath his heated skin. His flesh hand comes up to your face, thumb dragging over your kiss-swollen lips as he looks down at you in a silent question. He’s nearly shaking. You can feel the tension in every muscle of his large body, and the fact that he stopped himself to check on you, despite how it seems to be nearly ripping him apart, makes your heart stutter in your chest.

Still Bucky.

You don’t speak. Can’t find the words. You just nod, a silent answer, reaching up and pulling him back down to you.

His mouth crushes against yours, stealing any remaining breath from your lungs. His hands move down to slide up your body with a reverence that makes you melt and burn at the same time, and he lowers his body down onto yours like the contact is the only thing in the world that has ever mattered. He tangles his fingers in your hair, and the heat and strange familiarity of it all consumes you like a living flame.

“Still mine.” You hear him say, almost to himself, so quiet that the words are nearly swallowed by the kiss.

And you are.

-

Hours later, as the dying light of day paints the room in hues of deep orange and yellow, you break the peaceful silence with a sleepy noise.

“We need a new TV.” You murmur, fighting against the bone-deep exhaustion weighing every one of your limbs down, and you feel him hum against the skin of your shoulder, still pressing gentle kisses over the marks he’s left.

“And a new headboard.” You add, and this time you swear you can feel a proud little smile, his hands tightening on you ever-so-slightly as he nips gently, almost playfully, at your collarbone.

He hums again, the sound vibrating through you, and rolls on top of you in a tangle of sheets and limbs. You’re still frowning at the splintered wood above your head, at the new tilt to the bed, when his hand moves up to catch your chin and turn your head so he can kiss you again.

“You need to sleep.” He says, lips barely leaving yours as he speaks, though the way his flesh hand slides up your body and settles into your hair suggests other ideas.

“Then let me.”

“Later.” He presses closer, and you don’t hold back your smile as he angles your head to deepen the kiss.

-

Eventually, tucked into his chest and feeling his warm hand slide soothingly over your back, you do finally drift off. There is still a part of you that’s terrified you’ll never fully and truly get Bucky back, but now things feel a little more…hopeful. It doesn’t feel like a distant goal anymore. It’s more of an inevitability than a possibility.

Before you fall asleep, you murmur into his shoulder. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…” and then, like last night, you tell him facts about himself. Who he is. Where he came from.

You feel him tense against you, just slightly, like he’s trying to focus on what you’re saying. Like he’s trying as hard as he can to force your words to unlock whatever gate is keeping all of those memories hidden away in his mind.

When you finish, you pull back, look into his eyes.

“Anything?”

He shakes his head, presses his lips to yours in a silent apology.

“That’s okay.” You say, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on your face. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

And you do.

And the next night.

And the next.

As it becomes routine, the hope you felt begins to sour into something dangerously close to terror. You push it down. Shove it away and refuse to let it cripple you.

And you keep trying. You both do.

-

When it happens, it happens out of nowhere. There’s no fanfare. No magical, Disney-like transition where he comes back to himself in a ball of fairy lights. Steve doesn’t even show up with a syringe to plunge into his neck.

You’re doing your best to chop vegetables in the kitchen, eyes focused on the recipe in front of you. Bucky usually does the cooking - you have a tendency to burn things - but you’ve ordered so much takeout this past week that you insisted on making dinner tonight.

The sting of the knife slicing your finger makes you jump.

You curse, a hiss of pain escaping from between your teeth as blood wells around the small cut. You grab a dish towel, wrap it around your finger, and-

“Shit, doll. You okay?”

Hands are wrapping gently around your wrists, pulling the towel off of your hand so he can get a better look at the injury.

You let him, relaxing against the firm grip of a soldier inspecting your wound with a familiar, careful precision. It’s not deep. Not bad at all. The bleeding should stop at any moment.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I just-“

You stop. You freeze.

“What did you just call me?” You look up, but his eyes are still fixed on your finger, dark brows drawn together as he dabs at the remaining blood with the towel and starts to mumble something about stitches that you already know you won’t need. At any other time, you would call him overprotective. Now, you can’t think straight with the dangerous hope that’s beginning to swell in your heart to the point of overflowing.

You can see the change in his movement. Hear it in the Brooklyn accent that always comes out when he’s concerned or annoyed or even turned on. You know this man like the back of your hand, and yet you still have trouble believing that he’s actually back. It’s all happened so quickly. After so much time, so much helplessness There’s no way it can be true.

You speak again, chest constricting in a way that makes it difficult to draw breath. 

“Bucky?”

Something about the volume of your voice, the desperation in it, makes him look up to meet your eyes.

“Yeah? What’s - woah, what’s that look for?” His metal hand comes up to cradle your cheek, blue eyes worried and soft and so agonizingly familiar. You can’t imagine what your face must look like, but you know your expression is definitely freaking him out. “You’re scarin’ me, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

You don’t. Your hands fly to his face, smearing a drop of blood on his cheek as you look into his eyes. Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky’s eyes.

“Bucky. Oh my God, Bucky.”

You don’t know where to touch. What to hold. How to cling to him hard enough to keep him from leaving you again. Enough to convince yourself that this is real.

He’s so focused on comforting you that it takes him a few moments to even realize why he’s doing it. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close to anchor you to him. He speaks into your hair, soft and loving and achingly familiar.

“Hey, hey.” A metal hand smooths over the back of your head as his flesh one slides over your back. Comforting. Familiar. “I’m here, doll. You’re okay. Tell me what’s…”

And then, he realizes.

He stops breathing.

He suddenly crushes you to him like you might vanish at any moment. Like he might.

Bucky is never anything but gentle with you, but he pulls back to look at your face so quickly that it makes the small of your back bump hard against the counter. You can feel restraint in every tense muscle of his body as his hands begin to move over you almost frantically, checking you for any potential hidden injuries.

“Are you okay?” He asks, panic lacing his voice as his hands come up to your cheeks. “Baby, look at me. Are you okay? Did I-“

You stop him, grab his wrists, shake your head. “No. No, you didn’t hurt me. Not at all. I’m okay.”

“I don’t remember.” He sounds so apologetic and terrified that you start crying, a mixture of guilt and relief spilling from your eyes as his hands move to pull you back to him like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. “I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces.”

“I’ll tell you. You’ll remember.” He always has before. And if he doesn’t, you’ll make sure he does. You’ll move heaven and earth with gratitude that he’s completely himself once again. “Fuck, Bucky I’m so sorry I was so stupid I should have-“

He interrupts you with a kiss, hand cradling the back of your head and smoothing lovingly over your hair. It’s not the feral, desperate collision of mouths and bodies like the Winter Soldier kissed you. It’s firm, grounding, while still so gentle that it makes your knees weak. So wonderfully and perfectly Bucky.

You try to speak again, try to apologize against his lips, but he pulls back just enough to shake his head.

“It’s okay.” He says, pressing his forehead against yours. Kissing your nose. Kissing your cheeks. “It’s okay. I’m here. We’re okay.”

It takes a minute. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe many more. You lose track of time as his hands move over you like he’s reacquainting himself with the feeling of your body against his own. As your own hands grip him like he might vanish from your grasp.

You’re still smiling with relief, and he’s still pressing loving kisses to your tear-stained cheeks when you finally speak again. “What do you remember?”

“Need to apologize to Steve.” He says, nose skating over your jawline as he lifts you onto the kitchen counter, like the new position will help him find even more contact between your bodies. “Need to buy a new TV.” His lips find yours again, and you feel him grin against your mouth as he tugs you closer to him, cocky and seeming a little too proud of himself as he adds “and a new headboard.”

Despite everything, you feel a blush rise to your cheeks. You swat at his chest, and his smile grows, but he doesn’t break the kiss.

You melt into it, and soon you’re both laughing and holding each other and there is so much love and relief and joy in the room that you feel light-headed.

And then the smoke alarm goes off.

Your eyes fly open, focusing on the overflowing, smoking pot on the stove. Bucky laughs - really, completely laughs - and releases you to move across the kitchen and turn the stove off. The smoke alarm continues to blare, but he’s too busy pulling you back to him and kissing you again to seem in any way concerned by your now-ruined dinner.

“Can’t believe I let you cook.” He mumbles, but he’s still smiling.

You are too. You can’t help it. “Shut up, Barnes.”

“Make me.” The playful challenge has you wrapping your arms around his neck. Your legs around his waist.

And you do.

-

Previous

-

Taglist: @generationallyfluid, @aizameow, @azrielsmate3, @intothesoul, @warrior-of-symbolica, @topaz125, @supersoftspidey, @atari-fucking-murdered-nintendo, @captain-shannon-becker, @shuevanny, @comeoninguys, @living-force, @spookysins, @ana27qz, @jenojen127

[demigodwithoutthegodpart]

This is one of the reasons I love my job. I know the ins and outs of it and I've gotten it down to a science. I'm a closer at a cafe, and I'm probably the best one our store has (not to brag). I learned how to close when we were running skeleton crew and didn't have a second to spare during the morning rush which made me keep an eye out for any and every detail. When anyone asks, I say I close like I'm preparing for the apocalypse because it means one of 2 things: We were prepared or less work for tomorrow.

I've been told I know how to pace a close regardless of what time we close at. What I actually know is what I can get done early, and I can anticipate what will need to be done before we all leave for the day. I can look at a drink base and know we will need another 2 gallons at the end of the night. Boom, one less task. I can stock things that are sorta low so that they are good by the time we close up. I can make extra containers of things that will last a week because I know we will use it.

I can also anticipate what will need to be done during future shifts. On a Thursday, I'll make enough cream cheese cups to get us until Sunday because we will have the most time to make them Sunday. I make blended-drink base based on the temperatures throughout the week and based on which day will be best for making more. I'll make backup bins of toppings when one runs out but I wont open the bag so the next person doesn't have to get a new bin. I stock milk better than the grocery store because nobody wants to run out of 2% while in the middle of a Friday morning rush.

When I taught people how to pull product to thaw, they asked me how much of each thing to pull. I'd rattle some numbers off the top of my head and write them down. They would ask me how I know that. I'm not sure entirely how; the numbers sort of just come to me. But, by keeping an eye on what we have and whats selling, I can get a rough idea of whats going and how much we will need to replenish it.

I've been at this job on and off for 5 years now. What I first learned isn't a part of my job anymore as the place has changed and I've moved locations. But, similar to @weaselle above, I had to learn to manage a machine with specific time constraints which gave me a very important set of skills I took with me as I took on other positions.

We had an egg machine that made 6 egg patties at a time. It took 2 minutes if it had been idle for a while and 2 minutes 30 seconds if egg batches were done back to back. Eggs could be prepped ahead of time, but they were only good for 30 minutes. We were a drive thru with the expectation that you get everything out in under 3 minutes. Time Was Everything. One had to learn to balance eggs on hand and eggs in the process of cooking with ebbs and flows of cars in the drive thru. Keeping your eggs stash stocked during the morning rush was a must, you didn't want to fall behind. You had to time egg-making with drink-only orders and you had to put together the middle of the sandwich while the bread was toasting. But, you wanted to make sure you didn't overstock and have eggs go to waste later on.

I learned to watch the driver thru order taker and which buttons they pressed. Id be over at the bagel wall by the time the order popped up on my screen when I saw them hit one of the buttons. My goal was to get everything out before the car even pulled up to the window so that I wouldn't slow anything down. I obtained the super useless skill of being able to put cream cheese on a bagel really fast without any coming out of the hole in the middle.

A lot of times I get asked if I get bored of closing; most people at my store hate closing and can't understand why I haven't gone insane doing the same thing 5 days a week for the past year. I'm passionate about the little details and I like setting people up for success. There comes a lot of joy in figuring out that if I stack the dishes in a certain way then they won't slide out and fall on my head. There's joy in coming in and hearing my mid-shift manager thanking me for refilling a certain powder because it was low and I *knew* that they were going to run out during that morning's rush. For me there's joy in the little things, the small details, and the seemingly unimportant.

Anyway, I think I got a little lost in the sauce while writing is but point is I love my job. If it paid a living wage, I might stay here forever. I love knowing every little detail like how to submit a ticket when food has gone off, how to fix the espresso machines when they get stuck, or where my boss hid that one box of product we need. My coworkers come to me when they have questions because they know I will have an answer whether it's stashed in my brain or not, and I hope to continue being a beacon of learning for them for many years to come.

[kissandtellus]

Insecure MC with the LADS LI’s

Synopsis: When you feel less-than perfect, you have the love and your life to build you up again.

Warnings: Mentions of weight gain/loss, possible triggering talks of insecurities, self-hate, but they all end fluffy I promise!

・❥・ Xavier

Xavier never understood how you could hate yourself. To him, you were his earth, sun and stars. Whenever you smiled, his heart would flutter. He felt awful that he couldn't show you his appreciation more often.

He had came home after a long day at work and found you staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You sighed sadly and pinched the flesh around your hips.

"Y/n...." Xavier whispered your name. You felt tears form in the corners of your eyes. You found yourself so hard to look at sometimes, you couldn't stand to look at yourself. Xavier knew this all too well. He made you turn towards the mirror and lifted your chin with his fingers.

"Look at that beautiful woman in the mirror. Everything about her is perfect just the way it is."

・❥・Rafayel

Raf would hate the way you would frown when you saw your reflection in the mirror. Or how when you saw a pretty girl, you'd tense up and avoid eye contact at all cost.

Rafayel wanted you to feel like the most beautiful girl in the world and stop being so harsh on yourself.

You couldn’t look at yourself in Rafayel’s drawings. Because he was such a great artist he caught every flaw that made you self-conscious. But to him, those were the best parts of your body.

Rafayel found you looking at a fashion magazine from his coffee table in great detail. He saw the way your eyes would water when seeing a super beautiful model. He'd gently close the magazine and cup your face in his hands.

"You are absolutely beautiful the way you are. Don't let anything tell you otherwise."

・❥・Zayne

Zayne could see you retracting back into you shell. You had came so far, too far to fall back now. You found yourself disgusting, from the way your eyes would squint when you laughed, to how your favorite shirt fit you. You often felt bad for Zayne, considering how often he worked out and cared for his body. But whenever Zayne saw you, he saw the most wonderful human being to ever exist.

You and you were having a lazy day with your cat Mittens curled up in Zayne’s lap, laying back and watching some T.V. He saw you turn the front camera of your phone on and immediately lock your screen a second later. You had gotten a glimpse of a bad angle, which Zayne was certain there never was of you, and felt a knot form in your stomach.

"Here Honey, why don't we take a selfie together? I don't nearly have enough of my beautiful girlfriend."

・❥・ Caleb

You'd never had much self-confidence, even when you were a teen. You'd compare yourself to impossible beauty standards and then become upset when you couldn't reach them. Caleb on the other hand, thought that you WERE the beauty standard.

Tonight was date night with Caleb. You zipped up the small slit in your dress and turned to the mirror. You felt your stomach roll at the sight. Caleb came in to see you trying to tear off the fabric, frustrated tears swelling in your eyes.

It was a dress Caleb had specially picked out for you. It was a gorgeous sleek black silk material that he just knew would look perfect on you.

"Hey, hey!" Caleb grabbed your arms and pressed various kisses to your face. "You look beautiful Y/n. Look at how sexy you are." You forced your eyes to look at the reflection staring back at you. Caleb smiled once you stopped trying to take the dress off. "I want to show you off. I like the idea of the dress off, but for a totally different reason."

・❥・ Sylus

Sylus watched you closely whenever a girl walked by. You'd raise your shoulders and drop your head. In your mind, everyone was better than you. Even in pictures, you'd refuse to smile because you despised the way your teeth looked. Even though your smile was one of Sylus’ favorite things about you. The way your cheeks would dimple and the small giggle that followed.

It was even worse dating someone like Sylus. Sylus was perfect from head to toe just like he was supposed to be. He finally realized how bad your state of mind was when he found you sobbing in the bathroom one morning.

"It's alright, Kitten." He kneeled down to your level and saw the bottle of weight-loss pills at your feet. Luckily you hadn't taken any, your gut overpowering your mind. "You don't need these Y/n. You are the light of my life and you should never change for anybody else.”

He took you in his arms, stroking your hair. “If you truly wish to lose weight, we can find healthy alternatives. But just know, I will have a hundred statues built in your image one day. Just the way you are.”

[theodorenmyth]

Hiiii!! I’ve been reading a lot of your work and I love all of it😩😩 the writing is just so immaculate! I know you’re planning to start writing again I wanted to ask hopefully in the future you could write one abt any of the slytherin boys (your choice) and the little things that they try to do to get reader into saying yes to be their Yule ball date! And maybe becoming even more after🤭 I hope that you’re doing great and I can’t wait to see the future works that you create!!

Took You Long Enough.

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

Summary ; Theodore Nott is determined to ask you to the Yule Ball—but subtle hints, awkward near-confessions, and endless sabotage from his chaotic Slytherin friends turn it into a full-blown disaster. You, curled up in his stolen sweater and completely oblivious, might just be the one thing holding him together… or pushing him over the edge.

A/N ; TYTYTY FOR REQUESTING THIS CUTE LIL IDEA! <3 i really appreciate it. Pleaseee enjoy!

Warnings ; nothing, just PUREEEE fluff and sillyness, and a lil bit of drarry

Word count ; 4.3k

Theodore Nott doesn’t ask people to the Yule Ball.

He doesn’t do asking, in general. He glowers, he broods, he appears silently beside you like a gothic cat in the night and makes dry remarks about the state of your homework or the Gryffindor table’s poor taste in jam.

He doesn’t pursue people.

He prefers if people come to him—quietly, hopefully, and preferably while he’s pretending not to notice them. That’s the arrangement. That’s what he’s used to. It works.

Until you, of course.

You, who somehow slip through the cracks of his calm. Who can talk to portraits like they’re old friends. Who keep forgetting your tie, and lose your quills, and always have ink on your fingers. You who are bright, too bright, and never quite where he expects you to be, and always where he doesn’t realize he’s hoping you are.

He’s ruined.

But even then—especially then—Theodore Nott does not ask people to the Yule Ball.

Which is why he’s sitting across from you in the library, glaring at the blank roll of parchment in front of him like it murdered his ancestors. His jaw is tight, quill clenched in his fist, and his eyes flick up to you every twenty seconds like clockwork.

You, completely oblivious, are humming under your breath as you scribble something in the margin of your Transfiguration book. Your hair keeps falling into your eyes. He wants to tuck it behind your ear and then maybe die from the shame of doing something so cliché.

He’s thinking about that—very inappropriately and not at all helpfully—when Draco Malfoy flops gracelessly into the seat beside him.

Theodore jerks slightly and hunches over his parchment like he’s hiding state secrets.

Draco snorts. “You are so obvious.”

“Am not,” Theodore mutters.

“You’ve written ‘ask them’ and then scribbled it out five times.”

Theodore grits his teeth. “That’s not what I was writing.”

Draco leans in. “It looked like ‘ask them to the—’”

“I said shut up.”

Across the table, you look up from your book, blinking innocently. “Are you two whispering about me again?”

Draco smiles, unbothered. “Absolutely.”

Theodore stiffens.

You squint. “You’re both terrible at whispering.”

“Noted,” Theodore says, voice tighter than his collar.

Draco, far too amused, props his chin in his hand and watches the two of you like it’s theatre. “You’re really not going to ask them?”

“I’m getting there,” Theodore hisses under his breath.

Draco raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’ve got, what, three days left? They’re going to get snatched up by some Hufflepuff with emotional availability.”

“Can you not.”

“Just ask them, Nott. You’re brooding. They like brooding. You’re weird. They like weird. This isn’t complex.”

Theodore stares hard at a nearby bookshelf. “You ask them, then.”

“I would, but Harry might finally strangle me in my sleep.”

“You’d like that.”

“I would.”

You, somehow still not looking up, flip a page and mutter, “You two do realize I’m right here, yes?”

Draco doesn’t blink. “Of course.”

Theodore considers disappearing under the table. Instead, he mutters something about needing to study and tries to focus on the ink bleeding across his notes.

You glance at him, eyes flicking over his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw. “You okay?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

You lean a little closer. “You sure? You’re gripping your quill like it owes you money.”

Theodore, mortified, releases it instantly and clears his throat.

“Studying,” he says shortly.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than comfortable. “All right then.”

And you go back to your book, your foot swinging idly under the table, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just knocked the breath out of him with a single look.

Draco kicks him under the table.

Later that night in the Slytherin Common Room . .

Mattheo Riddle is sprawled across the emerald green Slytherin common room sofa like he’s auditioning for the cover of Tragic Witches Weekly, one arm draped over his eyes dramatically, the other lazily twirling a Sugar Quill between his fingers. His boots are muddy and kicked off at odd angles, and his half-finished Transfiguration essay flutters sadly beside him as if it too has given up on life.

The fire crackles in the hearth. The lamps are dimmed to a moody golden hue. The vibe is somewhere between a séance and a group therapy session with no actual healing involved.

Mattheo removes the quill from his mouth and props himself up with the enthusiasm of a dying man. “So,” he drawls, eyes glinting with unholy delight. “How’s the ‘Operation Ball Date’ going?”

Theodore slumps into the armchair across from him, every inch of his posture screaming defeat. He looks like he’s aged ten years in three days.

“Don’t start,” Theodore mutters, rubbing his temples like it might erase the memory of every failed attempt.

Pansy, perched like a cat on the armrest beside Mattheo, raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You opened your mouth, forgot how to function, and they walked away wondering if you were cursed.”

“I was close this morning,” Theodore hisses, glaring at the rug like it’s at fault. “I was right there. I was mid-sentence—mid-sentence, Pansy—when the Gryffindor table exploded. Literally. Exploded.”

────────────────

Flashback – That Morning, Great Hall

Theodore had rehearsed it.

Twelve times in his dorm. Five times in the mirror. Once in the corridor—where a first-year saw him muttering to himself and ran.

He spotted you at the far end of the table, hunched over a plate of toast with your head in your hand, eyes still bleary from sleep. You looked vaguely annoyed at the jam as though it had committed a personal offense. Your hair was slightly out of place. Your jumper sleeves were too long.

You looked perfect.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, striding toward you with all the confidence of a man walking to his own execution. “You just say it. Just say it. ‘Do you want to go to the ball with me?’ That’s all. That’s—”

You looked up.

Theodore froze. Then sat beside you and cleared his throat. “Hi.”

You blinked. “You look… tense.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re holding your goblet like it’s trying to escape.”

He placed the goblet down. Too hard. It clinked against the table. “Do you want—”

BOOM.

An eruption of red and gold sparks blasted from the Gryffindor table like a cannon. Plates flipped. Porridge flew. A stack of toast caught fire. A Slytherin screamed.

“MERLIN’S—”

“FRED!”

“GEORGE!”

“I SWEAR TO GODRIC—”

Professor McGonagall sprang to her feet, wand drawn, steam practically pouring from her ears as she bolted toward the cackling twins already making a run for the exit.

Chaos.

Absolute.

FUCKING.

Chaos.

You turned to Theodore, wide-eyed. “What were you saying?”

He stared at the smoking wreckage of the Gryffindor table.

“…Never mind.”

────────────────

Present Time . . .

Mattheo snorts. “Fred and George?”

“Who else?” Theodore grinds out.

Draco glides in like a malicious breeze, robes swishing, hair perfect, expression entirely unimpressed. “You know what your problem is?”

“Do enlighten me,” Theodore snaps.

“You’re passive. Hesitant. A snail on a cold morning.”

Theodore squints. “That’s not a real saying.”

“It is now,” Draco replies, flopping onto the opposite chaise. “You can’t just wait for the perfect moment. You have to make the moment. Force fate’s hand. Seduce destiny.”

“I’m going to hex you,” Theodore mumbles.

Mattheo waves a hand. “No hexing until we brainstorm. It’s time for a new strategy.”

“A new strategy?” Theodore asks, exhausted.

“A bolder one,” Pansy adds, twirling her wand.

Mattheo sits up straighter, enthusiasm building like a firework about to blow. “You want theatrics. Drama. They don’t know you’re into them because you’re too busy staring at them like a lovesick ghost. We need impact.”

“I’m not going to throw myself out a window to get their attention.”

“Shame,” Mattheo says without missing a beat. “But fine. Not that. Yet.”

Draco leans forward. “Just ask them. Tomorrow. Before breakfast. While they’re too tired to register what’s happening.”

Pansy nods in agreement. “Sleep-deprived, low blood sugar, emotional vulnerability—it’s the golden window.”

“They’d punch me in the face,” Theodore mutters.

Mattheo claps with genuine excitement. “That’s romance!”

Over the Next Week, The Descent into Chaos

Attempt #1: Help with Potions

The Potions dungeon is dim, as always, filled with the smell of boiling chamomile and something faintly metallic. Professor Slughorn hums happily at the front of the room while everyone else slouches over their cauldrons, silently begging the clock to move faster.

You’re working alone today—not by choice. Your partner caught Spattergroit and is banned from classes until further notice, which left you with a bubbling potion and a half-written instruction sheet. You’re squinting down at your notes, stirring clockwise, trying to remember when to add the powdered fluxweed.

“Clockwise,” comes a soft voice beside you, “but only for six more turns.”

You look up—and there’s Theodore, standing just beside your workstation. He’s watching your cauldron with an unreadable expression, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe like he’s trying to hide them.

“I knew that,” you say, a little defensive.

He shrugs, eyes flicking toward you and then away. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

You glance at your notebook and then back at him. “Are you… offering to help me?”

He looks like he regrets everything immediately. “If you don’t want me to—”

“I didn’t say that,” you interrupt quickly. “Just… surprised.”

Theodore slowly slides onto the stool beside you. He’s already got his gloves on, and his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his forearms. You can’t help noticing his fingers—long, steady, careful—as he picks up your spoon and stirs the potion with practiced ease.

“You forgot to sprinkle the asphodel before the fluxweed,” he murmurs. “Otherwise the potion thickens too quickly and burns.”

You blink at him. “Since when do you know this much about Polyjuice Potion?”

“I read ahead,” he says, not looking at you. “And I… practiced.”

“You practiced Polyjuice? For what? Planning to sneak into the Gryffindor common room?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Maybe I just wanted to be good at something.”

You go quiet for a moment. The bubbling of the potion fills the space between you.

“That’s kind of sad,” you say gently.

He finally looks at you—and his eyes soften. “It’s kind of true.”

You don’t say anything, just reach out and offer him the jar of powdered fluxweed. He takes it without brushing your fingers, but just barely.

“You’re good at this,” you say after a beat.

“Only because I wanted to impress you.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t look up, just sprinkles the ingredient into the cauldron.

Silence. Then you ask, half-teasing, half-breathless, “What?”

He stirs once, then twice, then says softly, “Nothing.”

You lean in, lips curling upward. “Are you trying to impress me, Nott?”

He still doesn’t meet your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Because it’s working.”

That gets him. He goes stiff for half a second, then glances at you—just a flicker of a look—and it’s the most flustered you’ve ever seen him. A faint pink colors his ears.

You smile into your notes and pretend not to notice.

And for the next half hour, you work side by side, your hands occasionally brushing, his voice low as he guides you through every step like he’s been memorizing it just for this.

Slughorn walks by at one point and raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Nott! Lending a hand, are we?”

Theodore clears his throat. “Just helping.”

Slughorn smiles. “Teamwork makes the potion work!”

You snort, and Theodore mutters, “That was terrible.”

But he doesn’t move away from you. Not even once.

Attempt #2: Study Session Sabotage

The Slytherin common room is quiet, bathed in the soft flicker of emerald-tinted flames and the dim glow of enchanted lanterns floating above. The underwater windows ripple gently with lake shadows, casting moving patterns on the stone walls. It’s peaceful, unusually so—until the subtle sound of slippers on stone breaks the silence.

You’re curled up in your favorite armchair near the fire, oversized jumper hugging your body like a blanket, and a half-done Herbology essay balanced on your lap. Your hair’s a little messy, your notes slightly smudged, and your brow is furrowed in focus.

Across the room, Theodore watches.

He’s holding two steaming mugs—both of which he enchanted himself. His hand tightens around the ceramic as he takes a deep breath, then makes his way across the room before he can lose his nerve.

You look up just as he approaches, blinking slowly.

“Theodore?”

He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. “You looked… cold.”

Your gaze flicks to the mugs. “What’s this?”

He hesitates. “Hot chocolate. One’s for you.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He nods, avoiding your eyes. “I charmed it the way you like. Cinnamon, no whipped cream.”

You blink.

He still doesn’t look at you.

You smile softly, reaching out to accept the mug. Your fingers brush his—warm against warm—and he stiffens like it startled him.

“You remembered that?” you ask.

“I remember a lot of things about you,” Theodore says, almost too quietly.

Your heart skips, but you pretend not to notice. Instead, you gesture to the empty space beside you. “Sit?”

He hesitates.

Then—slowly—he lowers himself beside you, settling into the corner of the sofa, leaving a careful gap between your knees. He holds his mug like it’s an anchor. You catch a quick glance at him, his sharp profile, the way his hair curls a little at the edges when it’s this humid near the fire.

He leans in slightly. “Are you working on Sprout’s quiz?”

You sigh and nod. “I’ve read this same sentence six times.”

He glances at your parchment. “It’s because you wrote it wrong.”

You make a face. “What?”

He scoots just an inch closer, tilting your paper so he can read it better. “Spore release in puffshrooms is triggered by humidity, not heat. That’s why they’re so common in greenhouses.”

“Oh.”

His fingers are still ghosting over your notes.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I just pay attention. When you’re talking about it.”

You freeze for a second, then glance sideways. “You listen to me?”

“I always listen to you.”

Your chest tightens in the quietest, warmest way. “Even when I ramble about magical gardening for twenty minutes?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you look at him like you’ve never quite seen him before.

There’s a pause, and then you laugh, soft and a little shy. “You’re surprisingly gentle when you want to be.”

Theodore’s jaw tenses, like he doesn’t know what to do with that compliment. Then he mutters, “You should see me with kneazles.”

You nearly snort your cocoa.

“Alright then, kneazle whisperer,” you say, tucking your legs closer to him. “You’re stuck with me now. We’re study partners tonight.”

“I could be stuck with worse,” he replies before he can stop himself.

You don’t answer. But you don’t look away, either.

You just smile—and go back to your notes, heart thudding.

And next to you, Theodore sits quietly, his shoulder now almost against yours, pretending to read while he memorizes the shape of your handwriting and wonders if this—this soft, shared quiet—counts as a small kind of magic.

Attempt #3: “Accidental” Hogsmeade Run-In

The sky is pale grey, snow falling in lazy spirals like the world’s slowed down for a moment. You tug your scarf higher and step around a patch of ice on the cobblestone street, your boots crunching with each careful step. You hadn’t told anyone you were heading to Hogsmeade—not even your closest friends. You just… wanted a bit of space.

And maybe some peppermint bark.

Honeydukes glows warmly up ahead, windows fogged from the inside and little charms floating above the display case. You're just about to walk in when—

“Y/N?”

You stop mid-step, looking up.

And there he is.

Theodore Nott, standing beneath a snow-dusted awning like he was planted there by the universe itself. His hair is windswept, a few snowflakes catching in the strands. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a small, neatly wrapped package.

He freezes for a heartbeat, like he’s not sure he’s real. Or that you’re real.

You blink. “Teds?”

He clears his throat. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Your eyes flick down to the package. “What’s that?”

His fingers twitch slightly. “It’s—uh—peppermint bark. I remembered you said once that Honeydukes only sells the really good kind in December. I was going to get you some.”

Your chest warms, a slow flood of soft affection breaking through the chill. “You remembered that?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking away. “It’s not a big deal.”

You smile, stepping closer. “It is to me.”

Silence settles between you as the snow continues falling, lightly dusting his coat, your shoulders. You take the package gently from his hands and hold it between both of yours.

“It’s warm,” you say quietly. “Did you just buy this?”

He hesitates. “…I’ve been holding it for a while. Just in case I saw you.”

Your heart flips.

“You were hoping to run into me?”

He finally meets your eyes, and his voice is soft. “Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, the tension building gently in the air. Then you open the door to Honeydukes and tilt your head.

“Walk with me, Teds?”

He follows without hesitation.

The inside of the shop is glowing, every shelf crammed with sweet chaos. Colorful wrappers shimmer under the floating lights, and enchanted candy hops around in its jars. You make your way through the aisles, glancing at different sweets while Theodore trails beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing more at you than the shelves.

You hold up a box of Fizzing Whizbees. “Remember when Mattheo dared Draco to eat five of these at once and he threw up in Professor Binns’ ghost?”

Theodore chuckles. “I still have the photo.”

You giggle and grab a few chocolate frogs before pausing at a shelf lined with delicate, pastel-pink candied roses. You hold one out.

“Try it.”

He eyes it warily but accepts, biting off a petal. The moment it hits his tongue, his nose scrunches.

“It’s… floral.”

You burst out laughing, your hand grabbing his sleeve as you double over slightly. “Teds, your face—”

“I’m being poisoned by a bouquet.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person laughing like a maniac in a candy shop.”

You shoot him a grin. “You love it.”

He huffs, but the corners of his mouth curve upward.

You finally step back out into the snow, both of you carrying small bags. It’s a little quieter now, the sky darkening with the promise of evening. The wind is gentle, and your footsteps echo softly.

A flake lands in his hair, and you reach out without thinking—brushing it off.

He stills under your touch.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” you say, quieter now.

“I didn’t expect to actually find you,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze.

You turn slightly to face him, snow swirling around both of you.

“You’re kind of sweet, you know.”

He swallows. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Theodore looks at you like he’s on the verge of saying something else, something big.

But instead, he says your name—softly—and nods toward the castle. “I’ll walk you back.”

You don’t let him walk behind you. Instead, you link your arm through his.

And he doesn’t say a word about it—just holds on like maybe, for the first time, he's exactly where he wants to be.

Three Days Before the Ball. .

You’re curled up in the Slytherin common room with a book, wearing Theodore’s sweater.

You hadn’t exactly planned to keep it.

One chilly evening in the library, you’d complained about the cold, and Theodore—without saying a word—had peeled it off and gently tugged it over your head, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d meant to return it the next day, truly. But then… it smelled like him. Like citrus, clove, and ink. It was warm. It was soft. It was safe.

And Theodore never asked for it back.

So now it’s yours.

The sleeves droop adorably past your fingertips, and the hem hangs lower on you than it ever did on him. You’ve rolled up the cuffs three times, but they still fall when you don’t pay attention. Every time you move, it carries that faint familiar scent, and you feel—just slightly—like you’re wrapped in him.

Across the room, Theodore is watching you.

Or, more accurately, he’s watching you while trying not to watch you. He’s pretending to read, legs crossed tightly, sitting far too stiffly on a velvet chair by the fire. The book in his hands is upside down. He doesn’t notice.

Mattheo notices, though. Of course he does.

“You’re being disgusting,” Mattheo mumbles, lounging beside him.

Theodore doesn’t respond.

“I’m serious. It’s pathetic in a cute way. Like a puppy following someone home from the train.”

From the floor near the hearth, Astoria flips a page of Witch Weekly and hums. “It’s almost romantic.”

Blaise sighs without looking up from his chess game. “It would be, if he’d just ask them already.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for the sweater to propose on his behalf,” Lorenzo adds, rolling a knight across the board. “It’s halfway there.”

Draco, half-draped across an armchair like he owns the castle, lets out a dramatic sigh. “You are actively letting this moment slip away. Look at them. Look.” He points. “They’re curled up in your sweater like they’ve always belonged there. You’re losing your window.”

Theodore bites the inside of his cheek.

He looks over.

You’re nestled on the couch with your legs tucked under you, knees brushing the edge of a plush emerald cushion. Your face is half-lit by the firelight, a book resting gently in your hands. The cocoa beside you has gone lukewarm, untouched for ten minutes. The only thing you’ve moved is your thumb, slowly turning pages—and occasionally tucking the sweater sleeve back up your wrist.

It’s unfair how good you look like that. Effortless. Completely at home.

He swallows.

“Now,” Mattheo whispers.

Theodore stands.

Astoria gasps softly. “Oh, he’s doing it.”

“I’m proud of him,” Pansy murmurs, hand on her chest.

“I’m terrified for him,” Blaise mutters.

“Don’t trip,” Lorenzo calls under his breath.

Theodore doesn’t hear them. Or if he does, he ignores it all, like the world has narrowed to just the space between the fire and the couch.

You notice his approach before he says a word.

Your eyes lift to meet his, brows raised ever so slightly. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I might.”

You smile a little. “Should I get Madam Pomfrey?”

“No.”

You sit up straighter, closing your book around a finger to keep your place.

Theodore stands there like he’s forgotten how to be a person. Then, after a silent internal argument, he lowers himself gently onto the arm of the couch beside you. He doesn’t speak yet. Just watches you for a second, almost like he’s trying to memorize you.

You stare back, curious, the firelight dancing in your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, concern flickering in your voice.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers clench slightly on his knees.

Then: “Yes. I mean—no. Wait. Kind of.”

You blink.

Theodore clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter this time, almost shy. “There’s something I’ve been trying to do. And I’ve been putting it off. Because things keep… getting in the way. And I didn’t want to make it weird. But I’m pretty sure I already have.”

You tilt your head, lips twitching.

He’s blushing now, pink blooming just under his cheekbones. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to the sleeves.

You look down. “I am.”

“It looks… really good on you.”

There’s a pause. Then you smile, warm and full.

“You’re rambling,” you tease.

“I know.” He exhales, standing up again just to walk in a nervous half-circle in front of you, running a hand through his hair before finally turning around and blurting:

“Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

It comes out fast. But there’s more behind it—he’s been carrying it for days.

“I mean—if you’re not going with anyone. I don’t know if you are. I didn’t ask, obviously, because I’m not creepy, I’m just… I thought maybe—because you’re great, and I’m…” He gestures vaguely to himself. “…me.”

He takes a breath.

“Well, I mean, I’m not terrible—okay, maybe I am—but I’ve been trying to do this for days and everything keeps exploding or catching fire or turning into a social disaster and I know this isn’t how normal people ask people out but I’m not normal, clearly, and you’re in my sweater, and that has to mean something—”

His voice pitches higher, rushing now like he’s lost all control:

“—So I’m standing here, asking, loudly, if you—would—please—possibly—want to go to the Yule Ball with me, unless you hate me, which is valid, in which case I’ll just go die now, if you don’t, that’s amazing. I just—thought maybe, you might—because we’re already sort of… close? I mean—if you don’t see it that way, I get it. I do. But I’d really like to go with you. Properly. Like a date. If you want.”

The room falls quiet.

From behind, you hear a hushed, hopeful, “Don’t blow this,” from Mattheo.

Theodore is standing there like he’s balancing on the edge of a rooftop.

Your heart beats a little faster.

You set your book down slowly. Your fingers brush over the hem of the sweater.

And then you look up at him—soft, teasing, but unmistakably moved.

“Well,” you say gently, leaning back into the cushions, “took you long enough.”

[mlembug]

Introduction to optical discs

Once common, now infrequently used due to not being able to catch up with storage capacity and large physical size (making it infeasible to use in small devices like tablets or phones, and the integrated reader's weight and dimensions inside laptops in times is a problem where getting laptops as thin as ever gets you bragging rights)

Not all is lost, however, as there are external readers that you can connect over USB 3.0 or later.

(you specifically need to connect this one to a USB 3.0 port as USB 2.0 does not provide enough power)

This is intended as a general introduction for someone who might have not used optical discs much and is purposefully not detailed enough (for details you can go to wikipedia), and also does not describe formats I've never used myself.

Why you may want to care

you got a CD player (like, in a car, or a standalone) and you want to play music there for the lulz

you got yourself in a possession of music CDs and want to play them on your phone

you got yourself in a possession of video DVDs or Blu-rays and want to play them on your computer

you want to create a copy for the old discs that gather dust in your home before they rot

you want to satisfy the "2" in the 3-2-1 backup guideline ("Keep the files on 2 different media types to protect against different types of hazards.")

How it works

An optical disc player has a laser inside. An optical disc has a whole bunch of very small holes which the player can detect by shining its laser, and interpret it in form of digital data. The size and layout of the holes, and the wavelength of the laser all determines the storage capacity.

Basic usage

Don't touch the reflective surface of the disc.

Never scratch either side of the disc.

If you use a marker to describe what the disc contains, make sure it's safe for writing on optical discs.

Only write on a non-reflective surface.

Dust or scratches can make it difficult for the device to read the optical disc.

You can wipe the reflective surface with a soft cloth, from inside to outside. Don't do it by circling around the surface.

It is possible to make an "image" out of an optical disc, which is a representation of the disc in a form of a file. You will likely encounter:

.bin/.cue pair of files for Audio CDs

.iso for data CDs/DVDs/Blu-rays

.mdf/.mds pair of files when dealing with copy protected CDs/DVDs.

CD (Compact Disc)

The oldest type of optical discs, dating to 1980s, originally of which the purpose was to store music, but eventually extended to be able to store arbitrary data (to the point you may sometimes see "do not put this disc inside your music player" warnings on some CDs dating from early 90s).

Early CDs were produced in dedicated factories at scale, and you couldn't create your own. This has since changed and you can buy "CD-R"s, which are CDs where you can record your own data on, in a process also known as "burning" (it's called burning because the increased intensity of the laser while recording literally burns out a hole which then can be read later). CD-Rs are only recordable once, although mechanisms which allowed you to add more data afterwards were later introduced. There are also CD-RWs which are erasable and rewritable, but these were more expensive, were less compatible and I only bought one of those ever, you will have difficulty finding one, and honestly not worth it, just get a USB drive at this point.

Audio CD

If you go to a store and buy a music CD, it will be in this format. Widest compatibility, but because it stores music uncompressed, it can only store 74 to 99 minutes (depending on the CD, most commonly 80) of music.

Copy protection mechanisms: None. Sony attempted to introduce one in mid-00s but everyone disliked that. Use Exact Audio Copy to rip the CD (extract it and copy it to your computer)

Data CD

During times where average hard drive was 100MB, someone came up with a bright idea to use CDs to store files, and the result was a device which stored truly gigantic amounts in comparison (650-800MB, most commonly 700MB), which immediately prompted people to create all sorts of "virtual encyclopedia" software and FMV games.

Sometimes a music player with a CD drive will be able to read a Data CD with a bunch of MP3s on it, but don't count on it (verify it first). If it can't, you have no choice but to use Audio CD format instead.

Copy protection mechanisms: early video games and software had none due to how expensive CDs and CD writers were. This changed and we got LaserLock, SafeDisc, SecuROM and StarForce. All of them are generally pain in the ass, but the most beloathed is definitely StarForce. "DAEMON Tools" and "Alcohol 52%" are tools for dealing with those.

Eventually the limits of the format were hit, as average game in early to mid 00s required use of multiple CDs (let's all ignore Georg Phantasmagoria from 1995 which used up seven). This leads us to...

DVD (Digital Versatile Disc)

Format created in mid-1990s. Originally "versatile" stood for "video", and from this you can deduce what was the original purpose of it. Similarly as with CD-Rs, "DVD-R"s are recordable once. There also exists "DVD+R"s, the plus vs minus used to be competing formats, but nowadays you can ignore this, as any modern external USB reader can handle both.

DVD-Video

If you buy a DVD with a movie or a show, it will likely be using DVD-Video. Resolution of the video is limited to PAL/NTSC, so no Full HD for you.

Copy protection mechanisms: Content Scramble System. Quoting wikipedia, "This can be brute-forced in about a minute by a Pentium II, or a few seconds by a modern CPU." Also, region coding, where a DVD bought in, say, USA, won't be able to be read in a DVD player bought in, say, Japan. VLC will defeat both of those.

Data DVD

As of 2025, DVD-Rs are cheaper than CD-Rs, while being able to store 4.7GB of data. Dual layer disks are 8.5GB, but last time I checked, DVD-R DL cost four times as much. You will encounter double layer discs a lot when dealing with games, making a straight up DVD-to-DVD copy non-trivial without buying a DVD-R DL. For backup purposes you likely want to create an image of the DVD, creating an archive containing accurate representation of the DVD, so you can burn it if needed.

Copy protection mechanisms: generally similar as with Data CDs.

HD DVD

Old format that lost the format war to...

Blu-ray Disc

The "blu" in the name stands for the blue laser, as opposed to the red laser used in DVDs. The laser of a smaller wavelength means higher density of data, and therefore, higher storage capacities: 25GB for single layer and 50GB for dual layer. Format motivated by digital television with 720p and 1080p displays.

PlayStation 3 while being super expensive at the time, happened to be one of the cheapest Blu-ray players, giving it massive boost in popularity.

As of 2025, Blu-ray players/writers are still more expensive than combined CD/DVD players/writers. And so are the BD-Rs.

The format has been used for video games too, but with the increase of sizes of games and digital stores eventually made it less popular for this purpose. It's mostly kept alive nowadays thanks to people buying video on Blu-ray.

Blu-ray Disc Audio/Visual

Early 2025 I got myself in a possession of a legal Blu-Ray movie (Makoto Shinkai movie collection), and because I'm not gonna buy a separate dedicated player when I could play the movie with an external USB Blu-ray device I bought for recording a backup, I had to learn how to break its DRM.

Copy protection mechanisms: Advanced Access Content System. This time they actually attempted with an actual cryptography instead of post-cold war exports. However, the first player keys leaked less than a year, ending with hilarious results. You can play those discs on your computer with VLC + libaacs + up to date key database. Blu-ray region coding exists, but is trivially bypassable.

Ultra HD Blu-ray

An improvement over regular Blu-ray, motivated by 4K displays, can handle 50GB for single layer and 100GB for dual layer.

UHD Blu-ray is not backwards compatible with Blu-ray, which means your device must specifically support it (so you can't play it with your PS3).

Copy protection mechanisms: Advanced Access Content System 2.0 and 2.1. A new "improvement" over the previous version is that some discs can't be played without the player needing to connect to the internet first to download the key. What if the servers go down? Oh don't worry about it. (you won't be able to play that movie). The libaacs + key database approach supposedly still works but I can't check as I don't have any UHD Blu-rays on hand.

[purplecrimson]

Uhm... Not to derail the post from its original purpose, but... As a fanfic author (well- at least I do my best to write often enough to earn this title) who heavily dislikes generative AI too, I think our ways of interacting with such AI users, regardless of how unethical their behaviour is, should be more debated and more nuanced.

(I am not attacking people who interacted with this post or made it individually, but I am using this as an occasion to (hopefully) discuss with them some tendencies I have witnessed on my side of the AI debate and which I find to be rather strange.)

Is it really a good idea to actually target them without censoring their username, making it likely they will be harassed or mocked even though they are not that verbally violent themselves?

I mean, I get how it is symbolically violent for the author who was stolen from, even if at least this AI user seem to have not fed the original fanfic's text to the AI. But does all of this justify exposing their Ao3 account to Tumblr, which is well-known for its numerous cases of harassment?

If people who use gen-AI get too much shit for it, won't they start *not* tagging it and denying using AI, making it more difficult to avoid for us people who dislike AI? Wouldn't education be the answer against AI, making it so people decide themselves to stop using it, in a self-determined and thus empowering manner?

In a world where machines are trained to make more and more decisions for us and politicians want to be seen as the only ones who are legitimate to have their voice heard, I think it is important to make it so people gain the will to understand the world and why decisions are taken, so they can develop their very own political ideas and, thus, act willingly on them (by, for example, throwing away that awful gen AI).

Hey. I think I hate you.

[dadailybocch]

evidence of kita being depressed?

WELL, aside from hearing it straight from the horse's mouth....or uh, Instagram post?

There are other examples. But I'll try to get to the heart of it. 🤔

(I'm not much of a writer, bare with me .-.)

An aspect of Kitas character that is revealed almost immediately is that she doesn't have a whole lot of true self-worth. She knows she can mingle & get along with folks & make friends, but she feels like she's just sort of coasting rather than having any meaningful impact, both on herself & the people she meets. She gets along, but that's just it. She just goes along with the crowd because she's afraid she'll be left behind with no one & nothing otherwise.

But even with her more extroverted, go-with-the-grain approach, I get the feeling that she still feels lonely even when she's around people. Kita knows that people generally like her, but she feels like no one really knows or loves her on a more personal level. And she blames herself for it quite a bit & downplays her own accomplishments as a result, more often than you'd initially think.

As early as the chapter/episode where she debuts, she's very quick to talk down on herself about the way she handled trying to join the band the first time. And yeah she definitely made mistakes, but she's already at the "I don't deserve to show my face around these people after what I've done & I've shown I really can't trust myself at all" stage for something that got straightened out pretty quickly all things considered. Girl you are 16, it's gonna be okay 😭😭😭

(The anime's version of this bit is really good, because her expression & tone when she says her goodbyes to them is the opposite of how it's presented here in the manga, her masking her sadness with some bittersweet enthusiasm & a sweet smile (on the surface). Shows that she's used to hiding how she really feels so that she doesn't make things painful or uncomfortable for others, even if you know she's eating away at herself on the inside.)

This low self-worth, this feeling she has that she has nothing to truly offer anyone makes her quick to put herself at the center of her own blame & bail/run away before she causes any more friction, severing any connection before it festers even though she like, just got there? Which unfortunately only makes her further isolate herself, in a sense. She's trying for "fake it till you make it", but she feels like she's only good at the "faking" & not so much like she's really "making" anything of it.

If Hitori hadn't stopped her from leaving the band behind that day, she probably would've left & never looked back, those 3 girls just another footnote in her book of regrets, another failure in her many attempts to make some sort of meaningful connection. All because she feels like she's failed before anything even starts. She trusts herself that little & is painfully self-aware of this. All of this.

And it makes me sad because Kita's good nature & kindness is very much The Real Deal. I think she's as upset about all this as she is because she's a loving person who wants to be loved, who wants to love life. But she's so hard on herself that she feels like even if she does end up being loved, she won't have nearly enough to give back in return. Which....well we know isn't really true, the girl's so much love to give it literally radiates out of her like she's goin Super Saiyan 🤣

That's my sort of "general gist" of where I personally most of Kita's depression stems from. I didn't even get into her being a narrative foil to Hitori & how she (even still?) puts her on a pedestal. The Runaway arc shows that she took that "I'm gonna be good enough to support Hitori" to a level that.....well, a level I certainly didn't expect. Telling your highly-critical, conservative, public servant mother that you're going to completely abandon the idea of going to college & instead follow the path of some "dropout" to be in a rock & roll band is uhhhhhhhh........well, I can certainly say that Kitas got some real balls of steel sometimes 🤣

Oh God her mother, I didn't even get into how her mom's clearly kinda fucked her up in the head a bit.

BUT I'VE RAMBLED ENOUGH, I'll leave any additional commentary to The Experts, because there's certainly a lot more you could say about Kita's "darker" side, she's a fascinating character through & through. Thanks for reading if you did. 👍

One more Very Normal Girl for the road 👍

[heartyluv]

howw do you think Caleb would react if he saw us with new set of nails? like how do you vision it omg pls yap this bae (i just got my nails done.. heh 🥹)

okay, be preparedddd bc i’ve always loved this idea but i never thought it was enough to really write a whole thing about:

i imagine you go to your appointment alone bc you naturally assume he has work or whatever. so you kiss him bye, giggles and all that cute stuff.

now originally, he was supposed to go, but it’s a saturday and he’s like “fuck it, i wanna be with my girl.”

so you’re in the middle of getting your nails shaped how you want (this is me assuming you have acrylics), it’s a whole bunch of chattering while you watch the tv that’s playing some show you’ve never seen before, and you hear the little bell above the door jingle as it’s being opened, so you think it’s another customer.

until you smell HIM. the subtle hints of the cologne you love and even his shampoo.

you whip your head in that direction and he’s standing there with the most boyish grin ever, a brown paper bag in hand with some breakfast inside so he can feed you while you get finished up.

and you’re so giddyyyy. he’ll greet everyone politely on his way to you and he’s sitting beside you the entire time.

he’ll even look through the colors available and ask, “what’re you getting, pips?” but when you ask him what he’d like to see? oh he’s smiling so hard. immediately, he’d pull out his phone and start brainstorming ideas and then will politely show your nail tech so it can be a surprise for you.

when they’re doneeee, he’s in love. he pays for them, of course, and he can’t stop admiring your pretty hand and the nail design you let him curate for you. like please, he’s even taking several pictures.

after you get in the car, you become his personal hand model. hand on his thigh, even one on his crotch LOLLL!!! all the while, he’s snapping the most mesmerizing (in his eyes) photos of it all. after, he’ll be busy with his phone as you wait until shows you the screen and when he does, it’s your hand resting on his thigh with your nails and wedding ring on display as his wallpaper. he’s so proud of it, too.

“look, baby. you like it? i love it.”

he loves them so much that he can’t help but to record the video of you pumping his cock in your hand before you even get the chance to leave the parking lot. maybe he’ll change his wallpaper to the screenshot he’s going to take later of his cum spilling down your nails 🤷🏽‍♀️

[moran-with-a-g]

I want to add and clarify - you can and should learn about issues that can personally affect you and/or people around you, like policies by your government, for example. If you personally have the power to affect those issues - by voting, for example - you should learn about them.

And even if that issue doesn't affect you. Even if it's in an entirely different continent, and you don't know a single person from them - you're still allowed to go and learn about the issue and form an opinion.

This post is about issues you DON'T understand, that have NO direct affect on you and on people you know personally. Even if they potentially can affect you at some point.

But you, as an outsider to those issues, with no lived experience of it, should make sure:

You're getting your information from credible sources (TikTok is NEVER a credible source. If they link their source, read it in its entirety. This is the same for twitter, Instagram and Tumblr. You need to be careful about who you trust), and from unbiased sources, or at least not just from ones that are biased towards one side.

You're talking with people who are actually being impacted. Find someone (preferably IRL that is personally affected by, or has family and/or friends who are personally affected by those issues. Preferably more than one person, and not all on one side.

That your voice is not doing more harm than good. If you echo an opinion of someone else, even if it's someone you trust, and they echo someone else, who echoed someone else, you have no idea where that opinion actually came from. And all those people repeating opinions they heard by others, that do not bother doing their research on the issue, they're extremely vulnerable to propaganda.

That you're not treating your opinion as an immutable thing. You can always gain context that will change your mind, and you need to be able to open your mind to that. Always have a bit of doubt about your stance, and be open for new perspectives. Even if you will never end up changing your mind, even if your opinion goes down in history as the correct opinion to have and you were on the "good" side of history, be open to change your mind.

I want you all to read the post again, but notice these words:

Friendly reminder that you're not required to publicly take sides in any geopolitical conflict you don't understand.

You don't have to have an opinion, but you can have one. It doesn't have to be a public one, but you're still allowed to have it. It's about geopolitical conflicts, not about things directly affecting you. And it's about issues you don't understand, not ones you researched.

So the questions you need to ask yourself are:

Am I voicing this opinion because I feel pressured to, or did I make the decision to do so?

Do I feel confident enough in my opinion to voice it publicly?

Does it affect me or someone I know in any way?

Have I done the proper research to develop an informed opinion about the issue?

I saw you, people in the notes trying to shame others for wanting to stay out of conflicts. And even if they affect them personally and directly, a person is allowed to say "I don't have the mental capacity to engage with this and form an opinion". You don't know what a person is going through in their daily life, and not everyone has the spoons to deal with his.

And it's especially true for conflicts you have no stakes in. Is it important? Yeah, most conflicts are. And having outside support can be crucial. Are you, the person reading this post, solely responsible for every single geopolitical issue the world? No. The human brain is not meant to handle that much pressure and understand major scale catastrophes when they don't affect you.

Have the time? The mental capacity? Learn about this issue and see how you can help. But also ask yourself, why this one? Why not another? Am I being pressured by my peers to form an opinion? Do I know anyone who will be affected by this? How do I actually contribute to the cause? Are there any other causes I could contribute to more, for any reason?

You CANNOT care about every single cause in the world, even if you wanted to. You have a life to live, and other people don't get to live the life they want like you do, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve to live your life and that you have to sacrifice your mental health for them, donate all you have to them, etc. If you can't dedicate enough time to understand the issue, and research to make sure you're not spreading misinformation, don't do it.

But you can learn. You just have to understand that it takes a lot of time and effort most people don't actually put into their activism. They follow the lead of someone they trust has done their research for them.

Friendly reminder that you're not required to publicly take sides in any geopolitical conflict you don't understand.

[xnackery027]

Everyone seems to think that keeping a Sun and a Moon in the same enclosure is “cute”, until they inevitably start getting territorial with each other because THAT’S HOW DCAs BEHAVE. It doesn’t matter if you raise them together and try to bond them when they’re young. They are two different models with very different needs and temperaments. Big Fazbear will show off their cute little pair of DCA models getting along, but behind the scenes, those poor things are suffering. Sun models need a sparse diet and lots of attention from their owners or other models. Moons are solitary and are best kept in their own enclosures with lots of hiding spots. Suns will inevitably try and seek out the Moon to play with them, and the Moon will quickly get overwhelmed and attack out of fear.

And, no, Moons aren’t an “aggressive” breed. You just keep your Moon in a tiny room with no stimulation and expect them to behave. MOONS ARE NOT “LOW MAINTENANCE” MODELS!!! This is a myth! They should not be bought without proper research. Far too often I see Moons kept in a room with nothing but a carousel. This is abuse! Moons need a space at least five hundred square feet to explore. Ideally, you’d buy at least ten queen sized comforters as well as pillows and stuffed animals for its nest. They enjoy climbing and hiding, so it’s best to provide hidey-holes and a loft or a rock wall to play on. Good owners will provide lots of couch cushions and blankets in order for it to create a hide where it feels safest. And for the love of god, do NOT try and turn on the lights and lift up its hides because you “want to see it”. That’s been proven to damage their eyes and moving their hides makes them feel unsafe! If you need to take it to parts and service, train it to respond to a name or command. It’s not difficult! Moons are very intelligent models, and even just basic clicker training and a bag of Moondrops is enough to get them to come when you call.

And that’s another problem entirely! People do not pay attention to their models and will let them fester in their enclosure without giving them important maintenance! Your model’s eyes flickering isn’t a sign of contentment or whatever, it’s a sign that they need to go to a technician and get them replaced! Moon models will sometimes flip on their back and crawl around; it’s a cute little thing they do when in a familiar environment. But they shouldn’t be doing it all the time. If they can’t seem to get unstuck from that position, they need to be carefully examined and evaluated to see if they have hardware issues.

People treat Suns a little bit better, but there’s still so much abuse that goes on with the poor things. They are often left on their own for too long, or not given enough attention when they need it. They are very sensitive to changes in their environment, and if you are upset, they’ll be upset too. They require the same amount of space as a Moon, though up to three Sun models can share the space without conflict. They are much more play focused and don’t need as many hides. Toys are a must with Suns. It’s practically step one. Chalk, bubbles, shakers, chew toys, anything that you would give a child to play with. Avoid cards or other complicated games; they much prefer dolls and trucks. Be careful with anything that could be a hazard; sticky or messy toys like slime only irritate Suns. Think crayons, not paint. It’s not cute or funny to “prank” Suns by dumping glitter in their enclosure or getting them dirty. You’re only making them distressed. An important addition is toy boxes, shelves, and other organizational items that they can use to put their toys away after playtime. Suns are very particular models and will want to put all their favorite belongings in a nice spot. For a sleeping area, it’s a good idea to give them a nice, padded, flat spot for them to lay down. They don’t like too many pillows or blankets. Just a sheeted mattress or a yoga mat will do.

Here’s some behaviors to notice in your models, and what they mean:

For both DCA models, faceplate spinning is a sign of curiosity or confusion. They’ll spin ninty, one eighty, or even a full spin in order to get a better look at whatever they’re confused about.

Moons will sometimes make a chittering noise that some describe as a “giggle”. This isn’t because they are content, though. These are more strained, loud calls meant to ward off danger. If you walk into their enclosure and they start giggling at you, it does NOT mean they like you. It means they’re nervous.

When DCA models are spoken to, they’ll often mimic sounds that they hear. There’s several videos online of Suns and Moons that sound like they’re saying various phrases. Suns tend to be more talkative than Moons, but Moons tend to learn songs better than Suns. They don’t actually know what these words mean, but they can be trained to recognize a simple word like “toy”, “naptime”, or “clean up”. This can be a very fun activity for your DCA! They love hearing you talk and will often repeat back words it’s heard before in an attempt to hold conversation.

On the less fun end, some rescued DCAs will not speak at all. Either through abuse or neglect, they’ve learned that their instinct to mimic either doesn’t attract attention or causes punishment. Most of these models will not speak, no matter how long they’re cared for properly.

Suns like a lot of physical attention, and they will let you know when they want it. Often times they will spread their arms out for a hug, lay their head on their owner’s lap, or press their hands on each other’s faces. They enjoy pretty much any interaction, just stick to petting their head and back. Their sky hook is the only place to avoid; their hook is very sensitive and can make some models uncomfortable.

Moons will, very occasionally and only with a strong bond with their owner, also ask for affection. They often initiate by pressing their hand against the other’s. Holding hands is a sign of a very strong relationship with your Moon. It’s important to let them come to you; trying to touch or cuddle a Moon when it isn’t ready is a sure fire way to make them dislike you.

Moons will sometimes play wrestle with other Moons or large stuffed animals if they are solitary. Though this is cute between Moon models and toys, it can cause injury in the owners. Be sure to establish a firm boundary that they may not pick you up, bite, or squeeze you, even in a playful way. They often don’t mean to hurt you, but they carry a lot of strength and can get overexcited easily. There have been unfortunate incidents where an irresponsible owner allowed their Moon to carry them to a hide or play rough with them and, through no fault of the Moon’s own, the owner gets dropped, bitten, or crushed.

Suns also carry the risk of injury if not treated with respect. They tend to accept a lot of physical affection and teasing, but if an owner stresses a model out enough, they can attack out of frustration or fear. They do not like their favorite toys being moved, and they especially don’t like getting their toys taken away while they are still playing. Sometimes, if anything gets in the enclosure that they aren’t supposed to have, it needs to be taken back. The best way to go about this is to either teach a Sun the “drop it” command, distract the Sun with a more appealing toy or, worst case scenario, knock the Sun out with supervision and take back the item. If it doesn’t seem like it will harm the Sun, don’t take it away, even if it’s strange. Some Suns’ favorite toys are cardboard boxes or plastic bottles.

You can find lots of information like this on the internet. So, please, for the love of god, don’t buy a DCA on a whim because you saw a cute video. Please do your research so your DCA can live a happy, healthy life.

[whisperedmeg]

UNTOUCHED ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: spencer’s never done this before, and you’re more than happy to teach him how — slowly, thoroughly, and with plenty of praise. he’s always been an eager learner, but you weren’t expecting him to enjoy it this much.

genre: smut | w/c: 2.3k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI!! virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, heavy praise, reader calls spencer good boy & other pet names, subtle sub!spencer vibes, making out, breast/nipple play, brief masturbation (f), fingering, finger sucking, oral (f receiving), reader talks him through it, spencer cums in his pants, glasses!s2!reid, no use of y/n

a/n: yeah so this is probably the filthiest thing I have ever written (but still somehow so soft??). nobody look at me idk what came over me. it just happened, ok? lmao enjoy BYE. tbh not my most eloquently written fic but I haddd to get this out of my system

Your relationship with Spencer, although wonderful, is still very new. There’s been a few slow, tentative makeouts on this very couch, but nothing more. It always stops before things escalate too far — he pulls back, or gets called into work, or a TV commercial ruins the moment, or some other force of the universe steps in to keep all the orgasms you know you could be having behind lock and key.

Tonight, you have plans to change that once & for all.

You’re not sure who leaned in first. It might’ve been you — let’s be honest, it usually is — but by the time you’re in Spencer’s lap, one knee on either side of his thighs and your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt, it doesn’t really matter. His lips part against yours, pink and already a little swollen. His glasses are fogged at the edges, and his hands hover uselessly at your waist like he can’t decide what to do next.

So you make the decision for him.

You rock forward, slow and deliberate — just enough to drag your body against his — and his breath catches on a quiet sound he probably doesn’t even realize he making.

The cushions dip under your knees, and everything smells like him: old paper, bergamot soap, something faintly spicy underneath. He tastes like a heavenly mix of breath mints and the honey tea you made for him earlier.

Spencer always kisses like he’s studying you — memorizing pressure points, cataloging every hitch of breath, every soft sound. The drag of your bottom lip. The little touches that make your spine arch.

But there’s tension in him, too.

You feel it in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his hands, the twitch of his thighs when you shift your weight. Something’s holding him back.

You slow the kiss, draw away just enough to trace the line of his cheekbone with your nose, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

“Spence,” you murmur, breath warm against his skin. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He stills.

“I—” His voice falters, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses. “I haven’t really, um… done this before.”

You blink.

“You haven’t…” you echo, tilting your head.

His ears flush deep red as he shakes his head.

“I mean— some stuff, yeah,” he says quickly. “Kissing. A little touching. But… not much more than that.”

There’s something raw in his expression, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

Instead, you kiss him. Soft and steady, nothing showy — just the kind of kiss that says I want you anyway.

When you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

“Spencer,” you whisper.

He opens them slowly.

“You being a virgin isn’t gonna scare me off.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, pushing it back gently from his forehead. His curls are soft, and he shivers when your thumb grazes his ear.

“I kind of like the idea of it, actually,” you murmur.

“You do?”

You smile. “I think I’d like being the first person to show you how good you can feel.”

He goes quiet again, clearly overthinking.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” you ask softly, brushing your nose against his.

He swallows. “No, no. I just… I don’t want to do something wrong. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Baby,” you whisper against his mouth. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”

You kiss him once more — slow, deep — and feel the hitch in his breath when your tongue brushes his.

“I’ll teach you,” you murmur with a smirk.

You shift to straddle him more fully, your skirt hiking higher around your hips as you settle across his lap. You can feel him under you, hard and twitching through his pants, and he gasps when your hips press down.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods too fast.

You raise an eyebrow. “Use your words, Spencer.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “I-I’m okay.”

You smile and roll your hips again, dragging the lace between your legs over the firm outline of his cock. You kiss along his jaw, down the column of his throat, mouthing at a spot above his collarbone until he shivers.

“You like that, don’t you?” you murmur against his skin.

“Yes,” he chokes, hips jerking upward. “Fuck—yes.”

You laugh softly as your hands slip under the hem of your top, peeling it off slowly and tossing it aside.

Spencer stares like a baby deer caught in headlights.

Your black lace bra is sheer, nipples already peaked beneath the fabric. You reach behind you, unclasp it with one practiced motion, and let the straps fall from your shoulders.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

“Touch me,” you murmur.

His hands are shaking when they rise — gentle at first, tentative. He cups your breasts like he’s sure he might be dreaming. His thumbs brush over your nipples and you let out a soft moan, pressing forward into the touch.

“Harder, baby,” you whisper. “Don’t hold back.”

He obeys. His touch deepens, massaging one breast as he catches the nipple of the other between his thumb and forefinger, upping the pressure as he rolls and twists. His confidence grows.

And then his mouth replaces his hands.

His tongue is hesitant at first, then deliberate, then filthy. He sucks your nipple into his mouth and his teeth scrape, just barely, as you grind down against him in response.

“That mouth,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair. “God, Spencer. You’re doing so well already, sweet boy.”

He groans into your skin, and you feel every twitch of his hips beneath you, the desperation in every movement.

“So good for me,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the flush on his cheek. “Such a fast learner.”

He whines — helpless and sweet — and you cradle his jaw, bringing his face back up to meet yours to kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, before guiding his hand between your thighs. Your skirt slips higher, lace panties exposed, already damp.

You press his fingers down against the wet spot.

“Feel what you do to me,” you whisper. “I’ve been wet since the first time you kissed me tonight.”

You move his hand against the lace, helping him slide two fingers along your covered folds. He gasps when he feels how wet you are — not just damp, not just eager — soaked.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

“Not God,” you murmur cheekily, smirking as you kiss the corner of his mouth. “Just me.”

You draw his fingers upward to circle your clit once — slow, precise — and then pull his hand away.

Spencer watches, dazed, as you slide off his lap and lay down against the couch cushions, hiking your skirt up higher and moving your panties to the side. His breath shudders out in a long, low exhale, his eyes fixed on your bare core.

Then you touch yourself for him — slow, deliberate strokes, dragging through your slick and back up again to circle your clit. Your eyes never leave his.

“This is how I want you to touch me,” you murmur. “Not too fast. Just enough pressure. Like this, okay?”

He nods, transfixed.

You slide two fingers inside yourself, moaning softly, then draw them out again. You hold them up to him with a smirk.

“Want a taste?” you ask, voice thick.

He nods greedily.

“Say please, baby.”

“Please,” he whimpers.

You press your fingers to his mouth, and he sucks them in without hesitation. His tongue curls, eyes fluttering shut as he moans, licking you clean like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“Good boy,” you breathe, pulse skipping. “Taste how much I want you.”

He sucks harder. You see the way his hips shift — searching for something to rut into and failing. He’s panting now, tension coiled so tight you can feel it.

You pull your fingers from his mouth, slide your hand down, and curl your fingers around his wrist again.

“You try now,” you murmur.

You guide his hand back between your thighs and help him find your clit. His fingers are a little shaky, but you hold him there and let him feel the way your body responds beneath his touch.

“That’s it,” you whisper. “Just like I showed you. You can go slow.”

He moves carefully, eyes flicking between your face and your core, trying to memorize every twitch and sound.

You sigh, low and breathless. “Good job, baby. Feels s’good.”

Your praise lands like a spark — his shoulders straighten, his strokes grow bolder, more confident. He draws tight little circles over your clit, then dips down, gathering more slick before coming back up again, mirroring your earlier actions.

“Jesus,” he breathes, staring at you. “You’re so wet.”

“For you, Spence,” you pant, arching into his touch. “I’m like this because of you.”

He groans, and you can feel the effort it takes for him to keep his hips still, to stay focused on you instead of chasing the heat building in his own body.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep going.”

“I want to,” he says eagerly. “I want to make you feel good. Please let me make you come. Please.”

God, does he sound desperate for it. You lean up just enough to kiss him messily before gently easing his hand away.

“And you will,” you murmur, shifting your legs open wider. “But not like this. Want you to do it with your mouth.”

His breath hitches. His pupils dilate. And within a few seconds, he’s nodding with excitement.

You smirk and hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties, peeling them down slowly and letting them fall to the floor.

He’s between your thighs in a heartbeat — laid out on his stomach, elbows braced on the couch, arms wrapped around your thighs, chin tilted up and eyes locked on your cunt.

You run your fingers through his hair and smile down at him softly as you guide him closer. His warm, shaky breath ghosts over your skin.

“Start slow,” you whisper. “Use your tongue and lips together. Don’t overthink it. Just feel.”

He nods, then leans in.

The first lick is cautious — a single drag of his tongue from bottom to top — and he pauses at the end, waiting. When you shiver, he breathes out like he’s been given permission.

“Good,” you murmur. “So good, baby. Keep going.”

He does.

The second lick is more confident. By the third, he’s circling your clit with shaky precision — steadier each time.

“That’s it,” you breathe. “Such a fast learner, aren’t you, Spence?”

He groans — low and hungry — the sound vibrating through your deepest parts as he nods against your core.

And then he devours you.

There’s nothing careful about it now. His tongue moves in messy circles, his lips parting, mouth opening wider. He sucks at your clit and moans like a man possessed.

Your thighs clamp around his shoulders and his rhythm falters — gets sloppier, wetter, better. He’s all-in now, relentless, eating you out like he’s starving, like this is what he was made for. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart. He’s taking cues from your reactions — repeating his movements when you moan, experimenting with his tongue as your hand tightens in his hair, reading every twitch of your hips as if it’s an answer key.

“Oh, fuck—Spencer, YES. Good boy. My good boy.”

The words land heavy, and he whimpers loudly in response. His hands grip your thighs hard, and that’s when you feel it — the tension in his body, the way he’s moving. Subtle at first, then more desperate. You glance down and catch the flex of his hips as they grind into the couch cushion beneath him.

“Don’t stop,” you pant. “Don’t you fucking stop, Spence. You’re doing so good for me. ‘M so close.”

He groans — guttural — as his lips close around your clit once more, and your orgasm rips through you like heat lightning. It hits all at once, spine arching, thighs locking tight around his head as you cry out his name, shuddering through it.

He doesn’t let up. His tongue keeps moving, soft but focused, even as you writhe under him. The aftershocks roll through you, deep and dizzying.

Somewhere in the haze you hear it — a quiet, choked sound. A sharp inhale. A low groan.

You don’t register what it means until you feel him go still. His arms lock. His mouth freezes.

When he finally lifts his head, his face is flushed and slick, lips swollen, and his eyes…

His eyes are wide. Embarrassed. Almost guilty.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t— I just—”

You blink, confused for a moment before it hits you:

Spencer Reid, your perfect, sweet boyfriend, just came in his pants, completely untouched.

Came. In. His. Pants.

Untouched.

Your heart stutters.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Spence.”

He flinches. “I’m so sorry—”

“Hey.” You sit up a bit, still breathless, and reach down to cradle his face between your palms. His skin is hot — not just blushing, but burning.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, voice low but sure. “Please look at me.”

He does, barely.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

He blinks. “What?”

You smile. “That mouth of yours just gave me an orgasm that made me see stars. And then you came in your pants just from eating me out? That’s so hot, Spence.”

He swallows, stunned. His gaze softens. The worry’s still there, but it’s quieter now. His eyes shine.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, straightening his glasses and smoothing his hair. “You’re more than okay.”

You guide him up, help him collapse against your chest, your fingers still threading through his hair as his breath slows. He’s quiet, pliant, curled into you like a lazy puppy.

Eventually he shifts, wincing a little at the sticky mess in his pants.

You giggle.

“C’mon,” you murmur, kissing his temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You tug him gently off the couch and take his hand, leading him toward the bathroom. He hesitates, glancing down at the wet stain on his slacks, embarrassment rising again, but you squeeze his fingers and smile.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you whisper. “You made a mess because you were too turned on by me to stop. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby.”

You lean in, lips brushing his neck.

"It's incredibly sexy.”

He groans softly — part laugh, part surrender.

“We’re not done, you know,” you add as you push open the bathroom door. “That was just your first lesson.”

He swallows hard. “N-not done?”

You shake your head as you step closer, fingers unfastening his belt with ease, and press a wet kiss just below his ear.

Your lips curve.

“You’ve still got so much to learn.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

masterlist

[babyybrii]

Hiiii, I have a request! Can you do task force 141 and boot riding? Can be as mean Abe degrading as you want (((: thanks if you decide too, no worries if it ain’t your thing!!!

“go on then,” ghost murmurs, voice low beneath the rasp of his mask. he’s seated back in the armchair, legs spread, one thick boot planted firm between your legs.

“show them how you beg, sweetheart.”

you’re already grinding slow against the leather, soaked through your panties, hips trembling as you rut against the toe of his boot. the room smells like sweat and smoke—gaz’s lighter flicks on and off, soap’s fingers drum the table, and price is sipping a drink like you’re the only entertainment for the night.

you’d be more embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on. it was soap’s idea—said he saw some girl who looks just like you riding her boyfriend’s leather boot on twitter—said she was crying by the end of it. said he wanted to see you like that. you rolled your eyes, told him he was a perv—but here you are.

knees sore on the hardwood, panties shoved to the side, making a mess on simon’s boot while the others look on like it’s their favorite show.

“she’s takin’ it so well,” soap groans, voice thick with arousal. he’s palming himself through his jeans, eyes locked on where your cunt grinds against simon’s toe.

“must be fuckin’ ruined,” gaz mutters, flicking his lighter one more time before shoving it into his pocket. “look at the stain, mate. she’s soaking through.”

price hums lowly, glass tipping to his lips. “she gonna come like that?”

you whimper—because you might. because it’s so much—too much. their eyes, ghost’s firm boot, the weight of it all pressing down on you like sin.

“you gonna come for us, lovie?” price asks, voice calm and casual like he’s asking what’s for dinner. “gonna show us how pretty you look when you fall apart on a man’s fuckin’ boot?”

ghost leans in then, gloved hand gripping your hair tight enough to sting.

“c’mon then, pet,” he rasps. “be a good girl. let them see what you sound like when you come beggin’.”

cod tags: @3m3lia9 @aztecbrujeria @km-ffluv @tessakate @seasonstreesbloom @h0lydrag0ns @viscade @i-live-in-spite @slytherin-addict @avgdestitute @ghostsd8s @fertilise-me @xylov @deadbutdelicious1 @mxsatorisimp @superunkn0wn @glossygreene @imjustaprettyyprincess @ccainesideboob @calisnewworld

authors note: thank you for requesting <3 i’ve never written anything this freaky so i apologize if i did it wrong LMAO

[meanbossart]

ASK COMPILATION: DU Drow with a gun, Bhaalist courtship, DU drow's real name, Corellon's blessing and Self-cest.

Better late than never!!!! Thank you to everyone who takes the time to write in, know that your kindness is always appreciated even if I can't respond to everybody!

In reference to:

Well, I think you can call it that if you want to! DU drow enjoys being praised, but I'm not sure at what point it stops being just a sweet gesture and starts to become a fetish. I think he just lives for positive reinforcement from the people he's trying to please.

Luckily, he got out of there just in time! DU drow was about the age of 10 when he murdered his foster "mother" and crawled his way out of the Underdark (with Sceleritas' help). So, he must have been just tall enough to ride the rides, per se.

I have no doubt that, had he stuck around any longer, he would have been either ostracized in some way or had his size and bulk been put to specific use - like doing manual labor alongside slaves or turned into a specially disposable soldier. It's an interesting scenario to think about but one that he escaped entirely.

No! You're gonna do it through creative writing like the rest of us plebs!

[MORE UNDER THE CUT]

I think he would be opposed to the idea at face-value until you literally put a gun in his hand and made him pinkmist something - then, he would very quickly rise up to the level of glee a rich child experiences at a morning of christmas.

.......However, as soon as powder ran out, a mechanism jammed/failed, or the experience of reloading proved too cumbersome or time-consuming, he would most likely unceremoniously dump it off the side of a road. A sword would never betray him like that.

I am firmly in the "Astarion was built for a gun" wagon, though. So I guess he can have it.

I do imagine that he was sought after by his peers & lackeys alike! Especially since many of them noticed that he was wasting his energy and attention on Orin. It was in the interest of most of the cult that DU drow reproduce, and while opinions varied wrt WHOM he should do that with, a couple of individuals definitely volunteered themselves for the job or at least pursued him if only for the novelty of saying that they fell into the chosen bhaalspawn's good graces.

DU drow never had sex with anyone from his immediate religious vicinity, however. He basically attempted to remain celibate throughout the course of his leadership (emphasis on attempted.)

That's nuts that it is that obvious, especially considering I read that book almost a decade ago now 😂 but yes, Gira's writing (musical & literary) have potentially had the biggest influence in my own art over everything else. That said I don't think I would recommend that book to anyone nowadays.

Well, TECHNICALLY, he did! As a child the matron that housed him named him after her deceased son: Phyrnathiira'Uss. He barely responded to the name and forgot about it shortly after escaping the Underdark.

The reason why he never acquired a name for himself after that, was because his lack of identity as a Bhaalspawn was a point of pride to him. DU drow understood himself as an extension of Bhaal's body rather than a person with his own thoughts and feelings (even though he had plenty of both) or, at least, attempted as best as he could to put on that kind of persona. He wanted the people around him to think of him as a middle man to Bhaal like christians think of priests as God's mouthpieces - abdicating of a name in favor of being "Bhaalspawn", "Bhaal's dog", "Bhaal's prince", Bhaal's this and that, reinforced that idea not only to others but also to himself.

I think that that resistence to individuality became core to his being in a way that survived the amnesia. Following Orin's betrayal, Kressa's butchery, and the all of events of that campaign, DU drow remains opposed to adopting or being given a name, and is most comfortable being seen as simply Astarion's and Shadowheart's companion and protector.

Hello and thank you for enjoying the comic!

I do actually have a soft head-canon that Astarion swaps sex/gender every other decade for no particular reason. I get that opinions are divided about whether or not being a vampire overrides your status as an elf - but if people feel the need to keep telling me that Astarion still reveries, then I say Corellon could still grant him their titty blessing.

As for DU drow, the novelty of brand new anatomy to put his mouth & dick on aside, he wouldn't really treat or think of Astarion much differently. I think he stares at his chest with the same frequency as before despite the added mass (IE: often). He wasn't really around drow culture long enough for those kinds of ideas you mentioned to be ingrained in him, and while he does think less of drow men, he does not consider himself one (and he only really holds that opinion because they "allow" themselves to be oppressed in the first place.)

Yes and no. The matron who adopted him thought of him more like a pet than a foster-child, and treated him accordingly; letting him mostly fend for himself and survive off of scraps rather than providing the little comfort she would have allowed her biological children. Most toddlers would have died under those circumstances, but since DU drow persisted into his childhood she DID begin to provide him with the basic necessities like food, clothes, and accommodations.

Still, he never really rose to the status of son, more so a well-cared-for dog. He wasn't a servant, but he wasn't REALLY a member of the family either 🤷

I go back and forth about this, but I think it would be a chicken and egg kind of situation. I can see either of them, for some reason, not pursuing a friendship with each other and the result is the same regardless of who resists it. The most obvious turn of events here would be Shadowheart going through with her goal of becoming a Dark Justiciar ruining the future of the friendship - and since her decision to side with the Night Song is what drives DU drow to oppose Bhaal in Act 3, and so sticking to his roots would then seem like the most logical decision in that scenario. That being said, their friendship could simply not have flourished for some other reason even if Shadowheart betrayed Shar. It's less about what happens and more just a way to emphasize her influence on his character.

They would simply never budge.

He would most definitely NOT 😂your final observation is ALMOST correct - I could see it being something he would openly joke about, but if the opportunity actually presented itself he would have no interest in following through with it. The drow aspect here doesn't carry much weight since he knows he isn't really one - but DU drow still isn't into people who are close to him in height or size at all, and while he appreciates his own blockiness in a mirror, he has a hard preference for people who look more like like Astarion or Shadowheart!

[jammatown919]

To Mean Something

Relentlessly bullied as a child, Zoey finds her former tormentors happy to know her at the height of her fame.

Chapter One - Now That I am Someone

Zoey had never been popular growing up. Never expected to be, either.

She was that weird, excitable, mildly foreign kid with headphones on in class, her nose constantly buried in a notebook, and strong-smelling food in her lunch. Whenever she tried to start conversations, they were about music theory or ocean ecosystems or something else only she cared about. She talked too much and too loudly, or else not at all.

No one particularly liked her. At least, not for long. Occasionally, someone found her charming or funny for a little while, but it never took much time for them to decide they'd had enough. They didn't have enough common interests, or her ramblings were getting old, or she wasn't enthusiastic enough about the things they wanted to do. Eventually, they all drifted away.

As for everyone else, they either found her entirely forgettable or remarkably easy to pick on with her trusting nature and desperate need to be liked.

Joining Huntr/x gave her a second chance. Taught her how to use her bubbly personality and particular interests to endear herself to masses that didn't already know her as the kid they shouldn't try to talk to lest she never shut up. Allowed her to create a new identity, carefully crafted by her own hands and not lunchroom gossip about how she cried in the bathroom after tests and was closer to her music teacher than any of the other kids and stayed late after school because her parents were finalizing their divorce.

As the maknae of Korea's most beloved girl group, all the things that had once made her weird and unlikeable could be cutesy, loveable qualities, provided she learned how to properly apply them. Her interview side tangents were endearing. Letting her bandmates baby her in public was adorable. Her unique blend of cultural norms was just Zoey being her silly half-American self.

But most of all, her lyrics were inspiring. Her voice was respected. Even when they thought of her as the childish one, when she was on stage, people sat down and listened. No teasing, no ridicule. Just admiration.

It made her feel powerful. Like she mattered. Like she didn't have to choose between her authentic self and a likeable mask. Like all those people from high school just hadn't been able to see her potential.

And then the strangest thing happened. About a year post-debut, after Huntr/x had gained some international popularity, she stumbled across a post from the American side of the fandom. A video of two people dancing to one of their newest songs. They had both gone to high school with her. Called her slurs in the hallway all throughout senior year. And they were dancing and singing along to her lyrics.

Did they... not know who she was? It hadn't been that long. Her face still looked the same.

She knew in that moment it was probably a bad idea, but she checked out the account anyway.

God, there were so many Huntr/x posts. So many Zoey posts. Bragging about having known her before she got big. Calling her their favorite.

Their fucking favorite, as if they hadn't shoved her around until she had bruises and spread rumors that she was sleeping with the music teacher because he was one of the only adults she trusted at the time. As if they hadn't hated her until knowing Zoey from Huntr/x could be used for clout.

She tried not to let it get to her, but over the next few years, she found more accounts like it. People who had once stolen her notebooks and publicly ridiculed her lyrics now boasting that they'd gotten to hear some of her most popular songs years early, which wasn't even true, as all of Huntr/x's discography had been written after her permanent move to South Korea. People who had found her obsession with turtles weird and annoying and destroyed her keychains just to see how it made her cry now sporting all the turtle merchandise they could get because it was finally cool to share in her interests. People who had told her to go back to her own country talking about how proud they were that she was representing good old Burbank.

For a while, it made her blood boil, but she managed to talk herself down eventually. Of course they had changed. All that unpleasantness had been years ago, when they were all still kids. Zoey was the weird one, really, for still being hung up on it.

What did she have to be upset about, after all? She had everything she could ever want. A successful music career, the adoration of millions, the satisfaction of a greater purpose through her maintenance of the Honmoon, and two amazing women who loved every inch of her to share it all with. So what if some people had been mean to her a while ago? Clearly, they liked her now. She should be grateful.

That line of reasoning worked for her all the way up until one of them showed up to a signing.

Zoey didn't even recognize her at first, with her sharper features, shorter hair, and more mature style of dress. In a sea of people, the face simply didn't stand out to her. Nor did the voice, though she would realize after the fact that it hadn't changed at all.

For a few seconds, it was just another fan coming up to Huntr/x's table for an autograph. One of hundreds she would meet today. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

"Zoey!" the young woman squealed in much the same manner as the several fans before her. "Oh, it's so good to see you again!"

Zoey blinked at her, hand frozen above the poster she'd been given to sign. This happened from time to time, but she always felt terrible about it. Fans would speak to her briefly during events and then come back later expecting her to remember, even though it would be impossible for her to recognize every face she saw at these things. It generally took a particularly notable interaction or frequent repeated encounters for her to actually start remembering people.

Still, she would hate to disappoint anyone.

"You too!" she said brightly. Her marker glided over the bottom of the poster, leaving behind her name and the little cartoon turtle that had become a part of her idol signature.

The woman must have seen something in her face. A lack of recognition or an insufficiently excited response.

"Don't tell me you don't remember me." She took on a playful pout.

Zoey stared at her, caught out and on the spot. Should she remember this person?

"Zoey..." she went on with a good-natured whine. "Come on, it's Ava!"

Zoey dropped her marker. Only years of training and experience allowed her to play off the jolt that shot through her as a burst of excitement.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, sweet and happy even as several things hit her at once. The echo of jeering voices. The phantom sensation of hands gripping her shoulders. The faint memory of alcohol burning her tongue.

Ava didn't seem to notice. She smiled, big and bright like she had that day in junior year when she'd approached Zoey in the library and kindly asked what she was writing. Like she would at lunch, for those sweet few months Zoey had thought she'd found a friend.

"I've been trying to get out here to see you for forever." Ava leaned in close over the table. "I caught your show the other day. Hearing you live was crazy!"

"Did you... come all this way just to see me?" Zoey asked in a small voice. The very idea made her skin crawl.

"Of course!" Ava beamed at her, oblivious to the way she squirmed. "I was your first fan, girl. Just wish you'd gotten famous back in the States so I wouldn't have to come so far."

First fan.

Did she not fucking remember?

"It was so sweet of you to make the trip," Zoey said instead of any of the more pointed things running through her mind. "I'm glad you liked the show."

"Oh, it was great. Would've been cool if there was a meet and greet then, but now's good too." Ava reached into her pocket to pull out her phone. "Do you think I could get a quick selfie? Everyone back home would lose their minds."

Zoey had to try very hard to resist the urge to start yanking her own hair out. She should have seen that one coming, really. It had always been about what the others thought with Ava. That was the only reason she'd ever cared about Zoey's lyrics. To bring them back to her real friends and simply roll with what was cool at the moment. They were all the rage now, but back then, the trend had skewed toward making stupid parodies that mocked every bit of emotion poured out onto the pages of those notebooks Zoey had been stupid enough to share.

It didn't matter the topic. Something light and fun, made purely for the joy of creation? An outlet for her feelings toward her crumbling home life? An attempt to make sense of suddenly having two homes and feeling like an outcast in both? All prime teasing material.

"I'm sorry..." She put on her best apologetic face. "There's still the line, and if I give one person a selfie, I have to give everyone a selfie, and well... y'know."

Rather than disappointed, Ava just looked surprised. Like she couldn't believe Zoey would tell her no.

"No exceptions for your friends?" she asked.

Please go away, Zoey thought desperately.

"I'm really sorry."

"Zoey-"

But the line was beginning to push now, and the fan that had lingered several minutes too long had drawn Bobby's attention. He motioned to another member of the staff, who started forward. Ava finally seemed to take the hint.

Expression thoroughly soured, she stepped away from the table and made way for the next fan in line, leaving Zoey with sweat on her brow and a foul taste in her mouth that reminded her of sitting on the floor of stranger's bathroom, fumbling for her phone.

She didn't have much time to linger on it. The fans behind Ava had already been waiting too long. She had to shelve however she felt about that interaction for later, plaster on her sweet smile, and keep going. After all, she would hate to disappoint anyone.

But she couldn't get it out of her head. The kind eyes that had turned sharp and cruel without warning. The encouragement, the praise that had made her think she'd found a place, only to be met with the reality that she was a joke to everyone. Bile crept slowly up her throat.

Despite her best efforts to welcome each fan with warmth and enthusiasm, part of her wasn't here anymore. She was 17 again, curled up on tiles that weren't hers while her head spun, her only friend laughed at her humiliation, and her father made his way over to add "cries to daddy and ruins parties" to the list of hits her reputation had taken over the years.

When she looked up to hand over the poster she'd just signed, she didn't see the adoring, awestruck faces of her fans. She saw the attendees of a party she hadn't even want to go to watching gleefully as she made a fool of herself, egged on by alcohol she hadn't wanted to drink and a friend who had promised to look after her.

She stood up suddenly, her chair screeching loudly against the floor. If anyone looked, she didn't notice. Didn't care. She just needed to get out of this room.

Faster than she could process, she was running. Down a side hall, toward the room that had been supplied for Huntr/x to prep and rest before the event.

Distantly, she heard Rumi's voice.

"Just a few minutes, everyone! We're just taking a short break."

Her ears rang. Her head throbbed. By the time she'd stumbled her way into the room, it was all she could do to reach a nearby plush chair and flop down, dead weight and nauseous. Moments later, the door opened again, followed by two sets of footsteps.

"Zoey?" Mira asked, her voice low and urgent.

"What's going on?" Rumi approached quickly and dropped to her knees in front of the chair, eyes frantically searching Zoey's face. "Are you okay?"

Fuck. What was she supposed to say?

Yeah, I'm good, just freaking out because I'm not over someone being a bitch to me five years ago.

Why couldn't she just get over it? It didn't matter anymore.

"Zo?" Mira prompted with a gentle hand on Zoey's shoulder. "Baby, talk to us."

With what little air she could get, Zoey swallowed and said, "I'm just... I feel really sick..."

Not a total lie.

Rumi and Mira exchanged a glance.

"Sick how?" Mira pressed. "Are you hot? Were you drinking enough?"

Rumi pressed the back of her hand to Zoey's forehead.

"It's my stomach," Zoey murmured. "I kinda thought I was about to throw up. Didn't want to do it in front of the fans, y'know?"

Rumi made a soft, sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. "You're clammy. Maybe we should end the signing early."

Zoey shook her head. "I don't want to disappoint the fans."

"I don't want you collapsing out there. You don't look right." Mira's brow furrowed slightly, and she leaned in as if trying to catch Zoey's attention. "You're not focusing on me."

Zoey realized belatedly that she'd been sort of staring past both of them at a nondescript spot on the wall, part of her mind still elsewhere. Her eyes snapped to Mira's face.

"Sorry," she said. "You guys can go back out. I'll just wait here."

"It's okay, Zoey," Rumi replied. "We can take you home."

"I don't want to move right now," Zoey insisted, a bit firmer. "I just need a few minutes. Go finish the signing."

"Bobby can sit with you," Mira decided.

"Don't bother him."

"You're not a bother." Both of Rumi's hands cupped her face. "We're your girlfriends and he's our manager. Making sure you're okay is literally our job."

Zoey looked away, her chest tight. "I just want to take a nap."

"And Bobby can sit with you while you do," Rumi said.

"It won't be much longer," Mira promised. "Just another thirty minutes. We won't extend it at all."

Rumi pressed a light kiss to Zoey's damp forehead. "Call us if you need us."

The moment they left the room, Zoey curled up and laid down as best she could, back to the door so she would be facing away from Bobby when he arrived. Not that she wouldn't appreciate him being there for her, but she just didn't want anyone talking to her right now. 

When the door opened again, she pretended to already be asleep. Bobby made no attempt to wake her, instead walking quietly over to another chair in the corner. Once he sat down, his quiet presence easily faded into the background. Arms over her head, face hidden against the back of the chair, Zoey hardly noticed him. Couldn't really notice him, when everything else was so loud. 

A soft, sweet voice inviting her to share what she wrote. Singing along with her at times as she tried to find beats and melodies to match her words. Inviting her out on Friday night even though she would really rather just stay in, because there were some people dying to hear that new song she'd just finished. Yes, there would be alcohol, but that was okay. She didn't have to drink. 

Then when she got there, that same voice insisting she try some anyway. It wasn't very strong. She could even mix it with soda and make it sweeter if she wanted. It was just liquid courage, preparing her to impress everyone who wanted to hear her sing. 

Multiple voices now, coaxing more drinks into her, until finally she began to flip through her notebook for the song she'd been invited to share. 

She slurred her way through about half of it before she realized everyone was singing along. But... that couldn't be right. No one else knew the song. No one but Ava. Had she shared it early?

But the lyrics were wrong. Full of jabs and insults she had never written. It took a nasty, violent slur replacing one of her favorite lines for reality to catch up. 

They had planned this. Ava had shared her song, and they had changed it, and they were mocking her. 

They had changed her lyrics. 

They had ruined her song. 

They had invited her here just for this. 

She burst into tears, and the crowd burst into laughter. Someone ripped the notebook out of her hand, demanding that she keep going, prompting her to start again with those awful, changed, wrong lyrics. Her stomach began to churn with distress and too much alcohol. 

The howls of amusement only got louder when she vomited onto the notebook shoved beneath her nose, ruining it and everything she'd written in it over the past several weeks. No one helped her when she rolled off the couch, clutching her middle. She looked around desperately for her friend. For the person who had promised to stay close to her tonight. 

Ava was off to the side, doubled over laughing. 

Zoey crawled to the bathroom alone. She spent half an hour emptying her stomach, tears pouring down her face, until she managed to call her dad to come get her. For once, she was actually grateful that her mother was back in Korea these days. That woman would have never tolerated underage drinking, or a party for that matter. Her father, at least, would unground her sometime this decade. 

Still, part of her wished she hadn't called. The party was ruined the moment an adult knocked on the door, and none of the other kids would let her forget it anytime soon. She received the scolding of a lifetime on the way home. Her phone was taken away for two weeks, given back only for minutes at a time when she had scheduled calls with her mother. She couldn't go out to the store and buy a new notebook to replace the one she'd lost at the party. She couldn't go anywhere but school for the rest of the month. 

No skateboarding. No trips to the park. No turtle videos. No notebooks to write in other than the ones she needed for school, which her father made clear he would also not let her replace if she filled them up "just to spite her punishment". 

It was a miserable grounding, and in the face of her parents' disappointment, she never worked up the nerve to tell them what had been done to her. That she'd felt forced to drink. That she'd been humiliated by more than just her own irresponsibility. That the kids her father said she could get her notebook back from at school if she wanted it so badly were shoving her down flights of stairs and into lockers every chance they got. 

She came away from the experience beaten. No longer willing to try her luck with new friends. Quiet and alone most of the time. Thinking that maybe Korea wasn't so bad after all, because maybe not knowing anyone was a blessing. Maybe she would just stay there with her mother after graduation. 

Had she not eventually felt the deep, spiritual tug of the Honmoon and followed it to Celine and her girls, she wasn't sure she would have ever made another meaningful connection. 

In the present, Zoey bit down on her lip, wishing it could just cease to matter. She was sure no one but her cared about that night anymore. Possibly, no one else even remembered. She was making such a huge deal out of it, disappointing her fans and leaving her girls hanging over it, and it was all just high school bullshit she should have left in the past ages ago. 

Why was she like this? 

When the door finally opened again, she remained still, continuing to feign sleep.  

"How is she?" Mira asked in a whisper. 

"She really conked out," Bobby replied. "Hasn't moved the whole time."

A soft touch ghosted across Zoey's back. She twisted to find Rumi beside her once more, eyes gentle and loving. 

"Hi, darling," she murmured. "Any better?"

"Sleepy," Zoey said thickly, partially to get out of talking and partially because the ordeal had genuinely exhausted her. 

"Let's get you home, then." Mira walked over, turned her back, and crouched. "Hop on, Zo."

Too much, Zoey thought even as she climbed on automatically. You can walk. You're taking too much. You're being too much. 

Mira stood easily as if Zoey didn't weigh a thing. Zoey clung to her like a needy koala, her face pressed firmly against her lover's neck. Rumi kept a hand on Zoey's spine as if she meant to add support, though Mira clearly didn't need it. 

They carried her through the back halls of the building and out to the car waiting for them. Mira lowered Zoey into Rumi's arms, and Rumi gently situated her into an upright enough position to get her seatbelt on. Zoey didn't know why she let them do everything for her, handling her mostly limp body like a doll, but she did, even as her brain screamed at her that she was making unnecessary work for them. 

Mira walked around the other side of the car so they could get in on either side of her. Bobby sat up front with the driver. 

Zoey rested on Rumi's shoulder as they began the drive home, Mira's hand gently rubbing the back of her neck. She hated herself for taking when she didn't need to, but she felt so safe anyway that she couldn't get herself to reject their care. She was so comfortable and warm. They were so soft and loving. 

She was asleep before they hit the first intersection. 

------

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or buying the writer a coffee!

All chapters of this fic will be tagged with the fic title for anyone looking for other chapters.

[siri-ike]

So it was them. They messed with time.

For the first time, his mask slipped. There was a slight change in his facial expression. Only for a second. But with all eyes on him, even at this distance, he was sure someone noticed.

He was right.

The emotions he was getting from everyone in the room were messy. Confusion, betrayal, anger, melancholy, excitement, angst, anxiety, embarrassment, shock, awe, eagerness, passion, anguish, disdain. Danny could feel the headache creeping up from his core, desperately trying to translate it all. But despite all of that, he noticed the minor change. Realization, pride, sorrow, fear, disillusionment. Someone knows.

They all stared at him. Silently. Like they had unanimously decided that he, an 8 year old as far as they know, should be the one to speak.

Danny took one step back and let the doors slam shut in front of him. He waved his arm, and a portal appeared to take him to the ghost zone. Right before he stepped in, he made a duplicate to leave behind.

Clockworks tower was as hard to find as anything in the ghost zone. But nothing can hide from the Ancient of Space.

Danny beheld the ruin he'd spent so much time in. Clockworks tower. Even 28 years in the past, it still looked the same. He ran his hand along the cobblestone walls as he walked serenely up the spiral staircase. Some of his best memories were made in that tower. He had found himself with a second chance to connect with his family, but... those were the people who got him killed the first time. And who killed him. Not to mention having to actively avoid the people who killed him the second time. Danny stopped at the top, in front of the door to Clockworks' main room. He was prepared to let Damian kill him again. To dissappear. He had even started to look forward to it. Isn't that awful? The idea of getting to spend his earlier years with someone who actually cared about him. Who actually loved him. Unconditionally. It was all ripped away when he saw grandfather dead. Killing Danyal wasn't enough for them. They had to take him away from the only real parent Danny had ever had.

Danny pushed the door open.

No one.

That's weird. Clockwork hardly ever leaves his tower. Last time was when the old Ancient of Space handed over the title.

"Clockwork?" Danny wandered in. His smaller frame made the room look so different. "Are you here?"

"How did you enter my tower, child?" An echoing whisper asked. It wasn't Clockworks voice.

Danny searched for the sorce of the voice. He locked on to an empty area. The ghost was invisible, but nothing could hide from the Ancient of Space. "Your tower? This is Clockworks tower."

The ghost revealed themselves. A ghost in a long dress that faded into a ghostly whisp at the bottom. Their corset had moving gears that ticked in sync with the clocks along the hem of their skirt. Their sleeves were poofy and reached their wrists, along which were 8 watches. They had a narrow cane with a half clear orb on the end. Their hair looked like wire or leather, and it was knotted on either side of their head and hung down to their waist. "I am Clockwork. Who might you be?"

That can't be. Clockwork has always been Clockwork. They're the ancient of time. And as the Ancient of Time, they would know the past, present, and future. They should recognize him even as a small child. "But..."

As soon as the portal closed, Danny turned invisible. Mother and Batman burst through the door. He was partly surprised that they put their argument aside in favor of chasing him. They split up and ran down both hallways. Danny split himself in two and followed both.

At the nearest turn, batman stopped to look for clues. Of course, there were none since they were not following Danny.

"We went the wrong way."

Close but wrong.

Batman turned to his group. Damian and Red Robin had followed him. "Damian, who was he?"

Danny had never seen Damian look so guilty. So remorseful. "He, he is my brother. My twin, Danyal."

The twin you killed. Don't forget that part.

"Where would he have gone?"

He wouldn't know. Damian didn't know anything about Danny.

"I don't know."

Obviously.

"Just, give me a communicator. We can split up."

He didn't show it, but Danny could feel Batman's apprehension. He threw a little device to Damian, who stuck it in his ear as the others ran off.

But Damian stayed put. He looked around and, released a puff of cold air from his mouth.

"Speak, child. Who are you?"

"I'm Danny." Danny transformed into Phantom. Something felt different. He looked at one of the many mirror pieces floating in the air (how did he not notice those before?). He looked different. Or the same? He looked the way he did right after the portal accident. Why wasn't his ghost form younger, too?

"Danny," the other Clockwork spoke smoothly. "I see." Their eyes turned a lighter color and the gears on their dress ticked faster for a few seconds. Then they looked back at Danny. "You have been misplaced. How unfortunate." They tilted their head ever so slightly. "Fortunately for you, the ghost zone is just the place for unclaimed souls." They floated closer and gently ushered Danny out. "You need only seek. Somewhere, a realm will have formed just for you."

Danny halted at the front gate. "Stop. The Clockwork I knew was different. They were," Danny looked down at the ground. "Like a father to me." He looked back up.

Other Clockwork stared for a moment, eyes void of any thoughts or emotion. Clockworks stoicism was usually a comfort for Danny. A break from having to feel what everyone else did, but now? There was nothing.

Danny wanted to reach out a hand but was met with the door slamming shut.

A DC X DP IDEA #47

I would turn back time just to see you again

Imagine dis…

I just needed to clean my drafts and this one is a bit overdue. Also I think I saw a post similar to this one and I cant find them anymore so either way kudos to them cause their post inspired me to make one of my own.

…..

Danny Phantom, now Danyal al Ghul, had found himself hurled into the past. Panic clawed at him. He didn’t need to guess, he already knew something had happened to Clockwork, his mentor, his protector, the Ancient of Time himself. A disturbance in the Infinite Realms had yanked him forcibly back into his younger body, leaving only his soul intact and including the full weight of bearing the title the Ancient of Space.

And he had landed here.

In Nanda Parbat.

In the very place where his life had ended the first time.

But Danyal was not without resources. He had memories. He had the power. And most importantly, he had training. He understood he couldn't act suspicious not here, surrounded by League members who could smell weakness.

So he slipped into his former role.

He became the perfect illusion of young Danyal, the former him, the wide-eyed, devoted son who adored his mother and idolized his older twin, Damian.

Every smile, every soft word during the rare times where only he and Damian are together, every clumsy move was calculated, down to the tremble in his voice and the slight hesitations in his steps. His every expression was carefully crafted to mimic innocence.

As much innocence he was allowed within this halls.

Danyal was acting, and he was doing it so well that even Talia and Damian, the supposed two people who knew him best, never questioned him.

Not at first.

He trained in secret, pushing his ghostly powers to the edge while outwardly struggling with swordplay in which Damian mastered months ago. He let it show in his own body language on how confused he is during strategy meetings, deferential during training sessions. He laughed and cried. Anything to keep suspicion off his true nature.

He will avoid the Fentons at this time around at all costs. As much he adored Jazz and Dani he wouldn’t want to feel his own organs rearranging itself and beating outside of his own body for the second time.

But he will wait, wait for the fateful day where Ra would only need one heir. The day where Danyal Al Ghul could never grip his sword right as to follow the order to fight by the Demon Head.

The day Damian had killed him without so much as a second thought always vying for the rightful title as the heir.

But something went wrong.

A week into his second life, Danyal watched with growing horror as events began to diverge from the past he remembered. Talia and Damian that was once Ra’s al Ghul’s most loyal heirs, had killed Ra’s themselves. The man who had cast his shadow over their entire lives was gone, and now both mother and twin looked at Danyal with sharp, unsettling intensity.

Family dinners became mandatory, silent meetings took place behind locked doors, and Danyal could feel the weight of their stares lingering on him longer than ever before.

He clung to his mask of naivety, knowing any slip might reveal the powerful being hidden beneath the skin of a boy.

He almost convinced himself that he could handle it—that he could steer this altered fate back on course.

That deep down Damian still wanted to be the only one. The one true heir.

Until a horde of colorfully dressed vigilantes stormed Nanda Parbat’s gates.

As Danyal al Ghul, he had to respond.

Katana in hand, neutral expression plastered on his face, he sprinted toward the throne room. He braced himself for bloodshed, for the clash of steel.

Instead, he heard shouting.

Bursting through the doors, he found not assassins or invaders—but Gotham's vigilante elite: Nightwing, Batman, Red Hood, Red Robin. Only Robin was absent. They stood frozen, as pale as specters, staring at him.

At the boy with Damian's face—and crystal blue eyes.

….

Six Years in the Future:

The Batfamily had been losing a brutal war against Eclipso—the personification of God’s wrath, possessing Ra’s al Ghul’s body, corrupted by endless dips in the Lazarus Pit. Eclipso had shattered mountains, unleashed floods, brought devastation with the power of a fallen god.

Just as he delivered what should have been a killing blow to the broken Batfamily—

They woke up.

In the past.

Dick was back in Blüdhaven. Tim was Robin again. Jason was a newly minted Red Hood. Bruce was a broken man, still mourning Jason.

Memories intact, instincts sharper than ever, they knew where to go: Nanda Parbat.

They expected to find Ra’s. They expected to find Damian.

They did not expect Ra’s to already be dead, his ashes scattered to the wind.

They did not expect Talia to step from the shadows and confess she had killed him herself, striking before Eclipso could even thought of possessing the former Demon Head.

They did not expect Talia relinquish her own hold to Damian. Talia as though pushed him towards them.

And they certainly did not expect Damian go wide eyed in surprise and then anger and be so so insistent to stay here.

The argument between Talia and Damian was vicious, each screaming accusations and betrayals at the other—until a boy, a stranger, entered.

A boy who looked like Damian.

But whose eyes blazed bright, glacial blue.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Danyal al Ghul.

A son Bruce had never known. A brother Damian had killed in the first timeline. A secret Talia had buried deep within her heart.

To Damian, Danyal was the brother who had loved him without hesitation—whom he had destroyed in cold ambition.

To Talia, Danyal was her true heir—the one she had nurtured, protected, loved beyond measure.

To the family of vigilantes, Danyal was a son/ brother that they didn’t know about, and didn’t get to mourn about.

And now, faced with a second chance, neither Talia nor Damian would let the Batfamily take him away so easily.

Because no matter how much Bruce or his sons demanded— Talia would rather die than lose Danyal again.

And this time, Danyal wasn’t a helpless boy.

This time, he had secrets of his own.

…..

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PS: This is shorter than i thought it would be....

[xtraoddinary]

The added member

Ot8 x fem!reader fluff

Sum: When JYP suddenly decided to add a a girl to Stray Kids it comes as a surprise to all the members especially since she has a lot of advantages to the group.

An: so I really hate when the reader is perceived as “weak” and doesn’t know how to handle herself so I made her a serial hobbyist (a person with a lot of hobbies) also not proofread kinda rushed

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - ♫ - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

For whatever reason jyp thought it would be a great idea to add a bit of “diversity” to one of his most popular groups. This girl, jyp had been keeping an eye on. She was able to keep up with the boys in many ways. She sings really well and her dancing skills are excellent. Best in her group. The company thought to make her a solo artist. But according to them this was better? From what they can gather she’s from America and has only had 3 training years. But to their surprise she’s only a few months younger than Jeongin making her the maknae instead. Growing up you were always seen as a leader. Always helped those in need. Always sticking up for others. Hell, your parents were sure you’d become a cop or something.

Though when they found out you wanted to become an idol they weren’t the happiest but still supportive. You didn’t have any brothers growing up so this would be a big change for you. Still hopeful the gender difference wouldn’t put a barrier in the relationship between you them.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - ♫ - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

A few weeks later you had finally moved in, Changbin, Han, and Chan helping you move your boxes. To your surprise you got your own room and restroom for obvious reasons. While finishing up the last of your unpacking someone knocks on your door. “It’s open” you say signaling the person on the other side to come in. “Hey, I just wanted to see how you’re settling in” It’s Felix. “Still trying to manage my way around some things” you say fidgeting with your hands. “Well we’re all in the living room. Wanna join us?” He asks. “I’d love to. Hold on” you say quickly grabbing your favorite blanket and slipping on your hello kitty slippers. “Ok let’s go” the both of you walk together to the living room where the others are waiting. You decide to sit next to Han and Felix sits next to you. “Glad you could join us y/n. We just wanted to use this time for you to get to know us better.” He says with a smile “oh I’d love that” you say. They all go around and tell you about themselves and their backgrounds which was pretty comforting. You could quite literally feel the bond between all of you getting stronger.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - ♫ - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

And just like that you had your first interview with all of them in attendance of course. This was technically your introduction as the newest member of Stray Kids. While the makeup artist was doing your makeup you noticed that she was talking to one of the other makeup artists in Korean and giggling a lot. You knew quite a bit of Korean but not enough to tell what they were saying. But you could take a guess of what kind of things that was said between the two. But you held your young not wanting to mess up this interview. Hyunjin comes in and tells you that they’re ready. And as soon as he enters both of the makeup artists shut up. “Okay I’m done anyway” you say quickly fixing up some of the makeup yourself so you still look presentable and you walk to the filming area where everyone else is. This interview was your first one and you were already in a bad mood. Chan could tell in an instant that you weren’t yourself but it was too late to ask questions about it because they were about to start filming. “Y/n how about you sit next to Han” Chan said. He knew that Han’s presence could cheer anyone up which led him to his suggestion. So you sit next to Han and they start filming. As you’re filming, it doesn’t take long for you to realize that this interview is mostly in Korean but the boys do repeat some of the questions so you can understand. And some of questions you knew but it was still a little confusing. When it was your turn the interviewer asks you his question in Korean but you didn’t know what he said so you looked at Han and he says “He’s wondering if you can understand Korean”. You shake your head “I can only understand a little bit not a lot” Han translates it back to the interviewer. “그녀는 정말 멍청하다” (She is so stupid) the interviewer says with a chuckle under his breath clearly forgetting everyone else was there. You look at the boys for translation but they all look like they’re about to commit a felony. You’d only know them for a few weeks but you’d never seen them so angry. It was kinda scary. The first one to break the silence was Minho. But it was still in Korean, his voice was thunderous but still calm. He stared dead at the interviewer as he was talking. Hyunjin backing up on whatever he said his tone sharp as a blade. You just sat there looking like you just opened a test you didn’t study for. Seungmin was about to start talking but Han quickly covered your ears knowing what kind of stuff was going to come out of his mouth but it didn’t matter because you couldn’t understand him anyway still speaking Korean. After Han uncovered your ears the interviewer quickly apologized over and over. You told him it was okay but he kept apologizing. The interview continued the tension in the air was prominent but ignored. You were still confused. ‘What did he say that made them so mad?’ You thought to yourself. After the interview you all went back to the dorms and you wanted to know what they said that you couldn’t understand. So you the only way was to ask someone you trust. You knock on the door and on the other side you hear ‘come in’ so you enter and you see Seungmin on his bed on his phone and Jeongin was reading a book at a desk. “Hey Jeongin. Do you want to do my skincare routine with me” you say knowing it would quickly get his attention. You both had flawless skin and when he heard you ask him to do skincare together he slammed his book down and shot up looking ecstatic. So you drag him to your restroom which is kinda spacious with a large countertop. You allow him to sit on the counter while you get your supplies.

“Jeongin, I need to ask you something” you say not making eye contact still taking out your supplies. “Shoot” he says. “What did Minho, Hyunjin, and Seungmin say to the interviewer today?” You ask now wiping off my makeup with makeup remover handing him one. He hesitates not wanting you to hate them. “Uhm I can’t tell you” he says wiping off his makeup as well. “Why? Was it bad? Was it about me? What did the interviewer say that made them so upset?” You asked him starting to wash your face. He hesitates still haven’t started wiping off his makeup. Subconsciously you grab his jaw and his wipe and start wiping it off for him. Your moves delicate and careful. Back at home you and your sister used to do your skincare together so this was like muscle memory to you. As you finished up wiping his face you quickly realized what you were doing. You look up at him, his eyes were wide. You knew how much he didn’t like people touching him so you quickly let go of his face. The quick move startled him snapping him back into reality. You quickly started to apologize but he interrupted you. “It’s fine.. I don’t mind” he said softly. You both just sit there for a moment staring at each other. Then you clear your throat and try to go back to the topic at hand. “Can you please tell me what happened today, at the interview” you look at him with pleading eyes. He avoids your eyes, not wanting to show vulnerability. “We don’t want you to hate us. We’re sorry about what happened at the interview. But I can’t tell you. Sorry.” He says softly. You didn’t want to push on the subject so of course you didn’t ask again. “Here wash your face and I’ll show you how to make my face mask.” You say moving so he can have the sink. Then you gasp making him flinch. “Omg! We should do rice masks!” You say ecstatically. “Uhm… ok sure” he says. And with that you left the restroom to make some rice.

So now your rice paste is in a bowl ready to be put on. “I’m gonna put on your mask for you. Okay?” You say already picking up some of the paste with your hands. He sits on the kitchen counter simply waiting for you to put on his mask. As you’re applying the paste to his face Changbin enters the kitchen. “What is happening here” he asks genuinely confused. “Rice masks. Want one?” You ask jokingly. “Sure” he sends a quick text message and sits next to Jeongin on the counter. You stand there dumbfounded not really thinking he’d actually say yes. “Oh! Okay I’ll finish Jeongin’s then I’ll do yours”. Then while finishing up Jeongin’s face mask, Felix and Seungmin enter. “Where’s the food?” Seungmin asks looking around the kitchen. “What food?” You ask. “Changbin texted the group chat and said that he ordered food and that it’s in the kitchen” Felix says looking a bit confused. Seungmin, Felix, Jeongin and you all look at Changbin. “I may or may not have said that so they can do face masks with us” he says looking at you with a mischievous expression. And with that Seungmin tries to walk out the kitchen but Felix grabs the back of his shirt stoping him before he could get far. Then Minho walks in. “What is on their face” at this point you had started doing Changbin’s mask. “Rice masks” you all say in unison. He looks at you confused. “There’s no food” Seungmin says disappointment was written across his face. “Min can you make some more rice please” you ask putting some cucumber slices on Changbin’s face. In a matter of minutes everyone in the dorm had a rice mask. “You guys we look amazing” Changbin says giggling like a high school girl. “Let’s take a selfie!” You say holding your phone out for Hyunjin to take the selfie of all of you together. In this moment you knew that being an idol with them was the best decision you’ve ever made.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - ♫ - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵