#in comparison to how this was about to go

[invisiblemelonmoose]

[Text id: tags that read

"#my best friends goldfish would sit in her hand when she’d put it in to clean his tank because he knew it was her #he could play ping pong. he knew everyone in the house.

#the comparison between her two goldfish that she’d had since they were babies and their tails

#from being able to grow in a 400l tank vs the one she adopted as a rescue#with a tiny tail because he was stunted from being cramped

#her blind pleco with ammonia burns. her terrified angel fish who was bullied in an overcrowded tank

#fish are beautiful and intelligent creatures with memories and social bonds and complex nervous systems

#i try to avoid standing on the wooden pallets when i feed the alevin salmon because it startles them since their tanks are on the them

#i told them every single day i loved them when they were eggs and hatchlings

#what has stuck with me the most was the technician who when i was worrying about being too emotional about the fish was that

#you care. you have to keep caring because what if someone else doesn’t? it’s how things go unchecked and people are allowed to get away with

#hurting them. if you don’t care then you run the risk of no one caring.

#sorry for the rambling but

#i love you fish. i love you fin fish and bony fish and shellfish and every single marine animal

#i love you i will never let that love and care be taken from me".

End id]

slightly furious reminder that fish do in fact feel pain and do in fact experience fear and distress when in pain since people seem to love spreading the myth that fish don't feel pain. what is it with people assuming a creature is incapable of feeling pain or emotion just because it doesn't have complex facial muscles. come on gang

[twilightofthesandwiches]

You can say Jevil is a lot like Susie, an unpredictable battle-happy force of chaos fighting against the restrictions placed on them by the world by simply denying that they’re there.

The main difference is that Jevil seems to truly has no interest in anything but his 'games' of violence, while throughout Chapter 1 Susie learns that violent solutions aren't always the answer.... and now that her desire to 'do anything' also includes just wanting to keep being with her friends...

It might be a lot harder for her to achieve the kind of freedom she wants....

Or you can say Jevil is a lot like Kris, the paradoxical nature of their existence exemplified through the motif of a Cage.

But Jevil is the prisoner who is actually Free, while Kris is a prison who is themself trapped.

You can also say Spamton is a lot like Kris, robbed of freedom and agency by both metaphysical puppet-strings and a mysterious voice on the phone.

It's just that Spamton has alienated everyone he's ever known and ended up totally alone, while Kris at least has some friends willing to help them… if they knew what's going on.

Or you can say Spamton is a lot like Ralsei, a Darkner tormented by his wider knowledge and deeper understanding of the nature of things, and how he is not truly real and how he is not truly free. Who echoes some of Flowey's lines from 'Undertale'.

But Ralsei handles this knowledge by being both incredibly fatalistic and incredibly unhealthily selfless, while Spamton, as a Darkner doomed to selfishness, drives himself mad (well, madder) trying to fight against it.

And… you could say the Roaring Knight is a lot like Kris because they are both incredibly mysterious to the Player. And Kris' Dark World design does make them look a lot like a knight of sorts...

Or if you wanna say Ramb is the true 'main character' of Chapter 3's Shadow Crystal Route, than he's a lot like Kris because they are both outsiders in their 'worlds'. Kris is the only Human in Hometown, Ramb is the only Plugboy in TV World.

The main difference is that, well, even if Kris still feels like an outsider sometimes, they still clearly Belong in Hometown more than Ramb belonged in TV World.

Or you could say Ramb is a lot like Ralsei, a Darkner who sees himself as a good friend for Kris and is highly invested in pleasing them and making them happy. Actually becoming literal pushovers for them.

But Ralsei still tries to gently nudge Kris towards Pacifism and what he sees as the right choices where he can, and tries to keep them on the set path. Ramb, for Kris' sake, gave them a world of 'total freedom'… that they actually found to be quite disturbing. Especially since they weren't truly the one in control. A fact Ramb seems unaware of, but Ralsei probably is.

Also, unlike Ramb, Ralsei doesn't just have Kris/the Player. He has actually made other connection, most importantly Susie. Ramb sacrificed any connection he could've ever made in TV World in the name of his loyalty to Kris and it actually cost him his life.

And the most obvious comparison to Gerson would be his unofficial pupil, Susie. While opposites on the surface... one is a scholarly elder and the other is a rambunctious teen. One is a trickster who is constantly hiding his true power, while the other's strength lies in how incredibly straightforward she tends to be. One is a bookworm and author and a teacher, while the other seem to really struggle academically.....

But both are reptilian Monsters with a similar Magic attack.

Both fiercely reject the Prophecy's inevitability. Both are 'echoes' of Undyne as she was in Undertale in different ways...

But Gerson could also be compared to Ralsei. Both are Darkners who look like Light World Monsters (although with different in-universe lore reasons... I assume), both know a lot about the Prophecy, both try and guide Kris and Susie in their own way, both are part of Susie's Healing Magic Training, both are somewhat echoes of Flowey. (Gerson being revived from an object covered in dust in a very similar manner to how Asriel was revived as Flowey).

It's just that Ralsei is a lot more defeatist. While he did hold some hope that maybe he could change fate through the power of his kindness, he still found it hard to doubt the Prophecy's inevitability. He tried to hide it from Kris and Susie in the hopes of sparing them the grief of knowing about it like he does.

While Gerson shatters the Prophecy in an attempt to nudge the Heroes into defying it, always believing and never doubting that the Prophecy could be rewritten.

Ralsei is saddled with this knowledge from just the nature of his being, he's not even quite sure where his knowledge came from. And despite knowing so much, he's still got the emotional maturity of a teen and the life experience of like three days, and his naivete and lack of actual experience are his biggest weaknesses.

Both his social inexperience and his fatalist attitude are the reason why he could never teach Susie more than the basics of Healing Magic.

Gerson is a grown-up who's knowledge of the Prophecy came from his research and has ages of actual life experience and wisdom to pull from. While he doesn't seem to know Healing Magic himself, he was instrumental to teaching it to Susie because he was able to figure her out and devise a method that will actually help her learn and improve.

Ralsei is also the one Darkner we know of who is immune to petrification in every Dark World, while Gerson specifically can only appear under very specific circumstances in specific Dark Worlds.

Hmmmm… are there any more Shadow Boss - Delta Warrior comparisons I missed?

[kurooh]

★ EPISODE 02. SLOTH

SUMMARY. a certain producer has been bothering shinsou since before the set up with hanta—you’re urgently wanted in a video with UA bombshell todoroki shoto! how exciting and nervewracking; he’s only one of your biggest fantasies, right? oh, and it looks like it’s shower scene too . . will he live up to your expectations?

WARNINGS. 18+ content, mdni. fem! reader, shower sex, oral, unprotected sex, awkwardness. wc / 6.1k

▸ RETURN TO THE MAIN MENU!

shinsou calls you when the sun is sinking below the horizon and its colors are bleeding through the sky in picturesque streaks. you’re standing in front of the window when you pick up your phone, body thoroughly relaxed since returning from a trip to a nearby spa. tokyo is still very new to you, but it was hanta who’d kindly given you the recommendation.

“hey. sero told me the shoot went well. is that accurate or is he pulling my leg?”

his voice crackles through the phone and you just laugh at the idea of hanta playfully messing with people. it suits him, and makes him all the more attractive.

the shoot did go well—actually, that’s an extremely mild way to put it. your debut shoot had gone much better than you could’ve expected it to; your co-star is just being modest. still, even hours later, you can feel him on your skin.

not the grip of his hands on your waist as he positioned you on his lap, nor the pleasant sting of his teeth grazing along your lip in the middle of a graceless kiss.

once the cameras had stopped rolling, hanta helped to sit you up so that you could be comfortable against the cushions. instead of collecting his clothing off the floor and getting dressed, he’d just walked butt-ass naked around the whole room to find a pack of baby wipes. he tore them open and sank to his knees in front of you, as if to worship. gently, without haste, he began to clean the mess away from your inner thighs and pelvis.

when you flinched from the coolness of the wipe, he only ran his fingers along the curve of your hip and apologized, reminding you to stay still nonetheless. in comparison to the shoot, it was soft. entirely genuine and completely caring.

and it surprised you more than you expected it to. such a simple act of respect and compassion, and yet it’s all you can feel hours later. oh, and he was close—so close that you could see the light freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

“he’s just being modest,” you’re trying to think of a way to explain that you really liked hanta without divulging too much about the shoot. if he wants details, he can watch the video when it’s uploaded to UA’s website. “we actually connected right off the bat. he really helped me to get past my nerves, and it was a perfect introduction to UA.”

shinsou hums thoughtfully, “i’m happy to hear that. since i’m still in my office, do you want me to add him to your yes list? if you’re still thinking about it, i suppose i can do it another—”

you don’t mean to cut him off, but you do. filming with hanta in the future? where can you sign up? “yeah, put his name down. thanks, shinsou.”

the clacking of a keyboard makes itself heard on his end as he adds hanta to the list. 

“oh, i’ve gotta ask. are you up for a shoot the day after tomorrow? i know it’s kind of fast to be scheduling you, but there’s a producer that wants you in a video. he’s been asking since before i scheduled you with sero.”

“do you have any details on it? or should i just show up and find out?”

“never do that,” shinsou chuckles, checking his inbox on his work computer. it doesn’t take long for him to find the email he’s looking for. “producer wants to pair you with todoroki shoto. the set isn’t at the studio, like it was today. you’d be filming at a condo in koto-ku.”

it isn’t very far from your apartment or UA studios, but the detail about the off-studio set isn’t what catches your attention. it’s the name of your potential co-star, todoroki shoto. you know him as well as any thirsty fan does. he’s a fucking knockout, and you’ve always wanted to meet him in person. even just meeting him at an adult trade show and shaking his hand would give you enough masturbation material for an entire year!

you try to keep the earnest excitement out of your voice by reminding yourself that this is a professional phone call with your manager about your job, not an invitation to join love island.

“sounds good. send me the details once you have them and i’ll do it.”

.  .  . 

you’re so keyed up you nearly scrape the side of someone’s car when you’re parking at the condominium. in all fairness, you’re filming with the todoroki shoto! UA’s pretty boy and easily the catch of the century—how could anyone even act normal about this?

luckily, you have some time to gather yourself when you’re ascending the stairs. shinsou forwarded you the information he’d received from the producer, and the cringe of what you’d be filming didn’t bother you one bit. the provided information about the loosely scripted, caught in the shower scene absolutely did not register in your mind. all that stood out to you in the email was shower sex and todoroki shoto—the only things of importance in the block of text.

this must be some sort of divine intervention.

someone upstairs must’ve witnessed your struggles and experiences at shiketsu, and decided to pay you back with interest. all of that workplace bullshit, those lousy fucks—maybe all of that was worth it, if this is what you get in return. an invitation to be at the top, a decent manager, and some hot co-stars. could this even be classified as working anymore? this feels more like living a dream shared by thousands of people, all of which would kill to have this chance.

according to shinsou’s directions, you’re right where you need to be. you knock on the door and quickly step back, practically vibrating with anticipation. what if your co-star has been practicing positions in the shower and answers the door shirtless? you’re drooling at the thought!

the door swings open, and less than a second later, you’re standing face to face with a middle-aged man. he offers you a friendly smile and extends a hand, skin visibly wet.

“you got here just in time! we’ve been working to prep the set, but it’ll take a little while before we get to filming. one of our mics got wet, so two of the guys are out getting another from the studio.”

part of you deflates a little inside, but your hopes were just too high. in fact, the director answering the door only adds to the amount of butterflies in your belly—the wait means that everything will be made absolutely worth it. he lets you in, and you follow him to the set while he goes on about where you can set your purse down during filming and how the kitchen fridge is actually full of food and drink. apparently, the producer personally owns this condo for filming and uses it regularly, only ever swapping out the talent. you’re way more focused on when you’ll be meeting your co-star and how well you’ll mesh together, but you still nod or say something periodically so he knows you’re somewhat listening.

at long last, your prayers are answered.

todoroki shoto stands in the middle of the bathroom, wearing more clothing than he needs to. he’s holding onto an old shower curtain, expression blank, but then his eyes land on you and his lips press into a small, almost imperceptible smile. 

and, bless his heart, he waves. “hi. nice to meet you.”

you manage to control the impulse to scream and say that you’ve been dying to meet him, schooling your pounding heart into submission. so, to match him, you wave back. “hey. are you replacing the shower curtain?”

“yes. it seemed pretty dirty.”

without elaborating, shoto folds it up and slips past you, out of the bathroom. the director is fiddling with a camera to make sure it’s still on when he glances over at you, feeling the need to assure you.

“he doesn’t talk much. it’s nothing personal, he’s just really quiet.”

“i thought that was the case,” you set your purse down on the counter, pushing it far away from the sink. “i don’t really mind. i’ve filmed some stuff with quiet co-stars, it’s no big deal.”

who the hell cares if he’s quiet right now? you’ll be able to draw him out of his shell once you’re both stripped naked and the camera’s rolling. 

you can hear commotion and the opening of a door. the director steps back, clapping his hands. “okay, the boys are back. you can help yourself to the fridge while we get this set up, and then we’ll be ready to start rolling.”

.  .  . 

“go ahead and turn around so that your back is facing us. yes, there you go. once we’re recording, you’ll strip, get in, all that business. todoroki, you went through the notes? you know when you’re supposed to step in, yes?”

your co-star nods, the packet of notes on the shoot in his hand. his face remains neutral despite all of the conversation filling the room, and he’s looking at the freshly replaced shower curtain—or maybe he’s looking at you. the director says something, gesturing to the camera mounted on the shower wall, but you’re too caught up in following the direction of shoto’s gaze to register what’s said until your name is said.

“everybody good to go?” the director looks around the room, making sure that everyone nods, including yourself. “in that case, action!”

with as much sexiness and grace as you can muster, you slide your top up and off of your head without any struggle. your shorts are next to go, leaving you in your matching bra and panties. they’re not the same as the ones you’d worn with hanta; you hadn’t been able to find those even after the shoot wrapped up, so you just assumed they’d been thrown away. after all, he’d absolutely shredded your panties.

you unclasp your bra and shrug it off. the packet of notes on the shoot didn’t give you much information about each scene, looking like it had been torn away from the writer while they were still brainstorming. messy bullet points with complicated annotations were scrawled below every titled scene—one of the things that had you furrowing your brows was a nondescript bullet point reading sexify soap bottle highlighted in both yellow and blue. who the hell is the producer behind this? yes, you’re thankful that they set you up with shoto, but they need to get their shit together when it comes to giving actors material to go off of. it’s either a neat, legible packet or nothing at all!

emphasizing the slight recoil of your asscheeks as you pull the panties down is a little bit awkward. actually, it’s very awkward, but you have no choice but to push through it. you rush to kick the underwear off and hop into the shower; the camera has seen enough of your ass when you’re undressing. whoever isn’t skipping the slow, teasing removal of clothing scene in the beginning of most porn videos has some serious patience!

anyway, you step under the warm spray. the water pressure is just wonderful, as nice as a hotel shower, and all you can smell is the fresh, new shower curtain. colorful bottles of shampoo and body wash line the shelves, just begging to be grabbed, so you give in, selecting a sweetly scented wash. it pours smoothly into your palm with a soft squirt, and fragrance curls through the air as you start to soap up your legs.

you don’t realize the minutes have gone by until you’re in the middle of spreading the suds all over your tits, and the shower curtain is unceremoniously pulled to the side. the culprit is grasping the plastic, which is printed with rubber duckies all over it, and he manages to look smoking hot rather than unserious. oh, if this was for real, you wouldn’t mind having a roommate like him walking in on you in the shower. hell, you’d make sure your apartment is outfitted with a glass shower if it meant he could watch you get all sudsy!

shoto’s cheeks are the lightest shade of pink as his eyes shamelessly dart from your soapy tits to your face. it’s clear that he doesn’t know where to look—you barely manage to keep the smirk off your lips, remembering that you’re supposed to feign surprise.

“i thought i heard a noise, like you slipped . . or something.”

fuck improv. shoto’s done with having to come up with ridiculous porno lines. he doesn’t watch nearly enough stuff by his lonesome to get creative. like, if you’re a producer hiring him for a shoot, why does he have to come up with dialogue for your video? and for the love of god, any scripts or note packets given must be neat and legible, with useful details or annotations!

the gray and turquoise of his multi-colored eyes look like precious gemstones. how is it possible for someone to hit the genetic lottery like he did? shoto’s skin is clear and smooth, in the kind of way that doesn’t come from just expensive and high quality skincare. behind you, the water falls onto the tile, hitting it like rain, and you realize it’s time to deliver your line.

“i’m pretty sure i locked the door,” then you raise an eyebrow at him, glancing meaningfully at his grip on the curtain and how far he’s pulled it back, “don’t tell me you broke in, roomie.”

shoto’s face darkens with embarrassment, and all you can think to yourself is wow, he’s really such a good actor! with the curtain drawn back, the spray makes its way out of the shower and onto his dry clothing, dampening the fabric. naturally, your eyes begin to wander, raking down his body until you spot the lump of his half-hard cock in his sweats. 

“i didn’t break – alright, i did,” he submits easily, chewing on his lower lip while his gaze flicks from your face to your chest. “but shouldn’t you have made it so i didn’t have to?”

suds slip down your chest, mingling with water and pouring down your slippery body. they mostly dissipate on their way down, but a few traces of soap catch in the hair at your pelvis. you swish your body from side to side, setting a hand on your hip for your next line. he looks up, catching the slightest twitch of your lip—are you holding back a laugh or a smile?

“you’re blaming me for not making a move? don’t think i haven’t seen you skulking around every single day. you’re my roommate, and you’re acting like you wanna be my boyfriend or something.”

again, fuck improv! this entire genre of unscripted hot roommate porn needs to die immediately, but he pushes it out of his mind in favor of thinking useful thoughts. it feels like it’s too early to call a cut, but what if—no, he’s got it. what does any not-so-good actor do when they’re struggling in the middle of a scene? they think of their co-workers and dive into the scenario to better understand it. you are his hot roommate that he’s been lusting after, and he needs to act like it!

you don’t expect him to pull back, and clearly, neither does the director—the man is squinting in confusion from behind shoto, whispering profoundly to the guy opening a laptop.

he clears his throat, suddenly stepping back. “you never once stopped me or called me out. i’m, uh, sorry for misreading the situation.”

before shoto can fully turn around, you do the first thing that comes to mind. 

you reach out and grab him by the dick. that definitely gets his attention; his eyes widen a fraction, and genuine surprise just looks so good on him that it makes your thighs squeeze together. he stares at you, a vehement mixture of both arousal and incredulity buried in his eyes, and you’re still holding him in place. it’s too early to let go, so you squeeze, reeling him in like the catch he is.

“i never said you read things wrong . . and maybe—maybe i liked the attention too much to stop you.”

shoto kisses you right then and there, pressing himself against you so that he’s halfway in the shower. the shower water hits him like rain, soaking his hair, and you realize that if you weren’t completely naked and working to tug his pants down, this could almost be a scene straight out of the notebook. his hands wander to your bare ass and he kneads the flesh there, more for himself than you.

“cut! cut before anything goes further!”

the director is quick to stop recording, holding a hand up as he gets to his feet. he looks toward a member of the camera crew, who is opening tabs and programs on the laptop. “hold on for a second, we just have to make sure the camera in the shower is recording correctly.”

shoto looks like he’s in pain when you let him go, but he doesn’t say anything.

“so,” you smile warmly, reaching out to brush your fingertips along his arm as you talk. “i liked your improv. you really brought the idea of the video to life with all of that.”

yes, it’s a totally regurgitated compliment from your shoot with hanta. you made sure to say it with as much charisma and friendliness as he did, and yet, shoto remains placid. he nods, his lips pressing into a straight line. for a moment, you think he’ll strike up a conversation, but he only says, “thank you. you too.”

oh, so he’s shy. it’s not completely shocking, considering your line of work—it’s easy to be bold and sexy on camera, but actually talking? it can be more difficult for some actors and actresses. although, if you were being completely honest and not just understanding, you had somewhat expected this shoot to go as well as your last one did with hanta. you’d hoped to hit it off initially, then explore the chemistry on set, but he’s just too damn polite. could you break him down in the shower?

at shiketsu, he was a fan favorite among many of the girls. (actually, if you’re thinking back far enough, you’ve definitely heard one or two men talking quietly about him too.) many of them would watch his videos and swoon over the way he’d handle his co-star in it or talk out loud about what they’d do if they got the chance to film with him. now you have the chance to do something with him—and you’re going to make it count.

“you got everything synced up? okay, check this so you can make sure it’s—yeah, that’s good,” the director looks toward you, your co-star, and the mounted camera in the shower. “we’re rolling in five! if you could resume kissing like the last scene, that’d be easier for the editors.”

“hey. should i rinse off all the soap so we don’t risk slipping? it’d be better visually if i left it, but it’s up to you.” shoto hears your whispering and nods, leaning in so that the microphones don’t pick up his response.

“yes, we could turn around so that you can rinse. i don’t want either of us to slip or fall, especially with the shower being as small as it is. it’s an emergency room visit waiting to happen.”

as of right now, the camera is rolling. shoto moves fast, nearly headbutting you when he crushes his lips against yours; the kiss is warm, silently eager, and not at all what would be shared between two yearning roommates. if this video was about thanking your partner after some good sex, maybe it’d work. but it isn’t; you take the reins and crank the heat all the way up.

shoto gasps into your mouth when you hike your leg up and around his waist, dragging him into the shower like you plan to devour him. you’re also not holding onto anything aside from him, so he has no choice but to go along or risk dropping you. by the time he gets under the steady steam of water, his shirt and boxers are entirely soaked; his sweatpants are a gray heap on the floor, the only article of clothing that remains dry.

the mounted camera undoubtedly zooms in on shoto pressing you against the wall, and you grabbing at his cock through his boxers. against the column of your throat and in between quick kisses, he emits the softest of sounds, letting you know to keep doing exactly what you’re doing. the water washes away much of the soap and significantly lowers the possibility of slipping, allowing for easier movement—he leans back to undress, making quick work of his shirt and boxers.

now, it’s just you and one of your favorite pornstars.

you’re minutes away from making a longtime fantasy become reality.

before you know it, he’s on you again, but this time he’s fitting a hand between your thighs. you open up for him like a flower in the moonlight, expecting to hear a moan or even some filthy praise, but there’s nothing. not a word, not even a sigh. you fill the silence for both of you with a breathy moan, spreading your legs wider in hopes that he’ll touch you more.

the tips of his fingers glide against your pussy and come away slick with your arousal. while staring directly into your eyes, shoto raises his hand to his lips and proceeds to lick his fingers clean, like he’s just spilled something sweet while cooking. it’s hot as fuck to watch—you feel the throb of need right in your clit. catching a glimpse of his tongue as it curls around his finger does not help either.

while he’s focused on giving you a show of sin, your eyes leave his to inevitably wander down his body. his chest is all lean muscle and sharp edges, the strength and hard work obvious in a single glance. someone’s voice mixes with the sound of the water and turns to static; you only hear your co-star when he tilts your chin up, bringing your eyes to his.

“i said, bend over.”

it’s only a simple command, but it does so many complex things to your body.

in only a fraction of a second, you’re already bent over and ready. water rushes over your back, much of it sliding off, but some pours down your ass and against your pussy. without looking behind you to check, you know his eyes are on you, and so is the camera—in fact, it’s probably zooming in right now.

there’s a hushed thud as shoto drops to his knees, promptly grasping your hips to draw you back. he doesn’t give a damn if it causes you to lose your footing, but he might just do it again if it means he’ll be able to hear your gasp of surprise again.

fervent and excruciating, a tingling heat surges through your body once he gets his tongue on you. slowly, like he’s savoring a meal, he licks a stripe from your clit upwards, dipping the tip of his tongue past your folds like a fucking tease. it’s good, so good that you gasp out a moan and press back into his face, palms sliding down the wet tile. it’s only just begun, but you’re already wondering what he’ll do to you. what if he overstimulates you, licking your clit like it’s a lollipop, until your knees are buckling? maybe he’ll make out with your pussy, french kissing it in a way that’s a lot less shy than how he’d kissed your lips . .

your back arches when his fingers slide into you without any resistance; he buries them to the knuckle and exhales at how god damn tight you feel around him. after a beat, he begins to flick his wrist, setting up an unwavering rhythm with an ease garnered only through experience.

his tongue slides against your clit and it’s like a match to gasoline—your reaction is immediate and irresistible. it’s no secret that shoto’s currently rock hard, his cock hanging neglected and untouched between his thighs, but it doesn’t distract him in the slightest. right now, it’s only your pleasure that matters, and honestly, he’s not inclined to pause if it means you’ll stop making those pretty sounds.

“fuck, you’re good with your tongue,” you gasp, almost choking on the words, “j-just keep licking me like that, baby.”

baby? baby?

the casual petname slips out of you easily, even if the rest of what you were saying didn’t, and shit, it really does something to him. shoto remains silent, even though his heart is pounding so hard he thinks it’s possible he could faint; even so, he decides not to say anything at all. doesn’t make any noise. doesn’t let himself breathe too loudly. doesn’t look affected.

you’re too caught up in the sensations of his devastating fingers and the way he uses his tongue in just the right way to notice his silence. right now, it’s just the splashing of water, your breathless moans, and the squelches of your soaked cunt as his fingers plunge in and out, repeatedly hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

“oh my godddd,” an almost-sob tears out of your throat, and shoto’s eyes roll back. he’s licking your clit like the whipped cream on a sundae, his mouth watering at the taste of you. to be honest, he actually regrets fingering you right now—it’d be so much better if he could use both hands to hold you against his face while he drinks in everything you have to give him.

when his agent had let him know the details about the shoot and who the producer wanted to pair him with, shoto dug through his safari tabs to find the shiketsu studios website, the library of alexandria’s filthy counterpart. the website was open on his very favorite video of you, the one where you were giving some bum a handjob and talking him through it. thank god the actor had the sense to stay silent, even though you were giving it to him good. 

that is exactly the kind of porn that shoto likes. if he’s sitting down to watch something either for dialogue inspiration or to jerk off—something that happens once in a blue moon—he prefers the man in the video to be quiet. many of them tend to let out these nasty, animalistic grunts that they mistakenly believe are sexy, and it just ruins the mood. everything about your video was top tier—he could only see you working the guy’s cock, only hear you talking to him, and god, it was perfect. shiketsu was a lot of things, but never sloppy when it came to your videos; during your early days, whoever had been in charge was setting you up in some hot videos left and right, making sure that those angles were nothing short of flawless.

it was posted over two years ago. he still watches it to get himself hot before shoots and in between takes to keep himself hard, locking himself in the bathroom to stroke himself to the sound of your voice. the audio plays in his head, mixing with your pitched moans and occasional whines; shoto’s unconsciously reaching toward his cock, pressing his face flush against your pussy.

“hnngh, shit,” he licks you harder, thinking about how much you deserve this. for accepting this shoot with him, for helping him not get fired, for helping him get off for the past two years.

his hand wraps around his leaking cock, and fuck, it feels like sweet relief. 

“‘m close, baby, you’re gonna make me cum,” frantic desperation makes its way through your words, and shoto’s fist strokes upward, his grip tightening at the tip. part of him wishes that you were filming a video where you were the one leading or controlling the situation . . maybe the opportunity will come along sometime in the future. 

you fall off the edge and into overwhelming euphoria with a sob. all you can do is pant, trying your hardest to breathe against the water rushing over your face. shoto does his best to help you through it by kissing at your clit, his fingers curling deeply against that soft spot inside of you.

he does it until you squirm away, bothered by the overstimulation. he sneaks a peek at the director, who motions to keep going. when he pulls his fingers out of your cunt to hold your hips, you turn, throwing him a heated look over your shoulder.

without saying anything, you’ve communicated what you really want.

shoto straightens, cock still in hand. just to draw it out, he rubs the tip against your swollen clit, trying to be sensitive to the fact that you literally just came a minute before, but the contact is still as electric as a shock. it’s torture at its finest—you’re pressing back, eager to feel all of him.

he exhales shortly when he slides his cock into you, his eyebrows drawing together. there’s no simultaneous moan or words of filthy praise; shoto bottoms out and pulls you a few inches closer. as the post-orgasm bliss begins to ebb away into something more kinetic, you moan a few times, trying to sell the scene. this is supposed to be the heated climax (pun intended) between two yearning roommates, and he doesn’t seem to be engaged. 

as much as you want to see his pretty face, you’re actually grateful that you’re bent over instead. it’d be more awkward making noise if you were looking into his eyes, unable to hide the embarrassment that comes along with doing so. it’s one thing when you and your partner are both making noise, but this is clearly not the case.

it feels good when he starts to move, leisurely rocking his hips into you like he’s taking it slow just to map out your body, maybe commit the details to memory. skin against skin, tip to cervix—the tempo is comfortable as it builds upon itself. there is a certain sense of detachment in the movement, like maybe you’re not on the same page, or perhaps your sexual preferences are very different. the hot fuck me look over the shoulder has worked on your co-stars in the past—there’s something about the wild eye contact right after an orgasm that gets people moving faster than saying the words could.

you’re buried in your head, wondering what you’ll eat for dinner tonight and why he’s so god damn quiet. shoto’s got complete access to your body and he’s fucking you like he’s half asleep; his lower lip is tugged between his teeth, and he appears to be concentrating intensely. how are you supposed to feel comfortable moaning and making noise when it’s just you making an effort to do so?

shoto’s eyes narrow, his heart kicking against his ribcage. he’s raw inside your pussy and able to feel every agonizing squeeze of your walls as you get tighter; he wants more than anything to let himself succumb to your body, the pleasure you’re giving him, but he holds back for the camera. his jaw clenches with effort as he holds his tongue, thinking of what’ll be the best for your budding reputation and the viewers of the UA website. but if he really focuses, listening closely, he can hear you getting quieter now.

so, he murmurs your name and starts to move faster, with more passion, and that seems to get you going. you’re letting out these hushed moans and occasional whines of that’s good or harder, and he actually has to bite at his cheek so he doesn’t get too loud. a faint, iron-like taste gathers on his tongue, but he doesn’t let up. instead, he bites down harder.

the dirty smacking of skin against skin fills the room, giving the microphones half of the noise that they need to make this video a good one. shoto deciding to go a little harder makes it a little bit easier to moan, even though you’re still feeling a little less hot than you’d expected to.

“fuck, right there,” you gasp, hoping that it’ll encourage him to say something back. you really don’t want to call cut and explain why silent sex is a turn-off, then continue filming for however long to get it right. the possibility of offending him—perhaps he’s naturally quiet—and then having to continue afterward is one of the things that bothers you the most. “g-give it to me, babe.”

no response. a slight chance in pace, an adjustment of the angle of his cock, but not a single noise.

you let it go on for about three more minutes, until you can’t deal with it anymore. since orgasming, you haven’t been in the frame of mind to have sex—there’s no haze making your thoughts fuzzy, and not enough arousal to keep you going. even thinking of hanta doesn’t help! you throw your ass back onto him a few times before you bite the bullet, mouth falling open.

“oh my god, oh my god,” and your back arches to make it more believable, “i’m so close, i’m gonna cum.”

you squeeze around him as hard as you can, still flexing the muscles even when you let go, and it actually works. shoto pulls out of you, choking out something under his breath, and spills white and messy across your lower back. the water washes all of it away, and you let your head hang, feeling the disappointment like a freight train. this entire shoot was the complete opposite of what you’d so badly wanted, and you just faked an orgasm to get it over with.

“cut!”

shoto helps you up and turns off the water. much of it has gotten outside of the shower, forming cold puddles on the floor that you’re careful not to slip on. the director comes forward with towels, offering one to you and one to your co-star.

“you can get dressed in the bedroom right across the hallway,” he explains to you, handing you your folded clothes, “and we’ve got a few extra shirts and boxers—uh, what size are you?”

you walk to the bedroom, wiping yourself dry without looking back. as you get dressed, you can’t help but wonder what you’ll tell shinsou. he’d probably picked up on how excited you were to do this shoot, and now you’re coming away from it feeling unsatisfied. but you’re a pornstar! pornstars don’t always have good sex, and that’s fine—sometimes the hottest people in the industry aren’t always the best lays. this was only a trial run with him, right? if you get paired with him in the distant future, it’ll probably be a lot better. maybe his problem is that he doesn’t let loose enough, but who knows?

someone knocks on the door without announcing themselves.

assuming it’s the director, you unlock the door and pull it open, only to come face to face with a shirtless todoroki shoto. it feels like what you wanted to see upon arriving at the condo—damp hair, barely dry muscles on display, gray sweatpants. he’s a god damn wet dream and quite the sight to behold.

he gives you a sideways hug, and okay, you’re ready for a do-over. one bed, no cameras, and a locked door. the camera crew needs to step aside—you’re more than capable of handling this.

“i, um, just wanted to say thank you. for a good shoot. it was very nice to meet you today.”

“of course,” you smile at him, folding up your wet towel and heading to the bathroom. the camera crew is busy breaking everything down while the director works with the laptop to save the footage for editors. “thank you for the towel. is there anything else you’ve got for me before i head out?”

he sets down the laptop and stands to shake your hand. “if you could just drop that into the basket near the washer and dryer before you leave, that’d be most appreciated. we’ll be finished editing and touching things up by this time tomorrow, and then we’ll contact your manager with any additional information.”

shoto doesn’t follow you to say anything more when you step out of the bathroom. just like when you’d first met, he waves again, but this time, a happy smile spreads across his face.

[darkmatilda]

𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the weight of distance presses heavier with each passing day, the ache of absence stitched together only by hour-long phone calls like a fragile sutures on a wound that refuses to close. so you choose his birthday — the perfect day to cross the miles in silence and secrecy, and surprise spencer on his special day.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: glasses!reid x baufemale!reader, long distance relationship, early seasons team, so our queen elle is here, lots of team interactions overall, both reader and spencer's pov, height difference, kissing until his glasses fog up xx

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5k

𝐚/𝐧: literally started writing this over two months ago so i hope the first half doesnt differ too much in quality from the second one :/ the soul who’s the first to catch the tiny subtle mr darcy reference gets a cookie!

You admitted it without a trace of embarrassment – every time you called your long-distance boyfriend, you waited for him to pick up with your forehead almost glued to the screen and your lips frozen in a half-smile, ready to bloom across half your face the moment you saw his face.

Automatically.

The word nonchalance wasn’t foreign to you, but you deeply despised it. You had no intention of pretending it didn’t matter whether he picked up or not, or that you hadn’t rearranged half of your quite busy day for that shared moment. You weren’t going to pretend that hearing his voice meant any less to you than it actually did, just to maintain some kind of image or out of fear of being too much.

No, that definitely wasn’t your case.

If anything, you leaned toward paranoia — that you weren’t doing enough to take care of your relationship stretched across nearly 4000 miles and separated by the Pacific. That you weren’t trying hard enough. You had a set time for one call a day; usually, by then, you were already comfortably tucked under the covers and reporting in for duty (though duty was a very poor comparison—unless we’re talking about the duty of petting small fluffy puppies. yes. kissing the heads of twenty fluffy puppies was almost exactly like your daily call with Spencer).

But that one daily call usually wasn’t the only one. You reached out to each other spontaneously throughout the day, depending on your schedules and the plans of that particular day. On weekends, you watched movies together, he read a book aloud and you exchanged thoughts only when his calm voice reached the end of a chapter, or you played chess online. The bare minimum to fill the void left behind by the distance.

A void that was, however, ravenous—and seemed to deepen with every passing day. It wasn’t a graph line with rises and dips. It kept steadily taking up more and more space inside you.

And that’s how you came to the conclusion that even hundreds of books read aloud by Spencer wouldn’t be enough to dissolve it.

Not when his voice came through a phone speaker.

Not when it wasn’t followed by his breath, tickling your ear.

And that realization pushed you toward a certain…spontaneous decision.

But more on that later.

Your call was finally answered, and a premature, involuntary soft smile curled your lips before his face even appeared on your screen.

“Hey, handsome…” you began with your usual line, fully prepared to relish the blush that would bloom on his cheeks like cupcakes with sweet cherries on top—

but instead of your favorite treat, you were met with something entirely different.

Seeing Derek’s face, clumsily close to the front-facing camera and moving in a way that strongly suggested he was fiercely struggling to keep hold of the phone, snapped you back to attention like an athlete catching their footing.

“Hello, conventionally handsome man, long time no see. Anyway, where’s my handsome man?”

“Morgan, I’m serious, give me—”

“Hey, kid, how many times have I told you women don’t like possessive men? Let me talk to her for a sec…”

“I’m not possessive, I just…”

“You’re right, long time no see,” Derek cut in, completely ignoring his friend—his words, his attempts to wrestle the phone back from his hand. You kept your gaze fixed on the corner of the screen where a part of Spencer’s face occasionally slipped into the frame. Your lips were still curved in a smile, but shifting your focus to Morgan took effort. “What’s up, former-new girl? Don’t look too happy to see me.”

“Oh, I’m very happy to see you. In fact, the sight of you has turned this rainy Amsterdam day well, not exactly sunny, but let’s say we’ve moved from a downpour to a drizzle.”

“You’re welcome—that’s what friends are for. So? You in the mood for a quick chat with me?”

“Morgan.”

“Hmm, gladly,” you replied, tapping your free lip in mock thoughtfulness. “Let me just check my schedule to see when I might be available. How about next Friday?”

“Next Friday?”

“Morgan, I swear—”

“Oh my God, stop torturing them already,” cut in a woman’s voice you recognized instantly, and almost in the same moment, the phone moved from Morgan’s hand to your friend Elle’s.

She gave you a smile—a fleeting one, just a flash of sincerity—before replacing it with her trademark bossy expression. “Another second and they’ll both shrivel up from longing. Here you go.” She handed the phone back to its rightful owner. The first thing you saw were his eyes behind the glasses, aimed at her, full of grateful warmth. “You both owe me one. But since one of you is currently unavailable and clearly unable to repay it, you owe me two favors, Reid.”

A nod.

 “Goes without saying.”

You just managed to catch Morgan’s disappointed sigh at having his thoroughly entertaining game cut short, before you found yourself finally, completely one-on-one with your boyfriend.

He was watching the two of them—presumably leaving—until, at last, his gaze shifted to you. That tiny smile of yours finally bloomed into something fuller.

“Okay, I feel like I was interrupted earlier and I need to say this again, properly,” you said before he could get a word out. You took a breath, like you were about to cast a spell. “Good morning, handsome.”

You loved that kind of smile on his lips—the one that came with an involuntary tilt of the head, like its weight shifted evenly and pulled just enough to cause that barely noticeable movement.

“Finally. Good morning, angel.”

It warmed you every single time he used that phrase with you, and you couldn’t help but blink a little faster at the thought of hearing it in person after such a long time apart. But that was still the future, a vision. For now, there was the present, reality.

“Please, tell Morgan I didn’t brush him off because I didn’t want to talk to him,” you said. “But I literally have fifteen minutes before I have to leave and just wanted to call you real quick, because I won’t be very available later. I have a seminar.”

Spencer nodded because, of course, he remembered. But still, his brown eyes clouded slightly.

“You mentioned it. And well, of course I’ll tell Morgan you brushed him off because you didn’t want to talk to him.”

You almost snorted, but held it back.

“Hey, being my boyfriend doesn’t give you permission to use me for your personal revenge.”

“It doesn’t?” he asked with a face of innocence, fake curiosity, like he’d just come across a tiny footnote at the bottom of a page, an unknown piece of information.

“Well, usually no, but there are exceptions to that rule. For example, when the personal revenge might bring satisfaction to both of us. The second is when you ask nicely. Just please, don’t abuse that option.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.”

“I’d make you pinky-promise, but that wouldn’t really work in our current situation,” you said, glancing at your own raised pinkie, the corners of your mouth tugging downward.

Then suddenly, they parted, struck by a thought. “Oh, right. I just remembered. What are you planning to do tomorrow?”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly.

“The usual, I guess? Go to work…”

“For your birthday, silly.”

This time, it was his lips that parted with a soft, dawning hiss of realization. You looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t even tell me you forgot your own birthday.”

Spencer shook his head distractedly.

“No, it’s not that I completely forgot. But if you think about it, it wouldn’t be that weird if I had. I don’t have any plans anyway, and it’s just going to be…you know, a totally normal day.”

You watched him for a moment in silence. You rarely faked emotions around him. But this time, you had to summon a thick mask of exaggerated disappointment—couldn’t let even the tiniest flicker of stinging excitement slip through.

“I wish I could be there for you so badly.”

That part didn’t need faking. The sincerity in those words rang clear. You saw your boyfriend’s jaw tighten slightly, and you wished you could reach out and rest your hand against it, letting your thumb brush toward his lips.

The silence that followed suddenly felt especially heavy. You knew Spencer was masking his sadness so you wouldn’t feel bad about not being there. He didn’t expect you to feel guilty—but he anticipated it. And, well, he’d be right. You would feel bad.

You forced a smile onto your lips—only because you wanted to see how, eyes fixed on your face, he’d unconsciously mirror the gesture. You’d learned that trick a long, long time ago.

“I have to run,” you announced with a sigh. “Seriously, I have to run. technically, I should already be out the door.”

“Don’t forget your umbrella.”

“It’s not raining anymore.”

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to start again right around the time you’ll be heading home. And there’s a cold front coming in from the North Sea, so maybe wear something warmer under your coat. I don’t want you getting sick.”

Spencer knew the weather in your city—on another continent—better than you did.

A moment of silence to let that fact settle. Thank you.

“If you’re right, I love you,” you said. “If you’re wrong, I still love you, but I’m also mad I had to lug around an umbrella all day.”

For a fleeting moment, he dipped his head, eyes squinting just slightly, a small smile on his lips.

“I love you too.”

*

Spencer had never been particularly fond of celebrating his birthday.

To him, birthdays were simply another way of measuring time like years, months, weeks, and days—only a little more brutal. They were like a mirror you woke up in front of one day, a moment of realization and reckoning—not so much with time moving forward, but with everything that had been left behind. The new year reflected what you had achieved and who you had become. Birthdays, on the other hand, felt like a celebration of missed chances, honored with the addition of yet another digit to your age.

Twenty-six. He could’ve done something far more impressive by now—and he didn’t mean that just as self-criticism. He was being objective. At twenty-six, Einstein had his Annus Mirabilis, his miraculous year, the year he developed the theory of mass–energy equivalence. With that knowledge in mind, Spencer had every right to feel a certain pressure.

But beyond all that, that day…he just wasn’t in the mood.

He had just been wondering what to eat for dinner when his phone started ringing.

A long-distance relationship had trained him to reach for it the exact second the ringtone sounded—and to experience that brief flicker of disappointment when the name on the screen wasn’t the one he was hoping for. Just like this time.

“Oh, Reid, how wonderful that you picked up so fast,” came Penelope’s voice on the other end.

“Garcia, hey. Something’s wrong?”

“Yes. I mean—no. I need you to drop by for a moment, is that okay? I mean, even if it’s not okay, it’s still probably better if you come. Not that I’m forcing you, but—ugh, just come over.”

Spencer was standing in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and as her explanation spilled out, a suspicion started blooming in him. He considered himself a fairly perceptive person—and Penelope a very open book. So it was no surprise that, almost immediately, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. He leaned his lower back against one of the cabinets, folding his free arm across his chest.

 “I’m not sure I can make it,” he said despite knowing full well that he could, and that he had the time. But he also knew that, on the other end, Garcia was probably exchanging panicked looks with the rest of the team, arguing about where exactly to hang the balloons in her apartment. And the image was amusing enough to drag out the moment. “For what?”

“I need your help. With something.”

“With what exactly?”

His friend let out something between a hum and a sigh—both thoughtful and panicked.

Meanwhile, Spencer waited patiently, smiling to himself and saying nothing.

“What am I supposed to tell him?!”Penelope’s voice came faintly from the speaker, as if she’d lowered the phone away from her mouth probably thinking that would keep him from hearing. It didn’t.

“I don’t know, make something up!” came a reply Spencer recognized instantly—Derek. A finger snap. “Lightbulb in the bathroom went out.”

“Oh, great! I love when your brain is the same size as your biceps.” She turned her attention back to the phone, voice suddenly loud and confident with her freshly invented excuse  “The lightbulb in my bathroom blew.”

Spencer wasn’t about to let it slide that easily.

“What wattage?”

“What?”

“What wattage is the bulb? LED or halogen?”

“Normal. It’s a normal lightbulb, Reid.”

“Are you sure it’s burnt out? Could be a wiring issue. Might be better to call a specialist to take a look. I’d rather not end up electrocuted. Especially on my birthday.”

“Jeez, tell him to stop being such a child.”

Penelope pulled the phone away again.

 “I can’t, then he won’t come at all!”

“I have an idea,” Spencer said suddenly, forcing her to scramble back to the call.

“Why don’t you ask Morgan to change it for you, since he’s already there?”

Garcia squeaked in panic. Then immediately broke into a cough, trying to mask the sound.

“There is no Derek Morgan here! Where would you even get that idea?” she squealed in a high voice. At the same time, a distinct snort of laughter echoed in the background. “That? That’s just the TV. Just…some dumb show with an annoying host. Ugh, I should really turn it off…”

The snort that echoed in the background this time didn’t belong to Morgan. It belonged to Elle. A quiet, distant argument broke out between all three of them, and Spencer didn’t understand a single word of it. He cut in at the moment he considered most appropriate.

“I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes.”

Complete silence.

“You’re coming? Seriously? Guys, he says that— I mean, ymm, great! See you!”

Before she hung up, he still managed to hear her deep sigh of relief that the conversation, in which she had to show off her conspiracy skills, was finally over.

Spencer slowly pulled the phone away from his ear, remaining for a moment in the silence that followed. Of course he had intended to show up from the very beginning. He might not have felt excited at the thought of his birthday, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the surprise his friends had put effort into preparing. It wasn’t his dream way of spending the day, but there was a reason that dream scenario remained in the realm of dreams—its realization was simply physically impossible. But a not-so-surprising surprise party ranked high on that list.

He hesitated over what to wear. In the end, his gaze settled on the shirt he'd gotten from no one other than you. You liked how that soft, muted pink color both slightly contrasted with his wardrobe and still somehow fit perfectly into it. You also used to say it brightened his face.

Spencer pulled it on, tied his tie, and sent you a photo. He wanted you to know that even though you were far away, he was still wearing your favorite clothes.mHe didn’t expect you to reply right away.You’d already had the birthday call, during which you gave him wishes you’d been crafting for two weeks. You delivered them at machine-gun speed with all your enthusiasm, then repeated them more slowly so he’d have a chance to actually understand anything.

Your reply came just as he was leaving his apartment.

my boyfriend sending me an outfit check??? never thought I’d live to see that day

He was just turning the key in the lock, the light from his phone casting a glow onto his face, letting the gentle smile on his lips break through the darkness slowly wrapping around the stairwell. He pressed the handle again to check whether being distracted had made him forget to lock it. Then he dropped the key into his pocket and slowly started down the stairs. 

Not quite an outfit check. Just tangible or well, virtual, proof that I really like this shirt and I’m not wearing it just because you told me to. The team’s throwing me a surprise party and I figured it’d be perfect…

here his fingers slowed

…it’s your favorite, and in its own not-quite-explainable way, it makes me feel like you’re here.

The reply probably came in before you even finished reading the whole message.

so an outfit check?

wait what kind of surprise party is it if you know about it??

u’re so sweet. also you look so good in that color.

He wanted to text back, to explain how he even knew about this surprise party, but another message came in.

sorry cant really text rn just getting off the tram :( hope u have fun at the party kisses call u later

He was a little surprised, since you usually took the later tram home, but maybe you just had your own reason for coming back earlier. Maybe he’d ask about it later, when the two of you called. Spencer hoped he wouldn’t be too tired after the party to talk to you.

So he replied simply

Got it. Please, be safe.

The way to Penelope’s apartment passed very quickly for him. It occurred to him that he didn’t really know who would even be there. Definitely Morgan, Elle, possibly JJ, but he doubted that everyone had shown up—like, everyone everyone.

And if it turned out he was right, he didn’t intend to be even slightly offended—after all, it was understandable they might’ve wanted to spend the evening in a different way. He knocked on the door and didn’t even call out to come in, even though as he was approaching them, he had clearly heard voices coming from inside, which suddenly, as if by magic, fell silent.

He felt like rolling his eyes—in a positive sense. It was predictable. Of course it was. But it also filled him with a certain warm feeling.

He opened the door and stepped into Garcia’s apartment, heading for the living room. And that’s exactly what he did when he saw the entire team gathered there. He rolled his eyes, though that warm feeling grew stronger and made the decision on its own to stretch his lips into a broad, broader smile when he realized they really were all there.

They were silent, eyes fixed on him, Elle and JJ both holding a tray with a birthday cake with lit candles, but for some reason not bringing it any closer to him.

“Sorry, but I have to say this,” he began. “You’re so predictable.”

“Are we?” came a voice directly behind his back.

He didn’t exactly freeze in place, like he’d been hit with liquid nitrogen. His body transitioned into that state gradually — starting with his shoulder blades instinctively drawing together, long before his mind fully processed the situation or registered that voice.

That voice.

The voice he heard every single day through his phone or laptop speaker, desecrated by the quality of the device — which, even if it were the most cutting-edge machine built by NASA, wouldn’t be able to truly convey the tone of her voice, let alone force him to feel the kind of emotions that now crashed into him like a wave, drowning him.

Water filling his ears.

No, that couldn’t be — they had literally exchanged texts just moments ago!

His eyes locked ahead, all the team’s gazes fixed on him, waiting, expectant. Penelope, her hands tightly clasped together, resting just beneath her chin.

Spencer, not breathing, turned around — and only then drew in a deep, vital breath.

Vital, because he knew he was about to pull her into an embrace so tight neither of them would get a taste of air for a very long time.

Your eyes locked onto each other like two powerful magnets, desperately seeking one another — an instant click. Another instant click when both your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, lifting her feet off the ground. Click when his hands gripped your waist firmly, steadying you. Click when his face found its place in the curve of your neck, burying itself there completely, disappearing, hiding, drawing the curtains so no one else could interrupt this moment.

Click, because you were together.

Spencer drew in a shaky breath, entirely filled with your scent — a scent he seemed to rediscover after months apart — occupying his mind so completely that the words he had intended to say slipped away from him entirely. You took over the role of speaker instead.

“Happy birthday,” you announced tearfully, sniffling and pulling your head away from his shoulder so the tear rolling down your cheek wouldn’t stain his shirt.

The pale pink shirt. Your favorite shirt.

You pouted your bottom lip, trying to hold it together, but you couldn’t. Now that you were finally with him, the full weight of maintaining a long-distance relationship — the weight you had been pushing away to avoid sinking into sadness — crashed down on you all at once. But it was wild, unrestrained, and yet instantly found comfort in his arms, his scent, his presence.

You felt his chest cave slightly as he took in a breath and lifted his head to look at you. In the process, his glasses had been pressed all the way up his nose from where they'd been crushed between your neck and his face — the frames practically touching his eyelids — but neither of you thought about how ridiculous that must've looked.

His eyes immediately locked onto the tear that had slipped from yours. He wanted to wipe it away, but he didn’t want to let go of you either, so he settled for pressing a fleeting kiss to your cheek, brushing it away with his lips instead.

It earned a muffled, quiet laugh from you.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a hushed voice.

You blinked and dipped your head slightly, letting the tears pool without falling, then tilted it back up so you could focus on his face. Immediately, you had the impulse to adjust his glasses, which you did.

“Attending my boyfriend’s surprise birthday party,” you replied, sliding your hand down his chest and rising onto your toes to kiss him — briefly, because you could feel the eyes of all your friends on you, patiently silent and giving you time.

It wasn’t a good idea. The moment your lips brushed his, Spencer froze for a second, only to lean in for more right after. You barely managed to pull away, ignoring his disgruntled hum of protest.

“But I guess I’m the only element of this whole thing that was actually a surprise…”

You shot a meaningful look at Penelope, fully aware Spencer had known about some kind of party happening. The blonde defensively waved her hands in front of her, brushing off the implied accusation.

“Oh, you don’t get it. I let it slip on purpose so your entrance would be more spectacular! Our genius boy thought he had outsmarted our whole plan and then…” she gestured between the two of you, still tangled together.

This time, it was Spencer who shot her a look, full of disbelief at her words and amused pity. And, as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one — well over half of the people present mirrored his reaction.

To shake off all the attention suddenly weighing on her, Penelope snapped her fingers in the direction of Elle and JJ, who were holding the birthday cake.

"Those candles are practically melting! Don’t forget your wish, loverboy."

Your lips twitched the moment you heard that nickname, and you gave Spencer a light, urging pat on the arm still wrapped around you. You could still feel his hand gently tightening around your waist for a fleeting moment before he let go — his fingers performing a subtle flex before falling back to rest — and leaned down over the cake to blow out the candles shaped like the numbers 2 and 6.

He immediately tried to pull you back into his embrace, but you forced yourself to slip away, letting him get swept into the whirlwind of bear hugs from everyone else.

You stayed back, just slightly to the side, knowing you'd have time for just the two of you later. Your gaze lingered on his softly glowing brown eyes behind his glasses and the faint squint from the smile that simply refused to leave his face. The sounds of the room gradually faded away around you.

Surprisingly, you didn’t feel the slightest exhaustion after the long, connecting flights. And even if any fatigue dared creep its way into your body, it was instantly drowned out by what now burned in your chest — that warm, joyful feeling.

“Why did I even stress so much over picking a gift for him?” you heard from your left , Gideon muttering under his breath, but still loud enough for you to catch. He was staring in the same direction. “No matter what I gave him, the only thing he’ll remember from today is you.”

You exchanged a glance with him — the smile lingering only on your lips, but you could tell he shared it.

For the rest of the party, you and Spencer stayed within arm’s reach, always side by side, finally able to allow yourselves that closeness after so many months apart. Even later, as you made your way back to his apartment at night, hauling gift bags and a single box between you, he carried them all on one arm just so he could keep the other wrapped around you.

You clung to his pink shirt, occasionally rising onto your toes to press a kiss to his jaw or a smile, only to pull away again quickly — careful not to crash into a trash can or a lamp post along your path.

Clinging tightly to his side wasn’t exactly making it easier for either of you to walk. But Spencer didn’t complain. Even despite the fact that you were moving at the pace of a drunken turtle.

When his apartment building finally appeared within sight, you tilted your head back for a moment, breathing slower, more consciously.

“Tonight’s stars are so beautiful,” you remarked, staring at the faint, barely visible dots in the sky.

Spencer slowed his steps, lifting his gaze toward the sky, only to fully shift his attention to your face.

“Setting aside the fact that those are the same stars on the same day,” he started, in that scientific yet soft way of speaking of his, “which I’m quite sure you know…no, they’re not beautiful. Look again. You can barely see them.”

“They’re still beautiful,” you insisted.

You were two adults, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, loaded with birthday gift bags, arguing whether or not the stars were beautiful. Spencer stood firmly on the no side of that debate.

“Absolutely not. Artificial light sources in the city generate light pollution, which makes astronomical observation of the night sky difficult. If we were somewhere less urbanized—”

“But we’re here,” you cut in softly, your face still tilted toward the sky. “We’re here together, which makes them beautiful to me. Besides, beauty is a relative concept. Which I’m quite sure you know.”

His quiet sigh, the gesture of surrender. Instead of trying to convince you of something he simply couldn’t convince you of, he just pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Fine, you win, my little relative concept.”

Already on the staircase, your melancholic mood vanished entirely as you pulled him into a kiss he couldn’t escape from. Not that he wanted to, but he had to — if he actually wanted to dig the key out of his pocket and let you both inside. So while your hands clung to the back of his neck, his fumbled through his pockets — the same ones, because he was far too distracted to remember which ones he’d already checked and which he hadn’t.

“Wait—”

“Can’t—”

“Find—”

“The key—”

Slipped from his lips in the few short moments they weren’t covered by yours. You couldn’t care less about his key struggles — you’d been away from him for months, and you fully intended to kiss him for every single time you’d wanted nothing more than exactly that, but had an ocean between you instead.

Eventually, Spencer gave up and fell silent, returning your kiss with his entire being, both of his hands cradling your cheeks perfectly. You wished your skin was made of plaster, able to preserve the shape of them on you forever. You heard his short, muffled whimper and cracked your eyes open, just enough to notice that his glasses were completely fogged up.

His glasses fogged white, his cheeks flushed pink.

You giggled at the sight, making his face match the color palette of his shirt even more. One of his hands slid down from your cheek and drifted toward the small pocket on his chest. “Found the key,” he announced.

It immediately slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a clatter.

His sigh, your next giggle, and both of you bending down at the same time.

A head collision and two groans.

You burst into open laughter and took full advantage of the fact that he was bent down, reaching for the key, to press a soft kiss to his hair—the very spot where you’d bumped heads. You left a trail of kisses along his head, wandering across his forehead, brushing the tip of his nose, slowly claiming his lips.

Meanwhile, he blindly fumbled with the key, trying to aim it at the lock without breaking the kiss for even a second.

You weren’t sure there’d be enough hours in the night to fully make up for all the time you’d been apart. Especially since you yourself still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were seeing him again. Kissing him again.

Finally, after what felt like real, dragging hours and simultaneously exactly 4.24 light-years traveled in mere minutes—the sound of the lock turning.

[croquettish]

KCD Meta Masterlist

Hans-specific

Claustrophobia as a Metaphor for Hans' Feelings for Henry + Addendums [1], [2]

When Hans realized he was in love with Henry

Hans' Disillusionment with the Nobility

Hans' Relationship with Hanush

Hans and (a lack of) Agency

Hans, his inheritance, and Hanush

Hans always falls in love with Henry

Hans defies society's expectations around pets for Henry

Hans thinks of himself as unworthy of Henry

Hans' gift-giving love language

The love language Hans values most: acts of service

Karolina doesn't exist

Hans and self-hatred

Is Hans jealous of Rosa if Henry sleeps with her?

Would Hans be jealous of Theresa?

Hans turning down a threesome with Henry

Hans never stops thinking of them as a unit even in divorce era

Hans swapping societal roles with Henry

Hans thinking Godwin figured him out

Hans and performativity

Henry-specific

When Henry realized he had feelings for Hans

Henry canonically ruined Hans' chances with Karolina

Hans is acceptance for Henry

Henry's prior knowledge of Jitka

Henry and legitimization

Why Henry pulls away at first

More meta on Henry pulling away

Henry : Hans : Jitka : Heinrich :: Martin : Henry's Mom : Radzig : Henry

Henry as the protector amidst trauma

Hansry-specific

Why Hans kissing Henry first matters

Hansry going to the holy land together

Hansry prophecy dog is real

Hansry nodding at each other for consent mid-sex

The "Missing" Engagement Conversation

The gay poetry book (in French)

Other ships

Thoughts on Jamuel [1], [2], [3]

Proof that Jamuel is (most likely) canon

Hansry : Jadder comparison [1], [2]

Hansry : Jamuel comparison

John's relationship with Jobst

Why doesn't canon acknowledge the Isterik : Hansry parallel?

Miscellany

Sexuality, Acceptability, Risk, and Medieval Bohemia

How accurate are the game's bathhouses?

Medieval gender-nonconformity

Medieval Catholicism vs. Modern-day American Protestantism

Jan Hus on sodomy

What might KCD3 be about? [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

[lushthemagicdragon]

I am absolutely obsessed with how Sammie is shot in this scene in comparison to his father. It's directly tied into a tl;dr I have about both how Christianity is treated in this film and how the magic system works in this story and so, while at some point I might write a whole ass blog post (or even an academic paper) in the future, here's the cliffnote word vomit version of why I think this is so fucking cool:

So basically, this film frames Christianity as one of the villains of the story (along with the white-liberalism-culture-vampires and the Klan), and heavily implies that what Sammie's dad wants from him is the same as what Remmick wants from him: to be used for the power of his music and subsumed into a soulless, cultureless whole. Where Sammie is lit in warm tones and dressed in warm colors, backdropped by green nature, his dad is lit in very stark cool tones with minimal contrast so he's almost in monochrome, surrounded only by the empty whiteness of the chapel. This film very clearly delivers a thesis that Christianity is a real-world culture-vampire that white people inflicted on the Black community, from the way Sammie's dad is shot and lit to look like the vampires do in this film, from Delta Slim's clear delineation that the blues isn't like that "religion they forced on us", to the way that Sammie's return to the chapel at the start and finish is intercut with scenes of Remmick. These flashes of Remmick and the horrors of that night that are cut into Sammie's dad telling him to repent and drop the guitar are the catalyst for Sammie leaving, because he figures it out. And in part he figured it out BECAUSE of the second thing that is fascinating, and that is basically the consistency of the magic system.

Basically, the magic system in this movie is antithetical to Christianity as a whole.

I'm going to preface this by saying that when I talk about Annie's hoodoo I'm NOT talking about real world hoodoo, which I know nothing about. I'm just talking about how the film presents hoodoo, and how the film presents the fae, and how these things all function within the same cohesive magic system.

Annie's Hoodoo, Sammie's music, and the Vampires are all diametrically opposed to Christianity, and are all within the realm of Faërie magic.

So when I say Faerie I don't mean specifically the sidhe, though the sidhe are part of Faerie. By Faerie magic I mean specifically the magic of the natural world, which is often ancestral, and often associated with an Otherworld that is still part of the World itself but is greater than humans. This is as opposed to sorcery (man-made magic) or heavenly/satanic (abrahamic/usually christian magic). When I say the entire magic system is Faërie it is because the Vampires are very CLEARLY laid out as Faërie, while Sammie's magic and Annie's Hoodoo are all part of the same consistent system of magic, laid out right at the start.

So basically right from the very first scene the film puts West African magic, Choctaw magic and ancient Irish magic as existing within the same frame of reality. All three have a concept of the magical singer, and all three (we later find out) know about vampires. It establishes that these all function in the same magic system, which is the Reality of this Secondary World. What is real for one group in this magic system is real for all of them. They may use different language to talk about the same thing, but the concepts are the same across the board in this universe. We're just talking about fictional secondary world magic system building here, and consistent storytelling, not real world understandings of these things.

the vampires are the most clearly Fae creatures (and by this I don't mean Fairies, but creatures associated with Faërie--imo they're like Changelings in that they were once human and then become Fae). Remmick is ancient Irish, out here singing Irish folk songs and handing gold coins to people at a crossroads, saying that the gold comes from an ancient place but it's no use to Mary while she's "alive" (human and not of the fae). It's super on-the-nose almost to the point of being irish stereotype caricature. I'll come back to him.

Annie's Hoodoo is never outright put in opposition to Christianity, but it's significant that she is not a mixed practitioner. There are no clear icons or crosses in her home. The grave marker for their dead child is not a cross but a carved African figure, which is very significant in 1930s Mississippi. She is solely a hoodoo practitioner, who lives in a ramshackle cottage in the words selling magical/natural cures. She's very witch-in-the-wood coded, but is never ever presented as wicked or evil. She's also the only spiritual figure in the film that can be trusted, and she is trusted implicitly. She is also the one who understands the consistency of the magic systems, as the teller of the intro tale and as the one who knows how to fight the vampires. This includes throwing NOT holy water on them, but garlic pickling juice. Crosses are also never used in her instructions on how to push them away (a very common vampire trope), just garlic, silver, fire, and stakes. I would also argue that Smoke's death scene with her and the baby is NOT heavenly, it's just afterlife coded (because white is generally the afterlife color code for visual media). Again, no angels, no heavenly coding, just afterlife coding. You COULD argue that she's virgin mary coded in this scene because she's breastfeeding, but we did see her actively have sex on screen earlier so that's tenuous at best. It's also shot with that same warped camera affect that happens whenever the mojo bag is in-use.

Then there is the Music. Music in general is a very common magical device in Faërie magic, and Tolkien is like the king of this: music holds power than the spoken word does not, music is the truest art of creating enchantment, this secondary world that the fae can produce, a fully realized enchanted art form. tl;dr there's a lot here but that's the cliffnotes version. Delta Slim outright says that the music is brought with them from home, rather than being forced upon them like Christianity. Sammie's music is what Sammie's dad wants to stamp out of him, or at least use to his limited means. It's Sammie's connection to the music that makes him a sinner in his father's eyes. But this is really hammered home in the final scene between Remmick and Sammie and then Sammie and his dad.

So I don't actually think Remmick's final monologue is supposed to be a final villain monologue so much as a final exposition monologue. I think the final villain monologue is Sammie's dad trying to compel him with the power of Christ, based on story structure. Generally speaking, a final villain monologue is supposed to be the peak of their evil plan, which is then foiled and shown to be wrong by the actions of the heroes. That's not exactly what Remmick's final speech does. In the final speech, Remmick explains that Christianity is the reason his culture is dead (and so the reason for the culture vampire void that needs to be filled), but he also says the following:

"They told stories of a heaven above and a devil below, and lies about the dominion of man over heaven and earth. We are earth and beast and God. We are woman and man. We are connected, you and I, to everything."

*if* this was a classic villain finale monologue, the response to this would have been "oh look this weird anti-christian pagan creature is monologuing, so he's evil, and the church is good and correct and the Truth", but that isn't how the film ends. Instead, the Remmick looks into the sunrise and hears the call of the Otherworld and his people (rather than say, heaven, because it's given that same Faerie irish lilt) but instead the music turns and he goes up in horrible flames for his crimes. UP in flames, up into the sky, which is NOT Christian for a "demon" to do in death (because he's not a demon, he's fae, Sammie calls him the devil repeatedly because he hasn't figured this out yet). The film "ends" (prior to the epilogue) with Sammie remembering the torment he went through from these vampires, after hearing this monologue, while at the church with his father trying to compel him to join *his* coven/clan/flock, and Sammie realizing that what his father is doing to him is this same repeated cycle of violence that happened to Remmick and that Remmick was trying to repeat onto him, and LEAVES.

Because of this, I think those lines above are not the typical final villain monologue, but the final bit of exposition that tells the audience the truth: that Sammie's magic and Remmick's magic (and Annie's magic as the one spiritual figure of the bunch) are all connected, you and I, to everything, with no dominion of man over heaven and earth. It establishes the magic system as consistent, and diametrically opposed to Christianlity

Faerie is morally neutral, it is the magic-of-the-World rather than of a moral dichotomy. It can be revelatory and healing, and it can be seductive and destructive. Annie and Sammie's magic is Good, and the Vampires are Evil, but they are all together diametrically opposed to the Church.

This is why the framing of Sammie and his dad in that opening scene is so fascinating, because behind Sammie is the natural world, warm and vibrant and welcoming, and behind his dad is man-made emptiness and shadow. Title of the film says it all, this film is ABOUT the so-called Sinners, the un-Christians. And that's not presented as a bad thing to be at all, but a truly magical thing, and that being a Sinner is joyous activity.

[flewwwwwwwww]

this episode killed me

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

I can't help but think about little o!Ciel, who didn't have any friends besides his brother, and how much he's been able to grow since then.

People in his life have learned to love him for who he is, instead of for the title he holds.

For starters, the phantomhive servants absolutely adore him, their gratitude running so deep they would willingly put their lives on the line for the earl.

Each of them proves their unwavering loyalty through their own arcs, showing a love so fierce they’d go through hell and back if it meant restoring their young master’s dignity and rightful title.

Unlike Sebastian, whose loyalty is bound by contract, the servants offer something far rarer: sincere care for o!Ciel’s emotional state, watching over him with loud, human devotion.

Every servant developed a unique and meaningful bond with our earl because he saw them as individuals: not just staff.

He valued their strengths, understood their roles, and treated each connection with respect, making their loyalty personal rather than just professional.

They are o!Ciel’s chosen family, the ones who see him not just as the Earl, but as a boy carrying more than he should. They offer a kind of love he’s rarely allowed himself to hope for.

And on a small side note: Tanaka, having known o!Ciel since before the tragedy of December 14th, he maintained deep affection for the young earl.

Their bond is so special to our earl if we consider he's the only person that o!Ciel genueinly ran to hug him after a month in captivity. He didn't hug madame red back, nor Elizabeth (considering that as a kid, he was sort of...pushed aside in comparison to r!Ciel.)

But he did hug Tanaka and that single, wordless embrace speaks volumes about the unique safety and unconditional acceptance the butler represented, perhaps the last remnant of true warmth from the world he'd lost.

I would contend that Tanaka harbored a particularly tender soft spot for the boy, his service always carrying undercurrents of paternal warmth and profound respect for him.

Even now, as Tanaka stands dutifully by r!Ciel’s side, his anguish is palpable; a silent testament to the boy he still honors in his heart. 

He clearly contineus to hold so much regard and respect for o!Ciel. (look at the way he proudly talks about o!Ciel's toy company im gonna cryyyy, it's literally the only time he's smiling as he works under r!Ciel)

Then of course, there’s my girl Elizabeth. Yeah, she stuck around because she thought o!Ciel was r!Ciel—but somewhere along the way, she connected with him. And that bond? It became something honest and deeply hers.

o!Ciel saw Elizabeth for who she truly was: fierce, dedicated, and far more than the delicate lady she pretended to be for his sake. He saw her strength, her loyalty, and the way she loved with her whole heart.

and he embraced all of who she is, there never was a single ounce of disgust in him as he did so. Only quiet admiration, maybe even awe, for the girl who never stopped fighting for him, even when he couldn’t do it for himself.

While Elizabeth was basically groomed into the title of fianceé and loving her betrothed blindly ,she genuinely grew to feel comfortable and connected with o!Ciel, despite his deception.

o!Ciel, who, albeit unintentionally, gave her the space to express herself and her feelings, even though he wasn’t who he claimed to be.

And even after discovering his lies, she understood why he’d kept them. Their connection was genuine even as their foundation was false 

Then of course, I have to add Elizabeth's brother, Edward, into the mix, who learned to truly see o!Ciel's hardwork and respect him for it

Though his approach is steeped in tough love, the blonde's deep regard for our earl shines through whenever he speaks of him. There's an unmistakable pride in his voice as he recounts his cousin's merits.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Edward entrusts o!Ciel with his deepest fears about his own morality, and in turn, the young earl offers him something precious: reassurance.

With words that carry both wisdom and compassion, o!Ciel reminds Edward that he is, at his core, a good and respectable man.

Edward holds so much respect for o!Ciel and trusts him enough to ask for help as well.

And I want to make it clear, Edward didn't do this because of o!Ciel's name and who he believed he was, but because he’s witnessed firsthand what o!Ciel is capable of. This is trust forged in action, not obligation.

let's not forget Prince Soma!! he really is the first real friend in our earls life. He just waltzed in and molded himself into our earls heart so flawlessly lmao.

Prince Soma appreciates o!Ciel deeply and continously does everything in his power to make this boy feel safe and cared for, he's always offering and encouraging stability, care, and above all, a sense of security the young earl so desperately needs.

Soma’s loyalty to o!Ciel is simple, there’s no grand justification, no hidden agenda, not even the pretense of obligation.

He simply looked at this guarded, grieving boy and thought: You’re my friend now. No lies, no calculations. Just stubborn, sunlit devotion, offered freely because Soma decided it should be.

And though our earl would sooner swallow his own tongue than admit it aloud, he lets Soma care for him, grumbling all the while, but never with real venom. 

For all his bristling, he permits the prince’s relentless sunshine to shine quietly through the earl, and that silent permission speaks louder than gratitude ever could.

And even Soma's butler, Agni, deeply cares for and respects o!Ciel.

Agni is completely loyal to Soma first and foremost, but he also genuinely respects o!Ciel. Even though o!Ciel's dark nature troubles him, Agni still looks out for the earl's wellbeing.

His care for o!Ciel is real - he checks on him, protects him, and treats him with honor, not just because of his title, but because he sees value in him as a person.

The butler is always excited about the concept of Prince Soma and o!Ciel together as genuine friends. While part of this is because it's what Soma wants, Agni also recognizes that o!Ciel needs this friendship too. He understands that despite o!Ciel's tough exterior, having someone like Soma by his side is good for him.

We can't forget that one of Agni's final acts - just minutes before his death - was carefully intending to piece together a burnt photo of o!Ciel's childhood. He did this even after the earl had been harsh and confrontational with him.

This gesture proves Agni never truly held anger toward o!Ciel. Despite everything, he still cared deeply for the boy.

And last but not least I want to mention Sieglinde Sullivan, who is also another person that came to quickly harvest affection for o!Ciel.

The earl was her first ever friend, and while his intentions were always manipulative, you can't deny he really did inspire and motivate her in ways no one ever did.

He’s also brutally honest with her—warning her to watch out for people who might use her, even telling her to be cautious about trusting him.

It’s not cynicism, but a genuine attempt to shield her from the same manipulation she’s endured back in her village.

She saw him and tended him at his most vulnerable state, so he will always hold greatfulness for her even if he never admits it.

He formed that bond with Sieglinde simply by being who he is. The fact that he both encourages her and looks out for her in his own way—without pretense—naturally deepened their connection. It wasn’t forced; his genuine support created the perfect conditions for trust to grow.

IN CONCLUSION....

and there's many other characters whom adore o!Ciel who i wanted to add but...I think the tangent is long enough to get my point across :)

Our earl is genuienly so loved and cared for, and if it weren't for Sebastian and the contract hes bound to, he might have found real healing in this carefully woven safety net of devoted allies - a chance to recover from his pain rather than be consumed by it.

I think that's one of the biggest tragedies of our earl's character, he has so much capacity for love and warmth, yet the very darkness that forged him prevents him from accepting it.

This is his cruel paradox: A boy who kindles fire in others' hearts

while his own soul burns for the demon's feast.

He was made to be loved, but his fate averts him from keeping it.

[hewinked]

you ever have fandom drama go down with literally all the big blogs for one fandom that you love so much, and then all the blogs you follow just start throwing tomato's at each other?

yeah thats pretty much me with the danny phantom x dc crossover tag argument thing rn

also im of the opinion that, this is kinda always how crossovers worked? you tag it with both fandoms it includes? and the tag thing is not that bad? or atleast ive had not that much trouble finding only solely danny phantom content

and i mean, danny phantom is an old fandom objectively, the only new content being some comic books which alot of people didnt read because they didnt wanna or couldnt spend money on it

it makes sense that even alot of old fans would get into dp x dc, and that because dc is such a big and active fandom in comparison, that a lot of dc fans would get into the crossovers, and become new danny phantom fans via the crossovers

but ik alot of people are arguing that they shouldnt be, because they think that dc fans have never even seen danny phantom because of small details they get wrong or mix up, which is like a whole nother "if youre in this fandom you have to know everything about the media or youre not a real fan" shaped problem that I dont care for at all

the truth is most of them probably are just going off of what they remember from their childhoods because ALOT of people watched danny phantom as a kid, and just havent had time to rewatch it fully, so yeah, theyre gonna not remember some things and have to fill in the blanks themselves or go off of what other fans say

and as far as im aware anyways, this isnt really just a dc and dp thing? Im in the miraculous ladybug fandom and fic wise alot of it is now danny phantom or dc crossovers, but ive heard no complaints and given no complaints (despite not liking them myself) because thats mainly on ao3 and you can just block it

the point im going to make is actually, that alot of the fandom on tumblr is reliant on ao3 in the first place, and like on ao3 this definitely isnt a problem, because you can block a tag easily and most people on ao3 know better then to not tag something that they have in a fic

thing is? people are used to that. it is considered heavily heavily impolite on ao3 to not tag a fandom or thing you have in the fic.

and most tumblr users are or started as ao3 users. its pretty much the same etiquette on here.

but somehow when you go on tumblr with specifically danny phantom fans? somehow people are offended by it?

thing is, same as on ao3, on tumblr you can block a tag and filter.

but lets say you are blocking that and still seeing dc crossover stuff like so many people are complaing

then isnt the problem logically that alot of these people just arent tagging the dc stuff properly then? because i imagine thats what you should be trying to block so.... why be mad that theyre tagging danny phantom when thats one of the correct tags to be using? so that anyone who wants to see crossovers plus regular content can?

like im just saying thats the logic i follow

and thats not me tryna say go and blame em for that either, im just saying youre kinda angry about something that its okay to be mad about, but you have put yourself in the wrong because your mad about the wrong thing anyways.

also even if youre mad about it, maybe stop bullying and critizing literally anyone who's writing dc and dp? like encouraging people to write what they like is the name of the game, you guys know that right?

you know you can just nicely comment without being passive aggressive or rude, and tell them that they should tag their posts a little better? and not take your anger out on them because they personally obviously dont sway the whole fandom by themselves? do you know that?

you also dont have to make big ol rant posts about how much you hate dp x dc writers for writing a crossover, that will hurt those writers feelings, and that you know will make all your followers mad at all those innocent writers also, right? you know that you don't have to and shouldn't be making posts like that right?

[starconstruction]

Designated Ride

Yena x Male Reader (smut)

smut tags: pussy licking, blowjob, public sex, bathroom sex, throatpie, riding.

word count: 3312

forgive my britishness (i've been living a lie and autocorrecting to american spellings) for saying jumper 💔

after 4 months I have finally realized i have not been spacing my introduction properly, much love. Tried a few new things, I wanna write 9000000 yena fics, these pre-fic spaces are getting too long but i yap

Plans rarely make it out of the group chat between you four.

So it was a miracle you guys were here right now, in the glorious shining sun shining radiantly amongst your group. The skies were clean and crisp, shining a nice blue as all clouds decided to go on holiday which is certainly unusual here.

Its a shame that you were alone again.

Turns out being for lack of a better words (or more realistically Yuri's words) a "pathetic bitch loser" means you ended up here alone while they sat in a 2 and a half hour queue for a 30 second ride they swear is "worth it".

You don't necessarily believe them, but if they desire to do so there is no point in shooting down their excitement.

Besides its not all bad.

You get to waltz around the park entirely uninterrupted joyfully and do some rides that they stuck their noses up at.

Different tastes and all, it just so happens to be that you are the odd and obviously right one out.

You walked through the hundreds of people that walked in the way opposite. The full package deal so to speak; annoying children whining at their parents, teenagers randomly mantling each other's backs, the elderly who definitely didn't want to be here. You weaseled through them all just about, only pushing into like... 15 people.

You got to the ride that Minju called the worst, a simple blue water-slide. Sure it was made for children, probably those who haven't formed as much as an independent thought. But there's nothing wrong with enjoying the more simplistic pleasures in life. Climbing up the rickety staircase that almost certainly did not pass health standards, peering towards the ride those three went on. In their defense it certainly looked impressive, making everything its vicinity look miniature in comparison, considering how much they scream at the littlest things it did seem like an odd choice.

You let the minutes pass you by, waiting for the queue of children to slowly funnel down the slide. In your sightseeing you saw a blob of pink hair that looked almost familiar, she was looking down and you couldn't see much more than that.

"Sir how many?" The employee asked, holding the chain in his hand.

"One." You said quickly, getting nothing more than a curt nod before being allowed through. Mantling the orange raft and laying back. It only took a few seconds for everyone else to get into position before you were hurling down the slide, fingers grabbing onto the supports far tighter than the speed demanded. It only took a few seconds before you were at the bottom again, hitting a stylish jump (at least in your opinion) out onto the soft ground.

You would never fathom why Minju hated that ride with every fiber of her being.

"Hey!" A voice squealed to your left, a voice you'd recognize anywhere, Yena. Confirming your earlier suspicions.

You took a glance at her, wearing a cyan shirt with fabric far too thick for this weather. She almost certainly agreed, jumper wrapped around her waist, just not done particularly well by the arms dangling against her bare thighs. She gave you a quick smile and waved you over towards her.

"Oh hey Yena, you work here now?" You walked closer.

"Yep! Got the summer gig I wanted! I've loved this place since I was a kid." That was true, she didn't shut up about it, not that you minded. You've never seen joy quite as contagious as she talked about this place, probably why you ultimately came here in the first place.

"Sweet, does that not mean you have like... a ride to attend to?" Yena flashed a face of feigned offense, pulling her phone out from her pocket.

"Already trying to get rid of me?" She pouted. "But no, I haven't been assigned anything in particular right now. I guess I just get to walk around?"

"Fair enough, well I guess I can keep you company..." You rolled your eyes.

"How generous, anyways... Why have you came here alone? Do you not have friends?" She asked, stepping a bit too close as she intruded on your personal space carelessly.

"I'm not, they just wanted to sit in a queue for 2 and a half fucking hours." You grumbled.

Yena smirked, you knew what that look meant. It just surprised you it came so quickly, she moved you two slightly out of earshot.

"So what I'm hearing is we have some time to kill right?" The scent of her perfume intertwined itself with the scent of summer sweat and new clothes.

"I guess we do, would you happen to have anything in mind?" You murmured, playing innocent.

"I say we break this job in, you remember the last time right?" Oh god you did.

It was her first job, a number of years back. At the gas station not too far from the two of yours houses. She messaged you to keep her company in the middle of the night, expecting her to just want you to listen to her yap for a few hours.

That was certainly not what happened, Yena had black hair back then. You remembered it so vividly, probably because she backed you into the staff toilet and made you grab a handful of it. Pushing your far too erect cock into her ever divine mouth, there were very few words shared. Just the sweet gags of Yena taking your cock in as delightfully as possible, you didn't last long that night. Giving her the load she desperately craved, swallowing it all in one gulp.

You two made a bit of a habit after that, every night shift ended up with some form of messing around. Its honestly a miracle she didn't get fired from the job.

"Yeah, but this is a lot busier than that dingy ass gas station." She giggled.

"Yeah, but I'm staff silly! They so graciously offered me a hotel room since my commute is far too long. We just need to discretely make it that way" She pointed south, "If anyone asks I'm showing you where to go, got it?" You nodded.

Yena lead the charge, moving at a moderate pace. Evidently already enjoying herself in her head; legs not separating quite far as they normally do, her hand finding any opportunity to discretely brush against your thighs when nobody is looking.

The walk is also far too long for your own sanity, giving you chances to imagine all the things you could do to her in a personal hotel room. All depending on how much time she gives you. Maybe you could reunite your cock with her blissful mouth or possibly you could ram her against the wall, or the bed, or the floor, she'd look good in any. You knew first hand of course.

"Quick right here." You followed, the hotel coming into view, it was in the shape of a scrap fish. You chuckled at its sight. Yena was less impressed than you, possibly numb to the sheer absurdity of it.

You two had finally made it to the ocean blue door, Yena scanning her keycard in a rush. Her hastiness resulted in you basically being shoved into the metallic wall of the elevator. "Ow Yena, relax a bit."

She hit the buttons, taking you to the top floor. "I'm impatient, okay?? Is that what you want to hear, we don't have long." Truthfully neither of you knew how much time the two of you had, but she's right.

The elevator opened with a satisfying ding! Yena skipping straight ahead to the door in front of her, 832. It'd probably help to remember that just in case.

She slammed the door behind you, giving you no time to prepare before her hands were on you, fingers grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt hungrily. Tugging you forward, roughly catching your lips in a needy kiss. The agonizing walk must have only furthered her desperation, her tongue sliding into your mouth as you struggled to keep up.

You grabbed at Yena's clothed ass, fondling the firm flesh that you've enjoyed many times before. With your hands, your fingers and even your tongue. Another idea perhaps, but you turn your focus onto kissing Yena passionately. Her tongue resigning its control in exchange of you blissfully tongue fucking her mouth.

It only took a few moments for the two of you to run out of breath, Yena gasping for oxygen which you capitalized on. Lifting her up in your arms to which she yelped "Oh!".

You dropped her gently against the bed, Yena shuddered as she made contact. Looking up at your towering frame. "Fuck its been far too long Y/N" She gasped.

Oh god you agreed.

You definitely planned to make up for lost time, climbing over her. Getting rid of that bothersome shirt that dared to cover Yena's chest, giving it sloppy kisses on her exposed abs. The salty taste of her sweat gathering on your tongue, unashamedly licking on every crevice of her chest from her underboob that exposed itself under her maroon bra to her belly button.

She mewled out her words, "Mmh your tongue always feels good, but it'd feel better somewhere else..."

You smirked, continuing your tongue's long strokes against her chest "Yeah? Where would that be Yena?" You knew her so well and one of the things she loved the most was being fucking teased.

"Hm, just a bit lower than where you are now." She was purposefully vague.

"Oh? Here?" You asked, kissing just above the waist of her shorts.

"Psh– You know what I mean..!"

You pushed your hand between her legs, doing no more than just that. Watching her whine.

"Do I? For someone who was so desperate to rush you are oh. so. slow. in telling me what you want."

Yena finally relented, accepting the loss this time because she knows it'll only lead to greater victories. "Fine, I need you to eat me out, is that what you want to hear?"

You reveled in her confession, hands ripping off her shirt leaving her nearly bare. Saved for her underwear and shoes, you didn't fucking care for the rest of it, she wasn't wearing matching underwear, panties a shade of blue made only darker in the middle by her dripping arousal.

"Of course Yena." Your fingers rubbed the damp fabric, getting the desired affirmations you wanted in the form of a broken whimper.

You tugged her underwear down, revealing her wet pussy, wet could be understatement of the century. For she was drenched with little touch at all. The shoes acting as a barrier you did not care enough to overcome. Binding Yena's feet together -not that she had any intention or want to move- "Fuck you are so wet–"

You got closer, climbing onto the bed. The lack of being able to properly spread her legs made things a bit more difficult in terms of position, hands perching comfortably on her right thigh, blowing hot air on her entrance. She shivered, "F-fuck, come on... Stop teasing me already!"

Your breath hitched, only complying because you were equally as desperate. From the first lick you were quick, careless, demanding. sliding your tongue all over her folds, gathering Yena's ever plentiful juices. Her sweet taste being all you needed to keep going but the way her thighs twitched and shook were all the more reason to continue.

"Oh fuck! It's been so long!" Yena gasped at the first contact, you kept licking, twirling your tongue around her pussy, covering her in your spit.

"Far too long." You replied, you could discuss meeting later another day. For now you craved more.

Your lone finger pushed inside, then out, then inside, then out. Slower than your tongue, the two different speeds making Yena lose her mind. "Fuck– that, fuck–" far too stunned to speak, not that you could blame her.

You looked up at her as you licked, her hands didn't remain idle, far from it. Pinching her pink nipples firmly, her bra neatly fallen into the impromptu pile that formed somehow.

Her eyes were closed, scrunched. Mouth wide open just enough to let the sinful gasps and pleads come out, her face was flushed a deep red like she had been burnt by pleasure.

You could sense she was getting close, but it wouldn't be your tongue to finish the job. So you pulled away.

"Ah!– Why'd you stop?!" She groaned at the sudden edging, instinctively freezing her hands movement.

You moved suddenly, Yena suddenly being met with a clothed cock pitching a tent right in front of her eyes. She knew what you wanted, looking up with those fucking eyes that made you weak, giving a small kitten kiss to the straining fabric.

"You want me to suck this dick? So hard and you haven't even been touched..." Hypocrisy certainly was lost on Yena.

"Of fucking course, take every inch for me." Was all you needed to say and Yena gave her hands a new objective, pulling down the two obstructions in one fell swoop. Leaving you to be the one to finish the job.

Yena was still laying there, tongue out. Like she wanted you to claim the ultimate prize or at least the second ultimate prize. Such things are entirely trivial and semantic, you readjusted her. Tangled feet now placed at the pillow as she was given her the perfect access to your cock, to which she took happily. Hand gripping the base firmly.

"Such a good cock, you always were my favorite." You ignored any possible implication because your brain went numb at the sight of her slapping your cock against her tongue.

"Always tasting so good." She sampled it like a divine meal, giving it a barrage of kisses, making out with your tip. Beginning to take you inside her mouth, that made you weak in the knees, just barely avoiding falling backwards onto the bed.

"Fuck, Yena I've missed this..." You gasped, she responded with taking half way. Bobbing her head up and down as a frantic swirl of pink hair, "Like that." Her hands pumped what she couldn't fit inside her silky mouth.

She hungrily swallowed every inch that she could muster, cheeks hollowing out, mouth somehow even tighter than before. Yena relinquished her hand, moving them to your thighs. You knew the look she just gave you, its the please fuck my mouth look.

You grabbed the back of her head, grabbing onto enough of her hair to move her. Yena closed her eyes as you pulled her down to your base, taking you straight to the hilt. Gagging all over your length as she crammed it into her mouth, nose pushing against your crotch in satisfaction.

"Fucking hell Yena, always so good at this..." You pulled her up and down on your cock, letting your tip slam against the back of her vibrating throat as she deepthroated your cock sinfully.

She couldn't really respond, but made her presence known with as many mewls and guttural sounds she could. You bobbed her head quickly, using her mouth as a sleeve for the both of yours pleasure.

The sight of Yena choking herself on your cock was filthy; obscene, the only words that came to mind at this point. The sheer lust in your head drowning out any coherency you once had.

Yena drooled all down her chin, certainly not fit for work in how she looks currently. "Shit...."

ring

ring

Nemonemo nemonemo sign

Well thats certainly not your ringtone.

"Shit." You said more firmly now, getting Yena off your cock.

"Damn buzzkills, hold on." She brought the phone to her ear. "Yep, i'll be over in just a second. On the other side of the park. K thanks, bye."

"I take it we are being interrupted?" You sighed, solemnly missing the feeling of Yena's mouth on yours.

"Yep, guess our luck ran out... You can jerk off if you want? Or something? I don't know to be honest." Yena quickly got to work, reclipping her bra around her breasts, tugging her panties upwards, grabbing her perfume from her bag and quickly making herself as presentable as possible. The event's that transpired here chalkable as just being slightly unkempt.

"Nah, I'll go on some more rides while I wait for the others. Fucking stupid job." You groaned as you put your trousers back on.

"Fuck I wanted to cum! I still do... I'll text you if i get a free minute!" She promised, the two of you discreetly getting out of there.

-

The opportunity presented itself a few hours later, just an hour before closing.

They wanted to go on another ride.

Yena texted you that she was free for the next 10 minutes.

The hotel was a luxury you didn't have time to reach.

This would have to do.

You were sat on the toilet seat, down to your shoes, cock pointing towards Yena's entrance. She sank down, taking every inch of you inside.

"Fuck... This is my favourite ride of them all." You ignored her cheesy comment, she was squeezing the life out of your shaft, bouncing up and down vigorously, slamming against your crotch as she rode the stolen high from earlier.

"Bounce on my cock for me Yena!" You moaned against her ear, hoping that there wasn't people this close to the stool. She was snug around you, your praise making her squeeze even tighter.

"Ah!" That was far too loud.

"Quiet... Don't want people to hear how well you are taking this cock do you?"

Yena nodded and kept bouncing up and down, she was fast, rolling her hips as she rode. "Fuck your throbbing..." You kneaded her ass in between thrusts, groping the soft flesh with pure desperation, want, need.

"We don't have very long, cum for me Yena." You cooed. Yena gasped in your ear, you couldn't expect her to do all the work, swapping positions as you pushed her against the stool door. Thrusting into her needy cunt with all the strength you had left, holding your hand against her mouth, muffling her sweet moans that nobody else deserved to hear.

Her legs trembled in the air, her face was beet red and sweaty, she was getting closer for you.

You could feel her get somehow even more tighter than before, she was getting close. Desperate to hit that high, the clock was ticking. Yena seizes in your embrace, gushing her girlcum all over your shaft, some dripping on the floor, her explosive orgasm nearly making you blow your load right inside her.

You had to act quick, pulling out of her warmth and descending her onto the filthy floor, pushing your cock into her warm mouth, fucking her hole with reckless abandon as there was no time to waste. She gagged up saliva as the new position made you go down her throat.

Your orgasm crept up inside of you, shooting the biggest load you've had ever down her throat, rope after rope filled Yena's throat as she took it all.

You were honestly impressed with how she endured all of that, pulling your cock out of her warm mouth as you fell backwards, "Shit... I'm gonna be late! That took 15 minutes... Help me quickly!" She gasped, you helped her dress herself, spray the perfume for the second time and hope she didn't get in too much trouble.

"If I don't get fired maybe you should come to this park alone... Perhaps you could spend the night."

"Sure thing, they are going to be out of queue soon so I've also gotta run, nice to see you again." You laughed.

"See ya! Hope I was up to customer satisfaction guarantee!" She blew you a kiss and left the stool, you secretly sneaking out a few minutes later when the coast was clear.

[noctiva]

Who would regret breaking up, would they want to get the relationship back? I need some male suffering and HUMILIATION! Especially from CODY!!!! <3

Toby: IMMEDIATELY regrets it. like the moment all that anger cools into grief he is a goddamn fucking wreck. tries to convince himself it was for the best but doesn’t believe that at all. might go out looking for some random girl to hook up with in attempts to get over you, only for him to close his eyes and imagine it’s you the entire time. like. it’s rough.

He cycles between anger and sadness on a constant loop. Cries himself dry. Trashes his room in an attempt to get all of these horrible feelings out, and it doesn’t work.

he is either a) stalking you and trying to win you back over like i detailed in a prior post, or b) straight up showing up at your doorstep begging for you to take him back. he’s pathetic.

-

Jack: Regrets it after a week or two. He thought he’d get used to it - he’d been icing you out for the last few months of your relationship anyway, so what’s the difference in just not having you there at all? Turns out, it’s a big one. His body aches for you. Any flesh he sinks his teeth into tastes rotten compared to how sweet he knows your blood is.

Your absence weighs on him heavy. Like he had accidentally given you a piece of himself when he sent you away. Despite this, he’s not seeking you back out. He did what he did for a reason - and he’ll suffer if it means you don’t have to.

He truly, wholeheartedly believes that you are better off without him. And though sometimes he debates being selfish and crawling back to you, he can never bring himself to actually do it.

-

Brian: Sort of kind of regrets it? But more so missing the familiarity than the actual… relationship itself. He had just grown used to having someone to come home to, some to talk to, someone who was always happy to see him. He thought he could go back to being alone since he’d done it before, but for some reason this one sticks.

He stays up late watching back old tapes he took of you over and over again, trying to work up the courage to delete them. He never does.

There’s a 50/50 chance on whether or not he asks for you back. If he does, it’s him calling you from a pay phone late at night, not even giving an introduction because he knows you know his voice. To the point, just like how he had been when he broke up with you. ‘darlin’, i fucked up.’

-

Tim: Misses you the moment he steps out of the door, but doesn’t regret it. Even if it hurts, he knows it would’ve just ended up being more painful if he stuck around. The two of you weren’t made to last, despite how much both of you wanted that to be wrong. He was just the only one with the courage to actually end things before they got messy.

He doesn’t forget about you, not ever. Doesn’t find a new partner - partially because everyone else just falls short in comparison to you, and partially because he knows that any other romantic endeavour would just end up the exact same way.

He prays that you’ve moved on. Checks up on you sometimes in hopes that you have. Maybe one day he’ll watch you from the other side of the street, happily walking along with a new boyfriend. It’s equal parts soothing as it is gut wrenching.

-

Cody: Tells himself that he doesn’t regret it, but he most definitely does. You were the only one who really, truly got him. The only one who was patient enough to break down his walls. The only one who didn’t scoff, didn’t berate him for the way he acted - you encouraged him. Loved him. He doesn’t realize how much he really needed that until it’s gone.

Finds himself forgetting you’re not there. Turns to the spot you’d always sit next to him at his lab bench, a half-formed question on his lips that dies the moment his eyes fall on the empty space.

But, despite all that, he doesn’t ask for you back. This was his choice. He could’ve kept you, and yet he chose to let you go. It’s a fact he’ll force himself to live with.

-

Habit: Doesn’t regret it. Well, maybe a tiny bit deep down. But not because he misses you, or feels remorse for his actions. It’s just because you had just been such a treat while it lasted.

You just took everything he gave you. We’re so blinded by your love that you were so easy to just push and push. To take you to your brink and then push past it. It was a treat every time, watching how much you could take before you broke.

Of course he picks up new victims, fresh meat - but they’re just not as fun. He finds himself getting irritated when they can’t take as much as you could.

[ot3]

a few people in the tags of that post where op is talking about disliking people calling them asexual/demisexual because of how it relates to their past sexual trauma are making comparisons to the whole egg joke discourse that's been going on for awhile. and i understand the impulse to feel like those two things are analogous because i myself felt similar ways about egg jokes for awhile specifically because of how much i disliked people deciding they knew my sexual feelings better than i did based on assumptions they made from off the cuff tumblr posts. anyway after having read the thoughts of a lot more trans women on the subject of egg cracking i've come around on the latter in a way i haven't on the former and definitely don't think the two phenomena are necessarily as comparable as they may seem on the surface. i think primarily it comes down to gender being something that by necessity is navigated in the public sphere (although gender feelings of course may be navigated in the private sphere) whereas the presence or absence of someone's sexual feelings as by default a matter of the private sphere that people may decide to navigate publicly if they feel so inclined.

[redvexillum]

Thirteenth Kiss: Captivate III

A/N: Listen. He's ... doing his best.

Tags/Warning: f!reader, eventual smut, fake relationship, Lucifer is touch-starved

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“You know…” you murmured, your voice light with teasing as your knee sank into the plush surface of the king-sized bed. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, creaking faintly in the quiet room. You dropped to your hands with a feline grace, brows raised as you looked up at him from your position. “You have hundreds of rooms in this absurdly massive house. We don’t have to do this.” 

Lucifer flinched, clutching the blanket like it was a lifeline, dragging it up over his bare chest with almost comical urgency. His knuckles were pale from the strain of his grip. “Nope,” he said too quickly, voice thin. He drew in a breath, held it for a beat too long, then added, “I don’t mind. This is… better. For comfort. Mutual comfort.” He tried to smile, but it barely touched his lips and didn’t even graze his eyes, which flickered with thinly veiled anxiety. 

You pressed your fingers to your lips to stifle a laugh, the warmth of it slipping between your fingers as you giggled. The sound felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The absurdity of the situation still hadn’t worn off—Lucifer Morningstar, powerful and terrifying, squirming beneath a blanket like a nervous teenager on his first sleepover. 

After finalizing the odd little transaction that had landed you here—as his pretend girlfriend—you’d spent the evening talking about literally everything. Favourite colours, trivial pet peeves, the kind of conversation meant to fill silences but never scratch below the surface. There had been an invisible line between you both, a careful distance you didn’t dare cross. 

Except when it came to Charlie. His tone shifted every time her name crossed his lips: warm, wistful, almost reverent. You could practically see the glint in his eyes when he talked about her. 

You noticed the glimmer of gold on his left hand. A wedding band, simple and elegant. 

Unmoving. 

Untouched. 

And when the night stretched long enough to make the shadows yawn across the walls, he insisted you stay with him. Not to share a bed in the way others might assume, but simply to lay beside him. 

To exist beside him. 

You leaned in now, bracing your hands on the mattress, smirking as you looked into his wide, panicked eyes. “So… are we going to cuddle?” 

His reaction was instant and violent. He choked on a breath, coughing like he’d inhaled fire, his face a shade of gold you hadn't seen on him before. 

You burst into laughter, loud and uninhibited. “I’m just kidding, Luci,” you said playfully. Then you paused, tilting your head as you studied him. “Can I call you that?” 

He rubbed his chest, trying to recover, eyes still darting anywhere but at you. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sure, that’s fine,” he said in a voice that had pitched up to something almost… boyish. 

You glanced down at yourself—at the simple white spaghetti-strap tank clinging softly to your skin, and the pale pink shorts cinched at your waist with a satiny bow. The heart-shaped curve of the fabric accentuated the smoothness of your thighs. 

You looked back up at Lucifer. 

And smiled. 

How cute, you mused, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back a smile as you caught the telltale flush blooming across Lucifer’s ears. You laughed quietly to yourself, warmth settling in your chest. It was moments like this that made it hard to remember he was supposed to be your client, not your… well, not anything else. 

You slipped beneath the heavy blanket, the fabric cool against your skin before your body heat gradually softened it. The bed was enormous—absurdly so. You could stretch your arms out in every direction and still not reach the edge. It made your usual mattress feel like a child’s cot in comparison. 

“Must be nice,” you murmured absently, eyes drifting upward as your head hit the plush pillow, “to sleep on a bed this big every night.” 

Your gaze wandered over the canopy above you, where rich royal-purple drapery hung in soft folds from the carved wooden posts that framed the bed. Ornate and regal. The kind of thing you’d only seen in period dramas or overly indulgent furniture catalogues. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Perhaps, old paper? Ink? Him? 

The silence stretched for a moment, interrupted only by the soft rustling of sheets. You turned your head slightly and caught sight of Lucifer lying stiffly on his back, his gaze also fixed on the ceiling. The space between you could easily fit another person. He hadn’t moved any closer, not that you expected him to. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something brittle. “It’s… a bit too big, though.” He let out a half-laugh, small and self-conscious, like he wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or a confession. 

Then, almost too quickly, he shifted gears. “Anyway! We should get some shut-eye. Big plans tomorrow!” His voice lifted with artificial cheer, the kind that made your heart ache a little. He rolled onto his side, facing away from you, shoulders pulled tight and defensive. “Good night!” he added brightly, as if the words could mask the sudden drop in energy. 

You stared at his back for a moment. He’d put even more space between you, and not just physically. The bed felt colder somehow—emptier—despite how large it already was. 

You blinked slowly. Once. Then again. 

You exhaled quietly and turned onto your side, facing away from him as well. “Good night,” you whispered, your voice barely above the hush of the room. 

You closed your eyes, trying to coax your body into sleep even as your mind wandered. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the performance. Only three days left to convince Charlie that you’d been her father’s secret lover for years. Just three days to make her believe a story that wasn’t real. 

You could do it. 

You were a professional, after all. 

Lucifer lay curled on his side, spine curved inward like a crescent moon, sheets bunched awkwardly around his waist as he tucked his knees closer to his chest. The shadows in the room were gentle now, the light from Heaven's gate barely managing to filter through the heavy drapery, painting pale streaks across the canopy above. But the quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was loud in that aching, suffocating kind of way that only settled in when you were pretending not to feel. 

He regretted asking you to sleep beside him. 

The words he used earlier—to foster connection, to build intimacy, to sell the story faster—felt hollow now, echoing in his chest like a lie he had told too many times. He could still see the look on your face when he’d said it: one brow lifted, your lips twitching with disbelief. You hadn’t bought it. Not really. But you’d smiled anyway and agreed. 

That smile, it had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. 

He shifted, and the cold brush of metal against his skin made him flinch. The gold band, long forgotten on his finger during the day, now felt heavier than ever. It nudged his finger like a whisper of the past, a quiet reminder. 

A ghost. 

How long had it been since someone had shared this bed with him? Truly shared it? Not as a guest, not for appearances, but in the sacred, unspoken way people once did when love wasn’t so far away? 

There was a time—long ago—when this very bed had felt small. When Lilith would curl into his side, her laughter still ringing in his ears while their tiny Charlie scrambled between them, limbs flailing, giggling wildly. They’d all collapse into a warm, tangled heap of breath and blankets and soft goodnights. 

Back then, the edges of the mattress had seemed to close in around them like an embrace. 

But now…?

He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, the scent of old memories clinging to the silk. He hadn’t been able to get rid of the bed. Too much of him was buried in it. Too many pieces he couldn’t face. The mattress sagged in familiar places—echoes of bodies that once filled it. 

Now, the vastness of it mocked him. A monument to emptiness. The cold side of the bed always stayed cold. 

It was too big. 

Far too big. 

For one person. 

And yet… you were here. Just a few feet away, your breathing soft and steady. He hadn’t looked at you—not since he turned his back, like a coward—but he could feel your presence. Quiet. Patient. Kind, even when you didn’t need to be. 

He had you. For now, at least. 

But did that make him feel less alone? 

He wasn’t sure. 

All he knew was that the warmth on the other side of the bed wasn’t just from the blankets. 

And that terrified him. 

The loneliness clung to him like a second skin. Always persistent, always suffocating. No matter how many layers of silk, status, or charm he wrapped around himself, it always found a way in. It gnawed at the edges of his soul, slow and constant, like ocean waves eroding stone. 

There was regret, too. Small, flickering embers glowing weakly in the pit of his chest. Not enough to ignite, but enough to burn. If he had just been honest with Charlie from the beginning, if he had faced her questions and her pain instead of hiding behind this elaborate farce… none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t be here. This wouldn’t be happening. 

But… 

When was the last time someone had asked him about him? About his memories, his joys, his griefs, without judgment or agenda? He had grown so accustomed to performing, to manipulating conversations and reading sinners like open books. He knew the signs of false interest. The glazed eyes. The vacant nods. The polite smiles stretched too thin. 

But with you… there had been none of that. 

You listened. You heard him. 

And under the pretense of getting to know each other, for the sake of the illusion, of course, he realized he'd spoken more about himself in one evening than he had in years. Decades, maybe. He hadn’t even thought to ask you much of anything. The realization sat heavy in his chest. 

Tomorrow, he promised himself, clutching the thought like a vow. Tomorrow I’ll ask. I’ll listen. I’ll see who you are—really are. 

A soft sigh broke the stillness, followed by the gentle rustle of the sheets. 

He startled, breath catching, heart suddenly hammering against his ribs like a caged bird. 

Carefully, slowly, he turned. 

You were sleeping peacefully. 

Draped in those pastel pajamas that clung softly to your form, you seemed to glow in the night's light, every detail sharpened by the darkness surrounding you. Your lips held a faint curve, as though smiling in some distant dream. You looked… serene. Open. Vulnerable in the quietest, most sacred way. 

His eyes lingered on your hand resting between the two of you, the same hand that had cradled his earlier with a gentleness he hadn’t expected. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, warm and firm and grounding. 

His fingers twitched, aching with some unnamed desire to reach out again. 

And yet, all he could feel was confusion. 

It was the only emotion he could name in the whirlwind pressing against his chest. 

Confused, because this was all supposed to be pretend. A fabrication. A game. A lie wrapped in soft smiles and false memories. 

But if that were true… why did it hurt? 

Why did he feel sorrow coiling beneath his ribs like smoke, thick, and aching? 

Why did your presence bring both comfort and a sharp, unexpected grief? 

Confused. 

Confused… because in a bed built for two, where once he had been truly loved, he was lying next to a stranger. 

And somehow… he didn't mind it. 

“Wait—wait, wait,” you sputtered, shaking your head as you held a forkful of syrup-drenched waffle midair, your brows climbing in disbelief. “Back up. How did we meet again?” 

The morning light poured through the velvet curtains in golden beams, warming the sprawling bed you still hadn’t gotten used to. And to your complete surprise, the day had started with breakfast in bed. From Lucifer Morningstar himself. 

He had entered the room with an almost boyish pride, balancing a tray like a waiter at some five-star resort. The food looked absurdly good—five golden waffles stacked tall, each one glistening with amber-coloured syrup and topped with a perfectly square pat of butter melting at the centre like it belonged in a painting. A bowl of ripe strawberries and blueberries sat beside it, their scent sweet and fresh. Another plate held three thick-cut strips of bacon fried to a crisp perfection, and two sunny-side-up eggs with yolks like twin suns. 

You couldn’t lie. It made your heart flutter just a bit. The effort. The attention. The ridiculousness. 

But now, sitting up with pillows fluffed behind you and a tray balanced on your lap, you were trying to hold back laughter as Lucifer gave you the most serious look in the universe. 

“We met at the Duck Gala,” he said without hesitation, tone grave and completely devoid of irony. 

You blinked. “I’m sorry, the what?” 

“The Duck Gala,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. 

You squinted at him, brow furrowing. “That’s… that’s not a real thing. That’s not a place. Is that even a sentence?” 

Lucifer’s face lit up with delight. “I’m so glad you asked.” 

And just like that, over the course of the next twenty minutes, as you nibbled your waffle and popped berries into your mouth, he launched into an elaborate explanation. It might’ve been insane if he hadn’t delivered it with such charismatic certainty. 

Apparently, the Duck Gala was a prestigious, exclusive annual event held at Lucifer’s estate. An event he invented for no one but himself. According to him, it was a celebration of “the finest, most misunderstood creature in all of creation: the duck.” He claimed (deadpan, mind you) that he helped design the original duck alongside God, and to this day, he honoured that artistic achievement with a private black-tie gala. 

“But you’ve never invited anyone?” you asked, mouth half full, trying not to laugh. 

“Never,” he said proudly. “It’s very exclusive. So exclusive that only the ducks are aware.” 

“And I’m supposed to tell Charlie,” you said slowly, “that her father, who’s never mentioned a single gala in his entire life, has an elite yearly event centred around ducks, where you invited no one… and just forgot to tell her about it?” 

Lucifer picked up a strip of bacon, bit into it with an exaggerated crunch, and shrugged. “Exactly. Sounds perfectly reasonable.” 

You stared at him. 

He smiled with a flash of charm, then waggled his eyebrows. “Theatrics, darling. You have to sell the absurdity so well it becomes believable. Trust me.” 

You looked back down at your plate, shaking your head as you cut another piece of waffle. Warm, fluffy, rich with syrup—it was delicious. But even the sweetness couldn’t distract you from the looming truth. 

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath, “Charlie’s definitely not going to buy this shit.” 

And yet, as he continued to babble about duck tuxedos and quacking orchestras, you found yourself laughing. Not fake, not forced. Real. Honest. 

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind the madness so much. 

In the end, after plenty of gentle prodding—mostly on your part—you mutually agreed on a more believable story: you met through an online dating app. 

Simple. Relatable. Closer to the truth. 

And the closer you are to the truth, the easier it is to lie. 

The only adjustment was the timeline. Instead of claiming it was yesterday’s whirlwind chance encounter, you decided you'd met two years ago. Long enough to build a history, short enough to make it plausible you’d kept it quiet. 

Still, you didn’t miss it—the way Lucifer’s shoulders drooped, the small pout on his lips when you vetoed his precious Duck Gala origin story. The disappointment was faint, but present, and it tugged at you with a strange, unexpected ache. 

Your words came before you could think twice. Careless at first. Reflexive, even. 

“Well,” you said casually, licking a sticky trail of syrup from your thumb, “maybe this year, you should invite me to the Duck Gala.” 

You met his gaze, offering a teasing grin. “Sounds like a fun event. Plus, if you’re the one catering, that alone makes it worth attending.” 

His expression shifted like sunrise breaking over a bleak horizon. 

His eyes lit up, warm, almost childlike in their brightness. And his smile curved with real, radiant joy. 

Cute. 

That was all you told yourself. 

Just cute. 

You weren’t here to feel anything. This was just a job. An arrangement. But that didn’t stop something soft from blooming in your chest, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. 

You told yourself you just wanted to lift his spirits. After all, in Hell, it was rare to find someone like Lucifer. Most hellspawns were cruel, bitter, hardened by their damnation. But him? He was… different. Softer around the edges than he’d probably like to admit. 

And if you’d met him in the human world, back when you were still someone else, someone you weren’t proud of, you might’ve taken advantage of that softness. Manipulated it. Used it. Left him broken and empty, like so many others. 

That thought hit you hard. Bitter and uninvited. 

A sharp, sour taste coated your tongue, stealing away the sweetness of the waffle. An old memory, unwanted and unwelcome, nudged its way into your mind. A shadow of your past self, cruel, and cold and selfish. 

Your eyes drifted downward to the tray he had brought you this morning. The breakfast he’d made with surprising care. 

You felt the shift before you heard his voice. 

“What’s wrong?” 

The softness in his tone startled you. It wasn’t prying, just concerned. And that only worsened it. 

You blinked rapidly, pushing back the tendrils of memory like sweeping dust beneath a rug. You refused to let them take root. Not here. Not now. 

A breath. Then a bright, airy laugh. 

“Oh, nothing,” you said, reaching for a piece of waffle and stuffing it into your mouth like a chipmunk hiding from its own thoughts. “Just picturing what a Duck Gala would actually look like!” 

You chewed dramatically. “Mmm—yum! Ten outta ten, Luci.” 

He chuckled, eyes lingering on you with a quiet kind of curiosity. But he didn’t press further. 

And you were grateful for that. 

You glanced at him again, your heart quieter now, your thoughts calmer. 

Today, tomorrow, and the days that followed—however long this lasted—you would keep choosing better. Keep proving, if only to yourself, that you have changed. 

That you were no longer that person. 

And maybe… maybe in helping Lucifer with his problem, find peace, or even just hold on to a scrap of happiness… 

Maybe…you could earn a little of your own. 

NEXT ->

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[marzipanandminutiae]

regarding: aren't you hot in that. I remember a few years ago Abby Cox made a video about this with 2 friends using a thermal scanner and being out in Nevada in the heat in different outfits to contrast and compare both the meassured temperature as well as how it feels being out in the heat in the outfits. Now personally I don't do historical fashion daily or anything; I occassionally like to dabble in it but it is not my full wardrobe and I like my modern grunge goth girly clothes just as much as I like my edwardian widow ensembles. That being said as someone who does own and wear shorts. I am ALWAYS more comfortable in the heat in a floor length black cotton skirt than I am in even linen shorts (i don't even wanna think about denim in comparison) because keeping my legs oscured from the sun does actually keep them cooler than having them exposed to it. Same goes I imagine for arms though I do not own a garment to test it out. But it does make me wanna go fabric hunt for something that would make a good bell sleeve blouse to feel light enough on my skin but also cover my arms entirely so the stupid sun can not get to them. People seem to be under the impression that wearing less clothes and baring more skin makes the heat easier to take but if that were the case why are all the people in dessert regions literally wearing hat to toe fabric? I know dry heat is different from humid heat. But even so I think there is a more to cooling down than wearing as little clothes as possible

That video is so good. Also it makes me want to sit in a bathtub in a chemise with my friends and a champagne coupe of sparkling cider, so there's that 

I didn't think you're right that there's more to it than just wearing as little clothing as possible. Especially as somebody who doesn't like wearing as little clothing as possible. It's interesting to me that when I still wore short sleeves and tank tops, even as recently as last summer, I noticed the sunscreen on my arms making a gross sticky residue when it mixed with sweat. It was a visible reminder that I was still sweating like crazy even with my arms uncovered. So clearly, the fact that I'm sweating is not greatly influenced by whether I have sleeves on or not (if the sleeves are sufficiently lightweight, which all of the ones in my summer wardrobe are)

Also Bell sleeves are amazing. My favorite summer blouses that I just finished has lace bell sleeves, and I love it so much 

[runningracingdancingchasing]

She'd imagined sitting him down on the couch, maybe with some alcohol to make it all easier, imagined the lighting and how it would play on his features. But now they were in the kitchen, and the lighting was completely different, harsh and bright in comparison to her imagination. Well, that was on her. She was the one who'd started the conversation now instead of later.

Clearing her throat again, she found it hard to find her words, and even harder to look at him.

"I've been rehearsing this all day," she confessed with a little smile that didn't reach haunted eyes, toying with her own fingers while wishing she had Abraçinhos to hug. But he was in the living room, on the couch, where she'd meant to have this conversation. "But I can't seem to remember how it was going to go. Sorry if I'm about to ramble..."

Taking a deep breath, she thought through all of the myriad of rehearsals she'd gone through, then picked a place and started. Managing to look at him for a moment, she iterated, "Just know that I'm telling you this because you're my best friend and I trust you." That was very important. It was easy for Rapunzel to love. She loved her friends almost right away. But trusting people wasn't so simple. That probably had something to do with what she was about to tell him...

Okay, here we go. Just breathe and... start. "Okay, so the thing is... I can't remember anything about my past up until a few years ago," she explained softly, "and that's by design. Something... happened when I was little. I'm not sure exactly what, but I know it was traumatic. My therapist thought -- and I agree -- that if I want to function as an adult, I had to lock it all away. It was really the only way to move forward. But that's why there are things that basically everyone knows that I don't know anything about. Which is so frustrating and embarrassing, because I'm usually so smart!"

Even talking about it now, she could feel that locked closet of memories getting banged on from the inside, and her shame from not knowing how schools worked. Her focus started turning inward, a slippery slope to a bad night, even if he decided she was worth hanging onto. Without thinking, she got a glass of cold water and sat down at the table again, pressing the cool glass against her face and neck to keep herself in the here and now and with him.

"There are things I don't remember so much as feel. Echoes of a voice I can't identify or- or thinking someone's going to react negatively to something when no one with half a heart would. Sometimes... it's like a part of my brain is trying to remember the stuff I've deliberately forgotten, and the rest of my brain is trying to keep me from remembering. When that happens I just kind of... go away. Like, I'm there, physically, but my mind..." She paused to sip some water and ran her fingers idly over the place mat in front of her, taking in the texture as the cool drink soothed her throat, keeping her grounded. She surprised herself by the fact that she didn't feel like she was going to cry. Not yet. If he decided this was it, yeah, she'd spend the rest of the night crying. But not yet.

The more she thought about it, the more guilty she felt for being this way and subjecting him to her. Had she trapped him by asking him out before she told him this? But she was telling him now, and giving him an out, right? That was good of her, wasn't it? She liked him so much that she's was putting her biggest flaw right out there in the open and shining a light on it. If he couldn't handle it, well... she could just leave Rio after all.

God, she didn't want to leave Rio. Didn't want to leave him.

A sad, scared sigh escaped her. "I'm broken, Rai. I'm broken, and I don't know if I can ever be fixed all the way. I know I should have told you this before I asked you out, because you deserve to have an informed choice, to know what you're getting into, and I totally get it if... if it's too much. If it's a deal-breaker. I can be a lot as it is, and this is just... it's a lot more. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

And she really hoped he'd stay, despite it. And she was terrified he wouldn't. Her head and stomach swam unpleasantly, pizza and wine suddenly not seeming like such a good idea.

He'd busied himself washing out their wine glasses. Washing dishes was his least favourite of all chores - which he despised in general - but she'd gone through the effort to make dinner, and the least he could do was to help clean up.

He felt his shoulders tense a little as she spoke. Serious and important... Her tone and the entire vibe changed, and he tilted his head at her, a little furrow between his brows.

"Sure, girl." He set the glasses down and dried off his hands, leaning his hips back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms loosely. "What's, uh... what's up?" He deliberately kept his mind as blank as possible, refusing to jump to scary conclusions.

[nebuladreamerrr]

Renewal | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: After many years of sharing your love, you both decided it was time to multiply it. But… what could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: English is not my first language and traumatic birth

Part 2 (soon)

You’d always wanted to be a mom—no point pretending otherwise. But still, you never really imagined the moment would actually come. Back when you were younger, you were super focused on your own growth—personally and professionally. You knew a baby would need love, patience, and stability, so you spent most of your youth learning to love yourself, to grow, to become a woman who wouldn’t fall apart over every little setback.

Even though you met Kylian when you were both pretty young, you always had it clear: you wanted to build your own career. Not because you thought your relationship wouldn’t last—but because you wanted to set an example for your future kids. You knew, deep down, that no matter what path they chose, there’d be judgment. If they followed their dad into football, endless comparisons. If they did something totally different, people would say, “Yeah, but that’s only because of who their father is.”

So, you worked hard—really hard—so that, at least professionally, no one would see you as “just the wife of.” Instead, they’d say, “YN? Oh yeah, the young woman with two degrees.”

Still… the dream of being a mother was always there. Not in a hurry, but always present. Whenever you two passed by a tiny baby store on one of your quiet little date nights, you'd end up talking about “someday.” Or during cheesy rom-coms, when the characters had joyful family dinners. Even when Kylian got approached by a little fan, you'd catch yourself imagining him holding your future child. So by the time your wedding came—just close family and friends, no cameras, no press—it wasn’t a surprise that everyone started wondering when the baby news would come.

Honestly, you two never had that conversation, about when you'd start trying. But it wasn’t necessary. Everyone around you could feel it. Even fans started noticing the kind of posts you were liking—baby tips, early pregnancy advice… People figured it was only a matter of time.

But for you, it didn’t happen with the usual signs—no sore boobs, no morning sickness, no dizzy spells. It was more subtle. Babies were just... everywhere. You kept turning down the wrong streets and randomly ending up outside crib stores. Your TikTok feed? Full of babies. Every conversation you had somehow circled back to motherhood. It felt like the world was gently pointing you toward something.

One night, while Kylian was away prepping for a Champions League game, you couldn’t sleep. You found yourself wandering into that “guest room” that everyone knew was really the future nursery. You opened the window and stood there for a while, bathed in moonlight. You weren’t feeling any classic symptoms, but something in your chest whispered: “You’re already holding something—someone—inside you.” Not physically yet, but emotionally, spiritually. Something warm, something waiting.

The next morning, you took the test. And even though deep down you knew—it still shocked you when it turned out positive. You weren’t even trying. But now… it was real.

And now came the fun part: telling Kylian.

Let’s be honest, your marriage wasn’t some Instagram dream. You weren’t about to stage a cutesy shoe on the sofa pregnancy announcement for likes. In fact, you could barely even think about how the world would react. Humor had always been your shared language, so you decided to do something a little wicked. You snapped a photo of the test and sent it to him five minutes before his plane was supposed to take off, knowing he wouldn’t be able to reply. You knew he’d kill you—but it would be worth it.

So when he finally got home, practically sprinting through the front door, slamming it behind him, all out of breath and wide-eyed—you couldn’t stop laughing.

“Tell me it’s true” he said, dropping his bags right there on the floor and running toward you.

“Why would I lie, Kyky?” you smiled, totally calm.

“God, I’m gonna kill you. I nearly had a heart attack.” he laughed, scooping you up in his arms as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He kissed your face over and over like he couldn’t believe you were real.

From that moment on, you were living in a bubble. A pregnancy that felt like it belonged only to the two of you. Yes, your families were warm and supportive, but nothing compared to the way Kylian rushed home every day just to curl up beside you and trace slow, loving circles on your belly.

He was going through a rough patch at the club—not for any specific reason or because he wasn’t happy, but more like... he didn’t fit in the same way anymore. The usual things that used to excite him—talking about cars, going out, joking around in the locker room—just didn’t hit the same. Now, as soon as training was over, all he wanted was to jump into the car and get home as fast as he could, to be with you, talking about baby names, what color the nursery walls should be, and picturing your new little life together.

Everyone around him could tell something had shifted. Maybe fans in the stadium didn’t notice much, but anyone who’d worked with him closely could see it plain as day. He was different. Even during press conferences, where he'd always been laser focused and polite—no matter how annoying or repetitive the questions got—now he was distracted. He’d leave his phone on the table in front of him, eyes flickering to the screen every few seconds in case you needed something. There were moments where he had to ask the same question to be repeated twice because his mind was simply... elsewhere.

"Kylian, how do you feel about your performance today?"

"Oh—sorry, can you repeat that? My head's kinda... somewhere else right now."

So when a few months later he scored a goal and ran straight to the camera, shoving the ball under his shirt in celebration, suddenly everything made sense. Not just for the fans watching at home, but for every single person on staff at Real Madrid.

See, the thing is—Kylian loved football. It had always been his dream. And when he met you, it felt like life had finally clicked into place: a career, a purpose, and now, the kind of love that made everything worth it. And of course, he wanted your child to grow up around that dream. If they decided to follow the same path, he’d be their biggest fan—though he’d never push them to do so. But still, lately, every time he stepped onto a full stadium, the only thing on his mind was how quiet and safe your home felt. How comforting it was to be wrapped up in the soft intimacy of your pregnancy. And the truth was—he didn’t want to leave that behind. He wanted to run toward it. To stay there.

The club understood. They knew becoming a first-time dad was overwhelming in the best (and scariest) way. But still, there had been a few moments when they had to step in gently and remind him to keep his balance. They weren’t worried he’d abandon football—he never would—but they also didn’t want his performance to suffer or the club’s image to take a hit. Not that they could really complain. Anytime Kylian left early to be at a scan with you, he always made up for it. He’d make sure you were tucked in comfortably at home, with snacks, pillows, and anything you could need—then head straight back and train double.

After all, what could go wrong? The baby was growing perfectly, the scans were smooth, and you had the best medical team in Madrid. It all seemed... safe.

One of the sweetest memories you held close was when Kylian gave you a small notebook. Camavinga had actually gifted it to him with a little joke about “getting your thoughts out before you explode.” But Kylian had taken it seriously. After practice, he brought it home, slid it across the table, and said,

“You might wanna start writing stuff down before this baby steals all your brain cells.”

And so you did. At first, it felt strange. But soon, the pages started filling up like they were waiting for you all along. On the first ones, you wrote about the uncertainty—how, even without feeling a single textbook pregnancy symptom, you just knew. Somehow, you already felt them. You didn’t know what they’d look like or what they’d love or even what name you’d choose—but already, they were part of every conversation, every plan, every heartbeat. Not just in your heart, but in everyone’s who loved you.

As time went on, you wrote about the fear. Fear that maybe you wouldn’t do it right. That you weren’t ready. People always said the motherly instinct kicks in the moment you hold your baby... but what if it didn’t? What if you couldn’t live up to the examples around you? You had felt their presence from the very beginning, and yet—what if that wasn’t enough?

Then, just one week before your due date, your entries changed. You wrote with excitement. Everything was ready. Kylian had fought (and lost) a hilarious battle with Ethan trying to build the dresser and the crib, and after some resistance, he’d even had to call his dad for help. After weeks of going back and forth, the name was finally decided. The hospital bag was packed—tiny outfits folded for what would be their first time outside the safety of your belly. You checked it daily, just in case you forgot something, even though deep down you knew… all you truly wanted was to finally hold your baby in your arms.

So when one morning you woke up to a strange damp feeling spreading across your body, something inside you whispered that maybe... this was it.

You stood up slowly, unsure and still half-asleep, heading to the bathroom with a bit of embarrassment. A small part of you wondered if it was just exhaustion—maybe you'd just been too tired to wake up when you had to pee. You didn’t even bother peeling the sheets off the bed; your belly was so big now, it would've taken too much effort. You figured you’d wait for the housekeeper to arrive, or ask Kylian to help later.

But as you stepped out of the shower, clean and slightly more alert, and felt your underwear soak through again—you knew. This was the real thing. The baby was on the way.

You didn’t panic. You’d both gone to countless birthing classes together. You knew what to expect. So, instead of calling him frantically, you sent Kylian a calm, short message while he was at training:

“Our little one is coming. My water just broke. No need to rush—I barely feel any contractions.”

When Kylian read it, his heart skipped, of course. But he took a breath. You wouldn’t lie to him. If it had been urgent, you would’ve called the doctors right away. So, with good luck chants from his teammates and a quick goodbye to the coaching staff, he rushed home.

He found you in the kitchen, leaning on the island counter, stopwatch in hand, calmly timing each contraction. There was still space between them, so you both took that precious time to share what would be your last quiet moment as just the two of you. He stood behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your middle, his lips brushing your collarbone in soft kisses, occasionally rubbing your lower back in slow, soothing circles. You breathed together, swaying gently in that rhythm only two people in love could create.

As the contractions grew closer and stronger, he called the driver, helped you into the car, then ran back inside to grab the hospital bags—bags packed days before for the two people he loved most in the world.

You’d always told him about your dream birth. How the women in your family had all given birth naturally, without an epidural, and how you wanted to follow that path—if it was still the best option for you. So when a young nurse named Daniela walked in to check your vitals, she didn’t hesitate to encourage you.

“You’re doing amazing,” Daniela smiled, listening to your baby’s heartbeat. “Your body knows exactly what it’s doing. And I’ll be with you the whole time, okay?”

You nodded, and for the first time that day, you let yourself smile a little through the pain.

Over the next couple hours, you were closely monitored. They checked your dilation, your blood pressure, the baby’s position. The pain came in waves, sharper now, but you powered through every one. Kylian never left your side, wiping your forehead, whispering encouragements, holding your hands through every breathless minute.

And then, finally, the time came.

“You’re fully dilated,” Daniela said gently. “It’s time to push.”

And you did. With everything in you. You became something wild, something unstoppable. A force of nature. Kylian stayed right by you, gripping your hand, whispering “You’ve got this, baby” through gritted teeth while brushing the sweat from your brow.

Until—suddenly—a loud, piercing cry filled the room.

And just like that, your daughter was here. Giselle.

Tears fell from your eyes before you even realized it. You barely heard the congratulations. All you could focus on was the wriggling, warm little body being placed gently on your chest.

But the moment didn’t last.

Just as they told you it was time to deliver the placenta, Kylian stood between looking at his newborn daughter and at you… when the steady beep-beep of your monitor turned into a long, jarring tone.

Everything froze.

The next minute was a blur.

Shouts. Movement. Hands pushing Kylian back. He barely caught a glimpse of your face before the doors closed and he was left outside—alone.

Five hours.

Five hours passed. He had no nails left to bite. His leg bounced uncontrollably. No one had come to speak to him. Not about you. Not about Giselle. Not a single word. His thoughts spiraled. Had he jinxed it? Dreamt it all too perfectly? He’d reached every goal, every dream—but this one… the one that truly mattered, had it been taken away?

He stared blankly ahead until a familiar face appeared from the hallway.

Daniela.

Before she could even open her mouth, Kylian ran toward her.

“Please—tell me how my wife is. Tell me my daughter’s okay. I can’t— I can’t do this without them. I don’t know how to— I—please…” He was sobbing now, every word choked between hiccups and panic.

Daniela held up her hand gently, steadying her breath.

“Kylian, listen. Giselle is doing great. We’ve done all the standard tests—she’s healthy, strong, and she’s already been taken to your room. You can go see her any moment now.”

But Kylian didn’t move.

“And Yn?” His voice cracked like glass.

“Please, Daniela. How’s my wife?” He gripped her shoulders, eyes searching hers for any sign of truth.

She paused. Then finally said:

“We’re still running some tests. Her vitals are stable now—but… there was a moment during delivery when oxygen stopped reaching her brain. That’s why we intubated her. She’s responding well to treatment, but she’s still weak, and we’ve placed her in the ICU to monitor her closely. If everything continues to go well overnight, we’re hopeful she can be transferred tomorrow and wake up next to you both.”

She tried to smile. To give him hope. But Kylian couldn’t stop the tears that kept pouring down. He nodded wordlessly, then walked toward the room where his daughter was waiting.

That night, it was just Kylian and Giselle. Her tiny body curled against his bare chest, his palm softly rising and falling with every little breath she took. He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t.

He just stared out the window at the moon, begging—pleading—for a sign. That you were still there. That you’d come back to him. He didn’t care if it was foolish. He didn’t care if it was desperate. He needed to believe. In something. In anything. Even if he was holding on to nothing but a burning, fragile hope.

And somewhere, in the silence of that hospital room… he swore he saw the moon flicker.