#the way this is almost word for word a scene from the show

[matt-murdockk]

HEYYY!! Godspeed on your semester <33!! You got this. 🫶🏼

Fic idea: Reader is Reid’s roommate and is pretty laid-back (easily mistaken for a slacker because they don’t take on rigorous tasks often) and stumbles across a stumped Reid who’s trying to solve a case. Very casually Reader makes an insane prediction, and Reid learns that they’re basically a genius… who doesn’t really know they’re a genius?? (Because when they think “genius” the reader usually thinks of nerdy and scrawny people like Reid)

I hope that makes sense vro 💔💔

Baby you have been in my inbox for a MONTH i am so sorry i hope you like it 🥀

Lazy

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 1.2k warnings: Language summary: You, a chronically underachieving genius accidentally solve an active FBI case over takeout and crime scene photos. Spencer Reid blurts out an "I love you" before sprinting out the door in mismatched socks. a/n: fluffity fluff in the end for a little bit hehe <3

Truth be told, you hated that word. Lazy. You preferred efficient. Your 9-to-5 was soul sucking, much like any other 9-to-5, so you did the only thing you could to make sure this job doesn't eat you alive— the bare fucking minimum.

A report due by 5? Alright, it'll be on the desk at 5, not a minute sooner, and not a minute later. A task needs doing? Oh, it'll be done. Flawlessly, in fact. But that's it. No fanfare, no extras, exactly what is required, nothing more. Meetings? You speak only when necessary. Deadlines? Met to the second. No matter how convoluted the problem or the task, you found the cleanest, simplest way through.

You did just the right amount, never showed your true potential, and it never raised any questions. If you asked your coworkers, they'd say you were a joy to be around. With your social capital? You were never getting fired. It was the perfect ruse.

But when you reached home with takeout, took your shoes off at the end of the day, you left your job along with them at the doorstep of your house. 5-to-9 is your time. And no one was taking that away from you. Alright, maybe one person was taking that away from you. But truth be told, you didn't really complain.

Spencer Reid was an enigma. Living with him was never dull, be it because he was actually, quite literally, the best flatmate a person could ask for in all thinkable ways, or because he challenged you the way you liked best— intellectually. Today was apparently a latter kind of day.

"Reid-o. What's got you all worked up?"

"Reid-o?" he asked, looking up from the papers strewn about his desk.

"Term of endearment. You didn't answer my question."

The first thing you noticed after coming home was the pair of Converse that were clearly taken off in a hurry and left there haphazardly. The living room smelled of the strongest espresso in all of land, like a truck of coffee had decided to explode in your house, of all places. The room was relatively dark, except for the lamp burning over the desk where he was huddled over. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed you come home. Ergo, he was stressed.

A heavy sigh, one hand running through his hair. You made a mental note of his stress level: medium-high. A few more hours of this and he’d either fall asleep at his desk or start quoting obscure philosophers.

"It's this case," he admitted finally, his voice sounding almost defeated. "I have been poring over the case files and the crime scene photos, and the interviews for hours, and I have basically no pattern or connection between any of the victims. So, how was your day?"

"Better than yours," you scoffed, "Can I have a look?"

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I hate paperwork and bureaucracy. Big difference.”

He hesitated, then pushed the files toward you, still half sceptical. “They’re all women, different ages, different occupations. Killed two days apart. Same method, no evidence left behind, nothing to tie them together. We’re missing something.”

You skimmed through the reports, flipping through pages with zero urgency. You tapped your finger on the crime scene photos, brows slightly furrowed at the gore; they were crime scene photos, after all. But you kept your focus on just the crime scene. Just the way it was staged. You tapped your finger on the last photo, humming thoughtfully.

“How did he get in?” you asked.

Spencer sighed again. “We don’t know. That’s part of the problem. No signs of forced entry, no tampering, no secondary footprints, nothing on any of the security footage. Just the victims entering their homes alone, like normal.”

“No delivery men, no dates, no door dash?”

“Nothing. Clean. Like no one else was ever there.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the arrangement of one of the living rooms. “Alright. So, let’s say the footage is legit, no one else enters or leaves the premises. The simplest explanation?”

He gave you a look. “Occam’s Razor?”

“Exactly. The simplest explanation is that no one entered because they were already inside.”

He blinked. “You’re saying the unsub was—”

“Already in the house. Yeah.”

“That would mean... he snuck in before the victims got home. Hid. Waited. Killed them. Then left... somehow.”

“Without triggering a single alarm or camera. Meaning either the cameras were looped at just the right time— which you’re saying they weren’t— or he never walked past them to begin with.”

Spencer stood now, pacing a little. “But how? Every entry point was covered.”

You leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. “Then maybe we’re not thinking three-dimensionally enough. You need to look at the architectural plans. House blueprints. Vents, crawlspaces, dumbwaiters, hell, even hollow walls. If he’s getting in and out without being seen, it’s because he’s not using the doors. Or windows.”

Spencer froze mid-step, then slowly turned to you, eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Oh my god.”

“What? Did you get something?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Spencer blinked, still stunned, like the gears in his mind had just snapped into overdrive.

“The houses, every single one of the victims’ homes, were renovated within the last year,” he said, more to himself than to you, “That’s why we didn’t consider construction anomalies. We assumed standard layouts, but what if— what if they all used the same contractor?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think the unsub is the person who remodeled their houses?”

“Or someone connected to the company. Maybe he installed hidden access points, crawlspaces, false walls, and vent systems wide enough to move through. Places where someone could hide for days.”

He rushed back to the files, flipping through them like a man possessed. “This would explain everything— the lack of evidence, the absence of footage, the precision in timing...”

He looked up suddenly, eyes shining like the sun just rose inside his skull.

“Did you know you’re a genius?”

You smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I have my days.”

“No, no, I’m serious.” He was talking fast now, gathering files, tugging his coat from the back of his chair. “You just cracked the entire case with, like, three questions.”

"Guess I've lived with you long enough for it to rub off on me, huh?"

He laughed at that, face serious for a split second. “You’re incredible.”

That actually made your stomach flip. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“I gotta go,” he muttered suddenly, stuffing folders into his messenger bag hurriedly like he was trying to stop them from escaping, “Hotch needs to see this now. But, oh my god, I love you so much right now.”

And before you could even react, he leaned over, pressed a quick, distracted kiss to your cheek, and bolted out the door, his shoes half on.

You sat there, stunned.

“…Cool,” you mumbled, touching your cheek where his lips had been a moment ago.

[margonite-seer]

Hansry storytelling through nicknames in the Czech version

One of my most favorite things about Hansry is the way they call each other (in Czech because I'm biased sorry) evolves both overtime and depending on what emotion they're feeling at the moment.

The ways Henry calls Hans

In the first game, Henry calls Hans "pan Ptáček" (Lord Capon) most often, even when he's being sassy to him at the tavern.

Later, Henry evolves to "pan Jan" (pronounced [yan]) (Sir/Lord Hans). Or to just "Ptáček" (Capon). Never once does he call him just simply "Jan" in KCD1.

In the second game, Henry still calls Hans "Ptáček" (pronounced [p'taah-check]) most of the game, but it's veeery rarely lord/sir in front of that. The only few times I can remember is at the very beginning at the lake and then when talking to Hans in front of Brabant but not even that is consistent because he drops the lord/sir once.

But the best part about this word vomit is that Henry calls him very familiarly and fondly sometimes. The thing is that he calls him like that only when the situation is very intense and dangerous. The first time in the franchise (iirc) Henry calls Hans "Jan" without any "pan" (Sir/Lord) is when Henry is being hauled away from the cell in Trosky. He calls out for Hans with a "Jane! Jane!! Neboj! Já to nějak--!" ("Hans! Hans!! Don't be afraid! I'll somehow--!") And yes, Jan with an -e at the end because the Czech language uses vocative as one of their declension cases and as such, the endings of names look different when directly addressing someone.

Another case like this, is the ambush near Nebákov. There, in all that chaos, almost the second you lose sight of Hans in your gameplay or are too far away from him, Czech Henry calls out to him with a "Jendo! Sakra, [I have to go after him]!" where Jenda (yes with an -a in nominative) is a very cute nickname from Jan. That's the only time in the entire franchise he calls him like that. I would personally compare Jenda to calling someone Johnny instead of John or Jonathan.

Not long after, when Hans gets bonked, Henry tries to shake him awake and there is the absolutely legendary "Jane! Ptáčku! Podívej se na mně! Honzo!!" (imagine it as something like "Johannes! Capon! Look at me! Johnny!") because honestly the nicknames Honza/Jenda/Honzík aren't that alien to English. It's just that Hans is a bad name for having any nicknames. A good parallel would be William. You have Will or Billy there after all. Or Thomas and Tom and Tommy.

Here is a clip of the moment I just talked about:

The ways Hans calls Henry

Hans on the other hand, is very consistent throughout the two games with how he calls Henry.

Yes, he started their relationship by calling him shit shoveller and Jindřich in a very mocking voice but very quickly he settled into a tradition where he calls him Jindra almost all the time but calls him Jindřich when he's either angry at him or when he's being a sarcastic little shit. Jindra is a casual and friendly nickname, very common. Something like calling your friend Tom instead of Thomas.

He also once or twice sarcastically calls him Jindříšek which is a super baby boy way to say Jindřich.

But when he's being normal or friendly or tender, he always uses Jindra. Even during their romance scenes, Hans says that nickname but with how much of an amazing actor Czech Hans' VA is, the tone always varies throughout the game.

As I cannot post more than one video on a tumblr post, I cannot provide some Czech Hans clips but I do plan to make a video edit soon with all the ways Hans calls Henry in Czech!

Anyway, my conclusion is...

That I am absolutely feral from how much the evolution of their nicknames mean. The Czech version of this game takes awesome advantage of the nickname conventions in Czechia (and Slavic nations overall tbh) and in a very time and space efficient way uses them to show the players how far these two have become and how their fondness of each other surfaces!

[vivilvr]

Beso de Tres

✧ Pairing: Megan Skiendiel x Fem Reader x Lara Raj

It’s late. The three of you are alone sitting too close and saying too little. You know what they want. But once Megan was on your right and Lara on your left, one kiss turns into two. Then something shifts. You pull back and what follows feels less like a choice and more like gravity taking control.

✧ Wc: 1.7k ✧ Status: Completed

✧ Tags: Suggestive, Making Out, Kissing, Megara kiss too, three way kiss, yes this is just THIS scene from challengers

♫ Now Playing: Hermanas de leche ♫

Somewhere in Hotel Room Number 103…

It smells faintly of a mix of industrial carpet cleaner, cheap deodorant and something teenage boys would call victory. Megan’s hoodie is draped over the tall standing lamp in the corner and Lara’s duffel bag, that you almost tripped over on the way in, lays discarded on the floor. The window’s open a crack letting in the hum of a vending machine and the distant chatter of a group of guys somewhere outside. The air felt different it gave off the vibe of a liminal space where life itself feels unreal.

Lara and Megan are both sitting on the floor.

Lara’s got her back against the wall with her long legs stretched out but one knee bent. Her arms are folded and reserved, but her eyes aren’t. They flick toward you every few seconds like she’s trying not to be too obvious but has no intention of pretending she’s not watching you. Her dark hair falls in thick waves down her shoulders and her skin glows soft in the low light of the lamp, all warm with bronze and shadow.

Megan’s cross-legged between the TV and the beds but she’s leaning forward on her hands facing you. Her black hair is in that slightly shaggy, deliberate mess kinda style and her bangs that are dyed this pale, almost cotton-candy pink keep slipping into her eyes. She doesn’t push them back. She just looks up at you with them half-covered, like she’s hoping to observe but not be seen.

They’ve been talking here and there. Something about training. A memory from their previous competition. Lara teased Megan for messing up last time. Megan said something about nerves and then tried to turn it back on Lara. You didn’t listen too closely, just watched.

Eventually, you shift where you’re standing and without a word, you sit down on the bed. The mattress springs groan a little under your weight and suddenly the energy shifts.

They look up at you in unison. You stretch your arms back and let your legs dangle so your toes just brushing the carpet. You feel tall like this. Elevated. Both observed and observing. You don’t mind it. Then you say it.

“Come here.”

It’s not loud but it lands like an invitation and a command all in one.

Megan blinks. “Which one of-”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence because Lara is already moving. She practically bolts upright, like she’s been waiting for permission she didn’t need. She crosses the short space in two steps and climbs onto the bed to your left with fluid movement.

Megan on the other hand scrambles up a second later, bumping her knee and muttering something under her breath as she slides in on your right. She looks between you and Lara and tries to play cool but the corners of her mouth betray her as they’re pulled into the beginning of a smile she can’t suppress. You say nothing. You just lean back on your hands and let the silence grow between the three of you.

Lara is the first to move. She shifts toward you, slow and deliberate in that way that makes time feel like its ascended beyond the laws of physics. Her hand grazes your thigh. Her eyes ask the question before her mouth ever could. She leans in, close, close, closer…

And you stop her.

Right before your lips touch, you turn your head just slightly.

She stills.

You don’t meet her eyes right away. You just feel her stillness and the held breath and the flicker of hurt she won’t show. Then you turn your face the other way toward Megan and cup her cheek in your palm.

You kiss her.

Megan kisses like she means it. Like she’s thrilled to be chosen, like she doesn’t entirely know what to do with herself but is trying to follow your rhythm. She tastes like sugar and nervous energy. Her hand finds your knee, squeezing once and trailing up a bit, then staying there.

Lara watches you kiss Megan. You can feel the heat of her stare on your back. The sharp edge of silence where her pride sits. You let it stretch a little longer. Let it burn.

Then you gently pull away from Megan and finally meet Lara’s gaze. You lean toward her now. She doesn’t wait this time.

She kisses you like she’s been dared to as if she’s got something to prove. Her lips are firm and her hand slides to the back of your neck to anchor you in. There’s no hesitation, only heat and gravity coiled together threatening to snap at any moment.

You kiss her back slowly. Deeply. When you pull away your breath is short and your pulse is obvious. You cant help but to smile a bit as you tilt your head back, exposing your neck.

It’s not a request.

It’s a gift.

They hesitate, but only a second.

Megan leans in first and her mouth pressing soft, messy kisses just under your jaw. She sighs against your skin like she forgot to breathe until now. Then Lara joins, her lips tracing the opposite side at a slower pace. She mouths at your pulse point like it’s something sacred.

The warmth of both of them at once with your body caught in the middle, their hands finding your waist, your thigh, your wrist, it undoes something in you. But you don’t show it.

You just stay still letting them take. Then gradually, you tilt your chin down. You softly grab both their faces in each of your hands and encourage them to move closer together. You look at them like really look and then, wordlessly lean forward just enough to initiate what you already know is coming. All three of your faces are extremely close to each other now.

Your mouth finds both theirs in quick succession left, right, back again. Until your lips blur, overlapping and you’re not sure whose breath you’re taking, whose hand is where, whose moan that was. It becomes one kiss. Three mouths. One circuit.

Megan kisses you like she’s trying to memorize it: eager, open, just a little clumsy in a way that feels honest. Her mouth is soft and quick and her hands are gripping your thigh like she’s anchoring herself to this moment. You can feel her breath catch when you deepen it, and she follows you without question, without hesitation.

Then Lara.

She kisses you like she knows what she’s doing and knows you know it too. Her lips are stronger, slower, more controlled but there’s tension behind it like she’s holding something in. Her fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, barely brushing your skin, and your body answers her before your mind does.

Back and forth.

Their lips are different but both familiar now. You take from both of them. You give just enough to keep them hungry. Your mouth shifts, dips and parts gliding from one kiss to the next until your breath mingles with both of theirs. It’s heavy and hot. A tangle of tongues and lips and heat. You don’t know whose moan shivers into your mouth, whose hand is now pressed to the small of your back, whose thigh is pressed against yours so tightly it feels like one of your own.

It stops mattering. Three mouths with one rhythm and one body between them both holding it all together.

And then, slowly very slowly you start to slip out. Not obviously. Not all at once. Just a gentle tilt of your chin. A lightening of pressure. A subtle retreat as you begin to lean away back onto your elbows.

Their eyes are still closed. Their mouths still parted. Still chasing you. So when you stop, they keep going. You feel the moment their lips miss yours and find each other instead. And neither of them notices that you’re gone.

There’s no pause. No shock. Just contact.

Their lips connect with the same urgency they had with you but now redirected, redirected and amplified. Like their bodies already knew how to move in tandem with one another, how to kiss, just needed to be given the chance.

Megan makes a sound, something between a sigh and a whimper as Lara presses in harder, one hand tangling in Megan’s hair. Megan responds with a hand at Lara’s waist, gripping her like she needs her closer. Their kiss grows deeper and messier, mouths parting fully as the soft sound of it loud in the quiet room.

You don’t move. You barely even breathe.

You’re still between them, their bodies pressed close to yours but their focus is no longer on you. Their mouths are hungry now, moving in sync, learning each other in real time. Megan shifts onto her knee. Lara’s fingers dig into her side. Their kiss is greedy. Raw. Like something inside them just snapped loose.

And you… you're watching it happen from inches away.

Your lips are tingling. Your chest is tight. You can feel the heat between your legs pulsing like a second heartbeat. You thought this would satisfy you. The control. The spark you lit. But instead it ignites something deeper.

You thought you’d be above it, orchestrating the pieces like a conductor. But you’re not above anything now. You're right in the centre of it and it’s taking you under.

They don’t realize you’ve stepped back. Don’t realize they’ve been drawn into something without direction. Their hands roam, mouths open, breath heavy. You can feel the heat of them rising, flooding, spilling into each other. And it’s beautiful.

Truly.

Its both too much but also not enough. You lean back slightly more, just enough to give them space but not to end it, not to stop anything, but to watch.

To see what you made when you removed yourself.

You swallow hard, but your throat is dry. Your thighs press together almost involuntarily. You can’t tell if you’re trembling or holding yourself still to keep from reaching back in. You’ve never been kissed like that by either of them. You’ve never watched anyone kiss like that.

And now that you have, now that they are, it’s like watching your own desire reflected back at you, magnified and multiplied.

And you smile. Not in triumph but in awe. Because they don’t even know they’ve crossed a line. And neither do you.

Not yet.

[sturnioz]

‘AGAINST THE WALL’ — MATT STURNIOLO

pairing. fratboy!matt x confident!reader genre. smut, frat au.

word count. 1.4k

❝i’ll take you right here, you know. i really don't give a fuck if anyone sees.❞

content warning. explicit content, porn with plot, mentions of biting, shower sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, teasing.

authors note. this is for my fratboy!matt and confident!reader au which, if you're new, you may need to read other prompts just to understand their dynamic.

The low, guttural sounds of grunting is what you hear the second you step out through the frat house's backdoor, and you pause for a moment, lips twitching upward into a smirk as the jingling of your car keys shrills in your ears as you slide your sunglasses up onto your head, taking your time ogling the scene in front of you.

Matt is doing push-ups on the ground, his skin glistening beneath the sun, sweat trickling down the side of his neck and the curve of his back as he pushes himself up, and down, and up, then down again in a repeated motion.

His hair falls across his forehead—damp and messy—partially shielding his eyes as he focuses on some specific point in front of him, seemingly completely unaware that you're watching him. Or maybe he knows, you don’t really care.

You lean against the doorframe, heat pooling low in your stomach as you trace the prominent lines of his arms, the flex of his shoulders, and the way his body moves with your gaze as your bottom lip gets caught between your teeth, gnawing down to keep yourself at bay.

Matt doesn't stop for a while, he continues going, keeping his steady rhythm without any needed breaks. But there's a subtle shift—one you definitely don't miss—and it's the twitch of his lips that curl into a grin.

"You starin' at me, baby?" he finally murmurs, his voice low and rough from the strain before he exhales sharply, shifting onto his knees and running his fingers through his matted hair as he finally looks up at you.

"Yeah," you reply simply, shrugging your shoulders like it's the most obvious answer as you drop your car keys and purse onto the grass, not breaking eye contact as you take a few steps closer. Your shoe presses teasingly against his thigh, "Who else would I be staring at?"

Matt lets out a breathy chuckle, followed by a sharp hiss as your shoe slowly trails higher, dragging against the firm muscle of his leg before applying light pressure to his cock that lays heavy in his sweats. 

His hand shoots out, locking his fingers around your ankle to tug you in one swift motion, and you stumble forward, a cackle spilling from your lips as you almost lose balance, grinning as his face presses against your stomach, inhaling deeply to take in your sweet scent.

You don't care about the sticky sweat clinging to his body or his wet hair as you loop your arms around his shoulders. Instead, you revel in the sight of him on his knees in front of you, his breaths hot against your skin.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, tugging hard enough to make him tilt his head back, and his gaze locks on you as his chin comes to rest against your stomach—lips parted slightly with shallow pants.

"I’ll take you right here, you know," you say, your smirk widening as you run your thumb across his jawline. "I really don't give a fuck if anyone sees."

Matt's eyes darken slightly at your words as his hands stay firm on your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to make you feel his strength, and the heat between your legs builds.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, his gaze following you as you take a step back, watching as your hands teasingly reach for your shorts that rests low on your hips. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he stays on his knees, unmoving but coiled tight as he warns. "Don't."

"Why not?" you tease, slipping your thumbs beneath the waistband, tilting your head with a faux pout as you watch him immediately rise to his feet, his chest still heaving from his workout. "Maybe I wanna give everyone a show. Let them see how good you fuck me."

Matt surges forward, his hands grabbing you and throwing you abruptly over his shoulder, his firm grip as the sharp smack he delivers to your ass sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

Your evil cackle echoes through the backyard, and the world tilts and blurs around you as he moves forward, bending smoothly to snatch your purse and car keys from the grass as he strides back into the frat house.

The sound of whistles and muffled teases from the frat brothers fill the air, but they're cut off comically short the second you lift your head and shoot them one of your looks—the boys immediately turning around and scrambling to talk about something else.

You're put down, stripped off, and shoved into the shower before you can even blink, the water pelting down on your skin as Matt corners you against the tiled wall. The steam filters around you, and you gasp in Matt's mouth as he presses his lips to yours while his hand moves down your stomach, fingers rubbing against your clit in slow, deliberate circles.

Your cunt clenches around nothing as you moan, arms sliding around his bare shoulders, nails digging into the blades to pull him even closer to you—skin pressed against skin.

"You're a fuckin' brat," Matt pants into your mouth, his tongue sliding messily with yours as he rubs your clit faster. "Talkin' about takin' me in front of everyone—not givin' a fuck about who sees?"

"You like it." you taunt, teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip and he groans, his tongue lathering up over the miniature wound, the taste of copper on his tastebuds as he removes his hand from your clit to grab the backs of your thighs.

He lifts you up to press your against the wall, caging you there as his cock prods against your entrance insistently. 

"Not as much as you do," Matt mouths at your neck, returning the bites by sinking his teeth down into your flesh lightly, "Know you love lettin' everyone know how fuckin' good I make this pussy feel, don't you?"

"I do, actually," you say proudly—smug too. "So, how about you stop talking and fuck me."

You feel Matt's lips curl, a smirk spreading across his lips before pressing a kiss to your wet skin. And before you know it, he's sinking into your cunt, giving you no time to adjust as he fucks you against the wall. He's drilling against your cervix repeatedly, the noises of bodies meeting drowned out by the shower—although it's not enough to drown out every noise.

You have no shame, of course. 

You're moaning and cursing loudly, sharp nails digging more harshly into his shoulders as he bounces you on his thick cock, spearing you open. You can feel him everywhere, making your toes curl and legs tighten around his waist, locking him in place, your slick pussy gushing around him with arousal and need.

Matt's moaning in your ears too, voice cracking with each brutal thrust, panting heavily as his grip tightens on your thighs to keep you stable against the wall, not wanting you to slip and potentially hurt yourself... again.

"O-oh fuck," you splutter, the water from the showerhead hitting your face, gasping when Matt rolls his hips at a specific angle that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head.

"Yeah? Y'like that, baby?" Matt hums against your skin, feeling his lips curling into a smug grin. you pinch him with your nails, causing him to laugh quietly, and he presses a series of open mouthed kisses to the column of your wet throat. "Yeah... I know you like that. can feel you squeezin' me in, baby—fuck—drippin' around me too."

"Shut up." you try to bite back, but you tense up and let out a choked gasp as Matt suddenly buries himself to the hilt with one harsh thrust, his cock settled so deep that you're positive you can feel him in your guts.

"You keep fightin' with me..." Matt pants out, moving himself from your throat to meet your eyes, his own dark and hazy beneath wet strands of hair. There's a hint of challenge in his gaze, and you listen as his tone dips low in a playful warning. "And I'll make you lose your voice in two minutes. You want that?"

You laugh breathlessly at his warning, jaw dropping as Matt grinds harder against you, drawing his hips back only to slam forward again. The heat between you both is almost too much, especially with the shower steam mingling around you both, getting to your head. Your walls flutter and clench repeatedly around his cock, drawing him impossibly deeper, hearing him groan in response as his hands tighten around your hips. 

“You’re gettin’ all quiet on me now,” he murmurs as he fucks into you again, maintaining a rhythm, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the tiled room. “Don’t tell me I’ve left you speechless already, baby.”

“F-Fuck you.”

Matt leans forward, his lips grazing against your ear as he whispers, “I am.”

divider credits. @issysh3ll

©STURNIOZ 𐔌 . all rights reserved.

[bylerspain]

There’s a scene in season 4 that I believe doesn’t get nearly the attention it deserves. At first glance, it might even go unnoticed — but when you really pay attention, it turns out to be one of the most revealing and subtext-rich moments of the entire season.

It’s not a scene that stands out for its drama or for any particularly powerful dialogue. But if you pay attention to how it’s constructed, you realize it’s key to understanding Mike’s internal conflict.

It’s the moment when Mike reunites with Eleven after all the chaos in California. In theory, it should be one of the emotional high points of their relationship: they hug, emotional music plays, there are restrained reactions. Everything seems designed to make us feel tenderness or relief.

But what happens visually and expressively on screen doesn’t quite support that idea.

The framing and direction: nothing is accidental

The camera focuses on Mike and Eleven in the foreground. She looks at him intensely. He smiles. But it’s not a completely natural smile. There’s something forced, held back. As if he’s more focused on doing what’s expected than on letting himself feel.

And then, almost imperceptibly, Mike shifts his gaze toward Will, who’s standing slightly behind, a bit out of focus, but clearly within the frame.

And in that moment, Mike’s expression changes.

The smile freezes. His gaze loses warmth. There’s no longer any certainty, no spontaneous emotion. Only something that looks like… doubt.

It’s a tiny gesture, but it says more than any line of dialogue that follows. Because it’s not a big mood swing. There’s no obvious discomfort or exaggerated reaction.

What we see is a microsecond of clarity. As if something inside him suddenly clicks. As if simply seeing Will disconnects him from what he’s supposed to be feeling.

And that’s the key: what he’s supposed to be feeling.

Mike’s emotional conflict: body vs mind

That gesture — that fleeting look — reveals the gap between what Mike does and what he truly feels.

His body responds with closeness to Eleven, but his mind — or heart, or whatever is buried under layers of denial — is activated the moment he sees Will.

And it’s so subtle that it might seem like a continuity error if you don’t know what to look for. But if you’ve been paying attention to Mike and his dynamic with Will for a while, that expression becomes a kind of silent confession.

Because it’s not that Mike is rejecting Eleven. It’s not about him no longer caring for her.

What’s happening is more complex: what he feels for her isn’t what he should feel if he were truly in love.

And when he sees Will — the person with whom he’s had unresolved emotional tension all season (and all the previous ones) — that unspoken truth flashes across his face for just a moment.

Will in the frame: what it symbolizes

Another important detail is where Will is placed in the scene. He’s not just physically present — he’s between them, in the shot.

He literally becomes a presence that interrupts or unsettles Mike and Eleven’s moment, even though he doesn’t say a word.

And that’s not accidental. The way he’s positioned reinforces the idea that Will isn’t just another character in this dynamic — he’s the emotional center that destabilizes what Mike pretends to want.

It’s also interesting that, in this instance, Will isn’t the one watching with pain.

He’s not the one projecting unspoken feelings. This time, it’s Mike who looks at him.

And that completely shifts the energy of the scene.

Because now the focus isn’t on Will’s repression — it’s on Mike’s confusion.

And that nuance changes everything in how we understand the evolution of this triangle.

What isn’t said… but is felt

That extra second. That pause in the gaze. That microexpression.

These are the things that make this seemingly simple scene one of the most important moments in Mike’s arc. Because it shows — without a single word — that something is beginning to fall apart.

That the story he’s told himself — that he’s in love with Eleven, that everything fits, that everything’s okay — no longer holds up so easily when Will is in the picture.

There’s no need for a confession, or an argument, or a stolen kiss to understand that in that moment, a crack opens up in Mike.

A crack he won’t be able to ignore for much longer.

[jiaelune]

୨୧ 📽 <Until You Love Yourself> | HIT THE ROAD EP14

𖹭.ᐟ SYNOPSIS: As a Seventeen member, it is undeniable that Jia had to fight for herself in order to debut as the only woman in the group and succeed in her career. She's faced enormous challenges off-camera throughout the years, but the truth spills as she describes the challenging fights and overwhelming events she went through before and after her debut.

WARNINGS: Self-deprecation, mentions of depression, cyberbullying, hate comments, hiatus, fainting, mental and physical exhaustion, perfectionism, overworking, hyperventilation, trauma (bullying) . Mainly proofread but there might be mistakes . © jiaelune on tumblr . 2025

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

TIMELINE: May 2020

A/N: heyhey! i've been so excited to post this and other writing works, so i hope this post does well. honorable mention to tumblr for not making my links work whenever i link my masterlist/other posts🥰 biggest fuck you to tumblr, thank you.

⤷ 𖹭.ᐟ masterlist . (📎) . hit the road: jia

“I always think of you before I fall asleep. The words you said, the way you looked. The things we laughed about, the silent moments we shared. And when I dream, I'll dream of you. Because it's about you; it's always about you.”

Through hardships and unbearable challenges, Jia has been the soothing sea for the rest of the members. A gentle tide they could float on, silently guided by her supportive and comforting presence. Her altruism was undeniable, and her love overflowed through her actions and kindhearted words.

She's a shoulder they can rely on whenever they need it, always open to listen and understand their emotions. Yet, she rarely opens up to them, labeling her emotions as a "burden" and "distractions" from her professional career. In the face of her fans, in the face of her haters, she knew she'd never be human. She'd never be treated as one, nor seen as one.

Being in front of cameras 24/7 was exhausting. She needed to perform in front of an audience for most of her life without a break. Any signs of exhaustion, unhappiness, or even one moment without a bright smile on her face could cause a grand dispute online. She smiled at all times and pushed her feelings underground to maintain a stable idol image.

"I'm just... tired. It gets tiring at some point, and I've already reached past my limit," Jia confessed, sitting cross-legged on a couch with her hands clasped together as she talked to the camera recording her conversation. "No matter how much you push your emotions away from you, they always come back like an overwhelming storm."

She doesn't like to be labeled as perfect. She hates it. The term traps her inside a cage and surrounds her with unachievable expectations from her fans and staff. The word itself carries a weight too heavy for Jia to handle.

"And I guess that's why I almost collapsed," she continues, referring to a specific Ode To You tour concert. "Wonwoo and I had been really tired before the concert. He was gasping for air on stage and hyperventilating. In addition, I stayed up late practicing and singing the night prior to our concert."

"I strained my voice so much that I felt lightheaded. The stress, the worry, the concern, and the pile of idol work waiting for me were too much to bear. I just couldn't take it anymore. Yet, I kept performing. I fainted after the concert ended. I had a sore throat, my muscles twitched and hurt, and I had such a terrible headache I felt like vomiting every five seconds."

The members were backstage after a sweat-drenching concert, fanning themselves with their clothes and chugging down entire bottles of water to compensate for the energy lost for over two hours.

Then suddenly, an alarming incident occurred. As Jia was stepping down the stage, feeling lightheaded and nauseous, she collapsed and fell into the arms of the staff members who were ready to catch her.

"What's going on?!" Seungcheol, the ever protective and caring leader, immediately showed up to the scene once he was informed of the events. "Where's Jia?!"

The staff rushed to aid Jia and provided her with the necessary care. Her eyes were half-open, her breath heavy and quick, her body exhausted from the nonstop dancing and singing.

Her collapse was to be expected. During that time, she'd been pushing herself as far as she could. In addition, she'd been sick a few days prior. But in order to continue the tour flawlessly, Jia shoved her concerns aside and ignored the clear signs of her body's sickness.

Jia fidgeted with her fingers and thought of a way to voice her feelings, "I just... I think that, at that time, I felt like I was falling behind. I'd been sick a few days before, but I didn't stop. My dance was slower than the rest, my voice was more strained, and I felt like I wasn't giving enough."

"I was like, I trained for this, so I think that's what drove me to push myself to my limits," she admitted. "It's frustrating. The choreography is shaped for them, the dance moves are made with a boy group in mind, and sometimes I just... I can't do it. It irks me so much. It frustrates me so much it makes me want to cry. I don't mean to criticize Hoshi's work in any way, but it just... It's hard for me."

Jia is a dazzling dancer on stage, with a strong stage presence that allures fans to her striking performance. However, success doesn't come with challenges. More often than not, she finds herself in the dance practice room late at night to deliver a flawless dance on stage. From risky, sharp moves that require exhausting physical training to tiring vocal exercises, Jia wants to be on par with the rest of the members.

During her hiatus in the Pretty U era, Jia visited the practice room to watch the Seventeen members sometimes and silently cheer them on, offering her presence despite being mentally and physically unwell. Yet, when she watched them become better and improve more than she ever did, she couldn't help the irritating jealousy, envy, and frustration bubbling up in her chest.

Instead of healing herself, her frustration became unbearable, and she felt the need to reach their level. She felt as if she wasn't enough, that the hate comments were correct, that she wasn't fit to be a member of Seventeen. She herself wasn't worthy of that because all she did was slow them down.

The cyberbullying left her traumatized along with a bad habit of pushing herself to the limit. It repeated in the Ode To You tour, hence her exhaustion and collapse. She sang until her vocal chords stung. She danced until her muscles were sore, and she performed until her heart's palpitations were too quick and her ragged breath became painfully unbearable.

"I'm not used to talking my feelings with others openly. I think this is actually the first time I shared so much about how I feel to my fans," Jia sniffled and wiped the corner her eyes with the tip of her fingers, careful not to smudge her makeup as tears quickly formed in her eyes. "I'm used to having others rely on me, so when it's actually my time to speak about myself, it gets... awkward."

"I always try to be a good role model for the others, so I tend to prioritize their needs over mine. I actually like doing that — it gives me a distraction from my own problems," Jia chuckled awkwardly, not sure how to explain herself properly. "I just... I guess I'm just that kind of person. Not sure who I learned it from."

She is always the spotlight of the group, whether because of love or hate isn't important. Her name is easily found in many articles. From scandals to announcements, from hate comments to praise; she is always the topic. She could never live peacefully because there would always be someone commenting about her.

The Ode To You tour had been a difficult experience for all of the members, and Jia was no exclusion. Despite labeling her feelings as unimportant, the members strongly believed she was just as relevant as them. In the end, they weren't just idols or performers — they were human, and all of them needed to let their feelings out one way or another.

To them, no one is irrelevant. No matter how much Jia brings herself down, the members will subconsciously prove her otherwise. From small gestures like checking on her health or asking if she felt unwell, to powerful comforting moments in which they'd remain silent in an emotional group hug, they prove to her that she is just as important as the rest. Without her, Seventeen would not feel like home.

"You ready?" Minghao asked Jia a few minutes before the performance team went up on stage. Hoshi placed his hand on her shoulders and patted them affectionately while Jun prepared himself to perform.

"I am," Jia smiled and offered Minghao a bottle of water. "It's important to stay hydrated. I can tell you're nervous. We've done this many times before, but if you're feeling out of it, make sure to tell us — and this goes for everyone else."

Minghao shook his head and handed Jia the water bottle, "You need it more than me. I don't want you to faint again. We don't want you to faint again. Dino, Wonwoo, S.coups, Jeonghan, and you have been enough."

Jun nodded and agreed with Minghao, "Let's take care of each other and avoid any more injuries, okay?"

Fortunately, the performance was a success. The cheers from the fans, the encouragement, and the dazzling lights of the stage made her feel alive. She forgot about everything for a moment. Suddenly, the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

At that moment, she realized she was born to perform. Born to be with Seventeen. Born to be on the stage, smiling and laughing while having the best time of her life. Being on stage makes her feel alive, loved, and cared for. There is no way to describe the beautiful warmth in her chest after hearing the loud chants of her fans and the beautiful view of the ocean of lightsticks lighting up the venue with a mesmerizing hue of blue.

"It's stressful, but it's beautiful," said Jia. "The members are always there by my side. They make me realize that I'm worthy of being in this group, and I am just as valued as the others are. I don't know why it took me so long to realize this, but Seventeen without any of the members isn't a team. We all belong here, with each other, and I couldn't have asked for more."

She could feel her eyes well up with tears threatening to spill at any second. It took so long for her to understand that she's loved, and now that she understands the impact of her presence alone, she can't help but feel emotional.

The staff handed her a tissue and she wiped her tears, but she couldn't control herself for long. She covered her face with the tissue in her hands, let her head fall low, and allowed her hair to fall over her face. It was impossible not to cry when she was surrounded by so much love.

She never saw her true potential, but everyone else did. It is thanks to them that she stayed. It is thanks to them that she recovered from her depression. It is thanks to them and their irritating comfort that persuaded her to chase her dreams. If it weren't for them, she would've given up a long time ago.

When she was at her lowest, when she was at her best, during arguments, and reconciliations. In her embarrassing moments to her proudest achievements, someone was always there, watching. The mutual fondness always lingered. They've been together for so many years that arguments could never last longer than a day.

They make her feel human. They know her, they see her, they understand her. Not through the camera lenses, but with their real eyes. They see her true self in a way no one else does.

"I'm so grateful," she sobbed, an emotional smile spreading on her lips. "I want to be enough. I want to do better. I want my fans to look at me and say I'm a person worth looking up to. I want to be a better person so when I become old I can look back at myself and be proud of everything I accomplished."

Her presence will leave a lasting impression in the K-pop world. Her kind soul will not be left unseen. Once the end arrives, once the good times end, her name will be carved in the music history along with the rest of Seventeen.

Beneath the mask of perfection, underneath the facade of a performer, lies a little girl with a dream. The spark in her eyes shines brightly as she hears the cheers from the crowd. That's a part of Jia that never changed at all. The passion for music never left. It always lingered close to her like a heartwarming comfort that tells her that her efforts were worth it. She is worth it. She made it. She deserves it.

Her path is a journey that is not over yet. There will be challenges along the way, but what she knows is that everyone will be by her side if she ever needs support and that she shouldn't feel ashamed for reaching her limits.

She is not perfect. She is not the ideal idol. She is a human. A beautiful human with flaws and imperfections she needs to learn to love. Every part of her is unique. Each impurity tells a part of her story that only those who are able to see the true beauty of them will understand.

"I want to go on stage again," Jia wiped her remaining tears and smiled wide enough to reach her gentle eyes. "I want to go on stage again and perform. I want to make the most of my life and live every day in a way I won't regret. I love making music. I love singing. I love dancing, and I hope I can keep on doing what I love until I die."

For her, Seventeen is enough. She is eternally grateful for the love and opportunities she received throughout the years. Her strong devotion to her career and resilience to hate comments prove her worthy of her position and a good role model.

"And I've come so far and achieved so much... So, instead of saying sorry for all the times I couldn't keep up with the rest, instead of apologizing for all of my mistakes, I'll say thank you. To my fans, who stayed with me during my worst. To my members, who watched me grow and improve in this beautiful journey. And to everyone who didn't give up believing in me and supported me every step of the way."

Music is therapy. She hopes that one day, she'll be the reason someone wants to be better. She wants to be an inspiration, a good role model, and a person worth loving.

And one day, she'll love herself as much as others do.

[borkunlimited]

Mister Dragon Is Trying to Impress

While writing the first chapter of the longfic for this, I saw that scene from Komi-san where Komi was cheering for Tadano during Sports Day and I was like, dang, it is heaven's mandate for me to write this drabble and figure out how to put it in the longfic.

Word Count: ~780

────────────────────

Sylus almost laughed when he saw you walking inside the locker room with his brothers holding on to your dress.

It is an adorable sight, seeing you with that familiar red apple notebook that is now hanging around your neck and wearing the white summer dress he has chosen back then when he and the others found out that your grandmother and the Senior Citizens’ Association chooses your clothes.

“It gets cold in the arena, you know,” he told you when he pulled out his leather jacket from his locker to put on your shoulders and you may have huddled on it further because he smells good without the cigarette smoke.

You gave him a once over, looking at him up and down as if about to point out he is just wearing boxing shorts and a tank top then your face went red when your eyes may have lingered a little longer on the outline of his abdomen.

“I’ll give it back once your match ends,” you wrote, hiding your face behind the notebook and hoping he didn’t notice where your eyes were earlier.

Yet, Sylus had always been perceptive and there is certain pride that you already made an effort to go here to watch his match so you checking him out?

That’s an ego boost.

He has to win or else it would be too embarrassing.

“No, he wants you to keep it,” Luke piped in, and he and his twin are their older brother’s biggest fans alright, going as far as having shirts with his face on it.

“You should spray your perfume on it, big sis.”

“He thinks you should sleep on it.”

“We think big brother wouldn’t mind if you get all of his clothes-”

“Enough,” Sylus finally said, cutting in and ruffling both of the twins’ hair and right now, he will let it slide because you giggled softly at their words before turning to you, “The seats are already reserved. Make yourself comfortable, alright, little doe?”

Underground boxing is a violent sport but it is a sport he thrived on and even now, as Sylus watched you walk away with his two younger brothers, he still thinks about what came to him to ask you to come over.

You, of all people.

Is it because you began to also accompany him at the boxing gym, sitting politely as you watch him train?

Or maybe how you express in your own way that you also wanted to learn?

Or it could be that he always wanted someone to cheer for him? 

Ridiculously selfish.

Yes, that’s what he is and perhaps it is his nature as a dragon hybrid to keep people they care about close to them.

All he knows is tonight, he shouldn’t make a fool out of himself, not when he saw you with those expressive eyes of yours even holding up a colorful sign just for him.

“Go, Crow, Go!”

He could almost hear your voice, the determination as you try to express yourself to him despite the stutter that came from your social anxiety.

He will not lose.

That is until the bear hybrid he faced had been throwing punches with such force that Sylus had no choice but to opt for a defensive stance.

“Get him!”, Luke screamed together with the crowd and Kieran was shouting for their older brother to go for it, to show his opponent what the Qin Family is made of.

“You should cheer for him too, big sis!”, Kieran said, pulling your sleeve then you tilted your head at the little dragon.

Sylus went all his way to invite you hear after all and you have been practicing at home for this cheer.

With both hands raised to amplify your voice, you gather your courage and hope for the best that Sylus will hear your voice among the cheering crowd.

“You.”

Sylus looked up, his ears picking up that familiar voice, that voice he never hears as much but he will recognize everywhere.

“Can.”

His eyes met yours, and every word you say is a struggle for you but he knows you always try your best.

“Do.”

Suddenly, the loss of composure against such a formidable opponent ebb away and Sylus knows he can take on the world.

He can and he will.

“It!”

All he needs is to hear those words, his stance switching from defensive to offensive as he side steps and he puts everything in this uppercut he is about to throw.

Fast.

Strong.

Precise.

Every spectator in the underground ring will remember this day, alright.

The day that Sylus managed to send his opponent flying to the other side of the ring from one punch alone.

────────────────────

A lot of animes with the same vibes as 'Komi-san' have me in a chokehold right now. A Fragnant Flower Blooms with Dignity is still ongoing and I can't wait for the next ep to drop especially I just binged the available eps rn.

If you want to read more drabbles related to this:

Miss Deer Can't Communicate

Miss Deer Is Trying to Communicate

Mister Dragon Wants to Communicate

Big Brother! Deer Hybrid! Caleb looking after his little sister with social anxiety

Big Brother! Deer Hybrid! Caleb meeting his little sister's friend

[author-a-holmes]

I agree, actually!

I think "Don't edit while you write" is in the same box of advice ad-libs as "Cut your Adverbs" and "Show Don't Tell". Broad, unspecific, good for beginner writers to learn until they figure out their own method, and useful for the majority but almost certainly not everyone.

I'm somewhere in the middle myself. Generally, I don't edit as I go, but if I find something that's off — Something that, if I ignore it, is going to mean the next chain of events leads me WILDLY off course — then I cannot just go "oh, I'll fix that later", because it's changing the cause-and-effect of my plotline.

For example, I got about 90k words into Changeling, and realised I was off-track, and rewrote it from the beginning. When I got back to the place I'd started the rewrite at, everything had shifted to the left an inch, and it worked better, and I continued from that point.

For Darkling, I'm doing the same but instead of half a dozen small things, it's one big thing.

From the start I've had this once character I was specifically designing for the readers to hate. Only, now I've got everyone in a position where the only way to raise the stakes is for someone to get hurt... but I need everyone for the next chapter, except this character. The problem is, if she gets hurt, and everyone hates her, the readers won't care, so I've had to go back and redesign her entire character arc to make her more sympathetic.

A pain in my ass, but worthwhile, I'm sure.

And I also know some writers would tell me "Just pretend she's been the liked character, and keep moving forward", but I can't do that. This is going to fundamentally change who she is, and I need to understand her through writing her, to make her NEXT scenes make sense.

All this to say yes, don't edit while you write is good advice. But it's not the be-all-end-all, and as OP says, writing is unique to every writer.

Find what works for you, and stick with that!

Why I Edit As I Write (Even Though Everyone Says Not To)

hi. it's me. the writer who edits mid-sentence. the writer who literally cannot move on from chapter one until chapter one feels right. the writer who rewrites the same paragraph fourteen times before letting themselves move to the next. yes i've seen every single "just write, fix it later" post. yes, i love the idea of messy first drafts. and no i will not be changing

okay so listen everyone, here's the thing: i DON'T think editing as you go is inherently bad. it's only bad advice when people try to universalize it. writing process is personal. maybe for you it's a fast draft in November and editing in february. maybe for me it's hyper-fixating on every single sentence until the scene flows like water and then moving on with peace in my soul. BOTH ARE VALID. BOTH CAN WORK. both get the book done.

people love to say "don't edit while you draft" because, yeah perfectionism can slow you down. listen, i'm not editing for perfection, im editing for immersion. i need to feel like i'm inside the story or I'LL SPIRAL! if i know the voice is off, pacing is weird, or the character feels flat, i can't pretend i don't see it and continue. i can't push through. my brain physically will NOT LET ME!

when something sounds wrong or looks wrong, it breaks the spell. it kicks me out of the scene like a bad special effects in a movie. no seriously!! and once i'm out it's really hard pt get back in.

also, i'm gonna be real, i hate the feeling of finishing a draft and knowing the entire thing is a flaming wreck i now have to sift through. i HATE that feeling. it makes me never want to open that doc again. i need to be able to re-read my work and go, "okay yeah, this slaps a little." that's how i keep going. a little dopamine hit every few pages. if you call that toxic? i call it necessary.

side notes: there's a weird gatekeeping vibe around speed in the writing world. people act like if you're not cranking out 50k in 30 days, you're "not disciplined." but i'd argue that forcing yourself to write in a way that actively hurts your process isn't discipline. it's sabotage. if editing as i go keeps me working on a project long-term, keeps me engaged, keeps be BELIEVING in it, then it's a valid method

my best scenes? the ones i took slow. the ones i sculpted sentence by sentence. the ones i paused to read out loud, rework, and reimagine until the tension finally clicked. yeah it took hours. yeah it was annoying. but that scene still holds. it still makes me feel something. and that’s worth more to me than blasting through 10k of filler.

edit while you write. reread the last paragraph twelve times. fix that one clunky sentence before you let yourself go on. obsess a little. it’s fine.

rin t.

[kaliuchisangel]

Didn't Think I'd Meet You

Pairing:Malachi Barton x reader

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Fluff and mutual pining

Anonymous asked: Heyyy, how r u doing?? I was wondering if maybe you could make a one-shot about how reader and malachi met? Like, maybe r is not famous, and they met at a party because of some common friends or something like that. And it's kind of like "he fell first and harder". It's okay if you don't want to though :]

A/N: hey, pookie. I'm good. Ofc, I will do it. I hope you enjoy this one!

You almost didn’t come to the party.

Honestly, you would’ve rather been at home in your hoodie, eating popcorn and watching your comfort show for the third time this month.

But your best friend had insisted dragged you, really—saying something about “you never get out” and “it’s just a few of my LA friends, you’ll be fine.”

You figured you’d stay for an hour and then dip out.

But that was before you noticed him.

Before he noticed you.

The music was loud, not obnoxiously so, but enough that you had to lean in to talk. People were scattered across the huge house. some dancing, some taking selfies, and others lounging near the back patio.

You were nursing a red cup of lemonade, standing by the wall near the snack table, awkwardly texting your friend who had wandered off after introducing you to someone who clearly forgot your name the moment you said it.

That's when he saw you.

Across the room, a boy in a black hoodie and backwards cap was talking with a group of friends—some faces you vaguely recognized from shows or social media but his eyes kept drifting over to you.

You didn’t notice at first.

But he did.

You looked soft. A little shy. Like you weren’t trying too hard to impress anyone. You were scrolling your phone, your fingers tapping against the side of the cup while your friend was off laughing with someone else.

There was something about the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, or maybe the way you smiled politely when someone walked by and said hi. He couldn’t place it, but he was already leaning over to ask, “Hey—who’s that?”

His friend raised an eyebrow. “Who, her?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“No, I think she came with Camille or Mia or someone. She’s not in the industry, I don’t think.”

That made him even more curious.

So, he made a move.

You looked up when someone cleared their throat.

He stood in front of you now—tall, but not intimidating.Cute smile. Soft brown curls peeking out from under his hat. His voice was warm when he spoke.

"Hey. I'm Malachi."

You blinked. “Oh. Uh—hi. I’m Y/N.”

“You looked a little bored,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I’d come say hey.”

You laughed under your breath. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he teased. “Not a fan of random LA parties?”

You shook your head. “Not really my scene. I only came because my best friend swore I needed to ‘touch grass’.”

Malachi laughed at that. A real, genuine laugh. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to use it.”

You smiled, your nerves easing slightly. “So… what brings you here?”

He shrugged. “I know a few people.

Thought it’d be chill. It’s kinda not.”

You laughed again. “Exactly.”

There was a pause—but not the awkward kind. Just that lingering space where both people realize they’re kind of enjoying this more than they expected.

“I like your hoodie,” you said randomly.

He looked down at the oversized black hoodie with a subtle logo. “Thanks. It’s my go-to for ‘I don’t wanna be here but I came anyway’ energy.”

“That’s a very specific vibe.”

“And yet—spot on for both of us.”

You smiled again, more openly this time. He caught the way your eyes crinkled a little when you did. And maybe that was when it happened for him—when something in his chest tightened just enough to scare him, but not enough to stop it.

You were funny. And real. And didn’t treat him like Malachi Barton.

You treated him like a person.

That did something to him.

The two of you ended up talking for way longer than expected. About everything. Music. Bad movies. How parties like this are secretly exhausting. How people always act like they’re having more fun than they really are.

At some point, he asked, “Wanna go outside? It’s quieter.”

You nodded. “Yes, please.”

He led you to the backyard where the lights were softer and the air felt cooler. The music was just a muffled thump in the background now.

You sat on the porch steps. He sat beside you.

There was a moment of silence before he said, “You know… I didn’t think I’d meet anyone interesting tonight.”

You glanced over at him, teasing, “And then I saved your night?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted with a lopsided grin.

“You’re different. In a good way.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t look away. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“What did you expect?”

You pretended to think. “I dunno. Maybe a little full of yourself. You’re kinda famous, right?”

He winced playfully. “Ouch.”

You laughed. “I mean it as a compliment. You’re real.”

He smiled. His fingers drummed lightly on his knee, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. You could tell—his eyes held it all.

And maybe he would’ve. But your friend appeared in the doorway, calling your name.

You looked over your shoulder. “Hey! Sorry—I totally lost track of time.”

Malachi stood up with you. “You leaving?”

“I probably should. She’s my ride.”

“Oh.” He tried not to look disappointed. He failed.

You turned to him. “Hey. I’m really glad you came to say hi.”

“Yeah? Then maybe I could, uh—text you sometime?”

Your heart fluttered. “Sure. Here.” You handed him your phone.

He typed in his number, saved it with a little vampire emoji for some reason. “That’s me.”

“Vampire?”

“Inside joke,” he shrugged, smirking. “You’ll get it soon.”

You laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And as you walked off with your friend, he stood there for a second, watching you disappear into the night.

His friend wandered over, teasing, “Bro, you good?”

Malachi blinked like he was still in a daze. “Yeah. Just…”

“What?”

He smiled to himself, thumb brushing over his phone where your contact now sat. Then he looked up, eyes gleaming.

"I think I just met someone important."

[steverogers1991]

4x09 (part2)

Carmy Carmy Carmy. You feel so much man. And you got it all from your ma.

The way she basically begs him to come in but not with words, just with her eyes. And he gives in, even though that house brings back too much shit, but he does it for her. Because he’s trying. At everything. To be better. And this is one of those attempts.

Them looking at all the old photos, and him watching his mom and really laughing at her commentary, Donna still being who she used to be but less, subdued, less loud, less crazy, less sure of herself

Jimmy’s picture. And Carmy finding out he’s trying to sell his house, knowing it’s for him. For them. And fully realizing that Jimmy has put a lot into the restaurant too.

Michael. Aaaa I can do a whole other post on the depth and gravitas Jon Bernthal brings to his characters too but that’s not for today (Side note: Seeing another close Jon and Ebon dynamic again in this show after watching Punisher S1 was absolutely amazing, ifykyk)

Donna breaking down, and bringing that letter. And as she says it, she gets more and more sure. More determined that she needs to say it, despite Carmy telling her to stop and that she doesn’t need to. She keeps going. Stellar acting by JLC.

Carmy. Ohgod. He immediately covers his mouth when she starts talking, which is what he does when he is nervous or unsure or worried. The way his eyes get more teary with every word out of his mother’s mouth. The handle trembles progessively get worse too. HAND TREMBLES. I think I felt my heart getting ripped out of my chest for them the more his hand trembled. But it stayed there the whole time. He acts this scene through micro expressions and next to no actual words. And he is absolutely magnificent. I am a JAW fan for life now.

(Side note we see some of this micro acting in 3x10 when he confronts Fields and then cries after. It’s so silent but it’s so deadly and heart shattering to see him cry that way, but also because he definitely needed to do that, and I am so glad he did)

Him immediately offering to cook for her was so endearing, and I know it’s so normal, but there is truly something so special about cooking for someone you love while they watch you, and no one more special than your mom. And for someone to whom cooking has meant what it has (despite it now not feeling the same to him anymore), just making a nice meal for his mom probably invokes the best version of him, making him realize perhaps the aspects of it he did love: feeding and serving others, especially someone who means a lot to him…and then sitting with her while she eats

There’s something so healing and peaceful about watching Carm walk through his old room (I know there were some theories about it being Mikey’s room but I think the scene would have been setup differently if it was, the background song - which is phenomenal btw, the way it’s acted, the way he treats everything in the room, it would have all been very different) touching his old stuff, and with a reverent look on his face for his past self. And then finding Claire’s sweatshirt. That’s the most vacant expression we see from him in this episode, when he looks at it. Not saying anything else but…just saying. I can’t read his face.

Him going back to the restaurant, talking to Richard, and then going into the refrigerator and leaving Jimmy that voicemail. Jimmy deserves that voicemail, did almost 2 seasons ago. Carm finally realizes someone else who has always had faith in him who he let down. And you can see the pain of that failure on his face plainly, and in the sincerity of his words. This is some of the clearest thoughts he has ever communicated through words on this show.

Carm is so soft. He is the ultimate soft, caring, loving guy who cares so much it destroys him. I’m not absolving him of being neurotic for all of season 3, but I’m just saying that when he is good….he is SO good. I hated him in season 3, but I know that was intentional. He hated himself. But this season, we see him trying, in every episode, every scene. He is trying. And he lets us in, even as the viewers, just as he lets them all in, bit by bit. Slowly, but maybe steadily.

Fantastically acted episode. Absolutely stunning and heart wrenching.

[sincerelyhunnybee]

unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 7

wc: 2.7k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, mentions of murder, graphic violence, death, dubious morality, reader gets da big reveal ??

ೀfrom bee: had to push this one out so i didn’t get behind on these chapters. this one was slept in half since its didn’t feel right to include the next few scenes in this chapter. enjoy !

support on ao3!

You wake before the sun fully rises.

The apartment is still. Blue light from the waking dawn filters in through the window blinds, painting soft shadows across the floor. The air smells faintly of orange peel and fabric softener giving away faint traces of the night before.

You shift slightly beneath the blanket, feeling the warmth beside you.

He’s still there.

Touya lies on his side, breathing slow and even. His brows, normally so tight with tension, and suspicion, are finally relaxed. His mouth is slightly parted, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks like he’s genuinely at peace.

You don’t move, afraid that even the smallest sound might wake him. There’s something sacred in this moment—something about the way he’s allowed himself to stay. Not as your protector. Not as your threat. He’s . . . just here. With you.

Your eyes drift down to his hand, curled loosely near your pillow. Lithe fingers twitch every other deep breath. Steady. Like he’s fallen further than sleep. Rest. Relief.

Your chest tightens a little.

How long had it been since anyone gave him space to just be? Not Dabi, not the League’s weapon. Not the threat whispered through security channels. Simply a man with a body that aches and a heart too tired to beat fast anymore.

He stirs. Eyes twitch beneath pale lids. Then slowly, he blinks awake.

For a second, he looks lost, eyes shifting to take in the scenery around him. Not startled, not guarded but unaccustomed.

His gaze finds yours, and something flickers in his soft, half-asleep eyes.

“You stayed,” you whisper, before you can help yourself.

He hums low in his throat. “Didn’t feel like moving.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you smile. “How’d you sleep?”

A pause. He shifts onto his back, staring at the ceiling for a second before answering.

“Like I forgot who I was.”

Then he turns his head, eyes meeting yours again. 

“That’s the first time in years I didn’t dream of burning.”

Your heart cracks a little.

You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm beneath the blanket. “Good,” you say, soft but steady. “You deserve mornings like this.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes shift to watch you, like he’s trying top convince himself that any of this isn’t real. Like he's waiting for the sky to fall in.

Then, without a word, he leans in.

Not for a kiss.

But to press his forehead gently against yours.

A silent thank you. A fragile peace offering.

You both stay there, forehead to forehead, for what feels like a long time. No need for words. No alarms. No fire. Only warmth.

The silence that follows your morning together feels almost holy. You rise together slowly, exchange quiet words over mugs of lukewarm tea, and share space like people who belong to something softer than what the world has dealt you. For a little while, it’s enough.

But the moment breaks.

It starts with a flick of the remote.

You didn’t expect anything when you turned on the TV—maybe some early morning show to fill the silence. But the second the news anchor’s voice crackles to life, Dabi stiffens.

You freeze too.

“…multiple agents remain in critical condition following last night’s explosion near the Naruhata industrial zone. Officials say that while no high-value targets have been officially confirmed dead, evidence at the scene suggests deliberate sabotage and the use of quirk-based arson…”

Images flash across the screen: a scorched building, medical stretchers, blackened steel ribs of the warehouse skeleton glowing a radiant orange under emergency floodlights.

The screen shifts again.

“To complicate matters, a civilian medical worker reported missing over two weeks ago has now been linked to the scene. Sources tell us this individual may be traveling in the company of a League of Villains operative, believed to be the one responsible for the arson…”

Your face appears on the screen.

It’s your hospital ID photo—taken months ago, back when you were tired, overworked, and utterly unremarkable.

“Approach with caution,” the anchor says firmly. “If you have any information on this individual or their companion, please contact the Commission hotline…”

You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until you feel Dabi—Touya—move beside you.

He takes the remote from your hand and clicks the TV off. Just like that, the quiet returns. But it’s different now with thick and heavy air filling the room .

You sink into the couch, the cushion giving way beneath your weight like it’s trying to swallow you whole.

“They know,” you whisper. “They know I’m with you.”

Touya doesn’t look at you right away. He’s still staring at the blank screen, jaw tight.

“They’ve known,” he mutters. “Just took ‘em this long to say it.”

You turn to him. “What do we do now?”

He exhales slowly. Then finally meets your eyes. “We don’t stay. We don’t settle. We move. Again.”

Your heart aches.

“I just started to feel normal again,” you say, barely above a breath.

He doesn’t say same, but his silence feels like agreement.

You both sit there, the air between you thick with unspoken truths.

“This was never going to last, you should’ve known that,” Touya finally says. “Places like this—” He gestures around the humble apartment. “They make you think you’ve got time. But the clock’s always ticking.”

You blink back the tightness in your throat. “So we run again.”

He nods. “But not like before. We’re not just hiding now. We’re planning. Thinking ahead.”

You stare at him for a moment. Sitting next to you with tea gone cold and gentleness on his soul he doesn’t let many see.

“ . . . Will you tell me if you’re scared?” you ask.

He closes his eyes for a moment as he sighs. When they open again, the answer is in them.

“I already did,” he says quietly. “The second I stayed.”

And in that, you understand.

It’s not just a run anymore. It’s a risk—for both of you.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚

The water runs hot, just shy of scalding, exactly how he needs it. The hiss of the shower drowns out the static in his head for a few precious minutes. Steam curls against the bathroom mirror, thick and swirling, like smoke that never left him.

He stands beneath the spray, hands braced against the tiled wall, head bowed.

Your face lingers behind his eyes.

It’s not the version of you clinging to him in fear, or curled in the corner of a cell.

But the one that handed him tea this morning.

He exhales through his nose, watching droplets trace the curve of his arms, his torso, his ribs—each one passing over charred skin and the old stories stitched into it.

He doesn’t know what scares him more: how good this feels, or how quickly it could vanish. Regardless, he wants to have control over what happens.

He dries off with a towel that smells faintly of you. It makes his stomach twist.

On the bed is the change of clothes you left for him: a faded gray hoodie and soft black joggers. They are big on him, a little too soft, worn-in in a way that says they once belonged to someone else. Probably belonged to an ex. He didn’t like thinking about that. 

He slips them on anyway. His usual coat feels wrong here. Like it doesn’t belong in the world you’re trying to give him.

He’s toweling his hair dry when the sound comes—CRASH.

Ceramic shattering.

Then the muffled noise of choking. A noise he knows all too well.

He bolts out the door, bare feet slamming into the floor.

You're on the ground, back arched, eyes frantic, and a hand wrapped tight around your throat.

The intruder has a scout's build—lean, wired with tension, a glint of madness in his eyes. A knife glints at his hip. His boots are caked in dirt and dried blood.

“You’ve been busy,” the man snarls down at you. “Heard a rumor about a stray villain and a little nurse. Figured I'd check it out.”

Dabi doesn’t hesitate. The fire leaps before his thoughts do, white-hot and furious, lighting a wall around the intruder, you, and himself with a roar. The scout jerks back, dragging you up with him, using you as a shield. You feel cold metal press into your neck.

“I’ll slit their throat before you even blink,” he hisses.

“You won’t,” Dabi says, low and lethal.

“You wanna bet on that?”

But Dabi’s already moving.

He lunges to the side, forcing the man to shift, and in that split-second he closes the gap, fist landing hard against the scout’s jaw. The man reels, and you collapse to the floor, holding your throat and coughing.

It’s chaos. Fists. Fire. Blood.

A knife slashes toward Dabi's side—he feels the sting, the wetness. He snarls, grabs the man’s wrist, and burns.

Skin blackens. Screams rip the air.

The scout tries to escape, flailing, but Dabi doesn’t stop until he’s ash and silent.

The flames cease.

The apartment smells like scorched flesh and ozone.

He sways slightly, breathing hard, clutching his bleeding side. Then he sees you.

You’re curled by the broken mug, a line of red across your arm where glass sliced deep.

“Shit—” He’s at your side in seconds, pulling you up. His voice shakes. “Let me see. Let me—”

You don’t protest. Your hands shaking, his are too.

Neither of you say it out loud, but the truth settles between you: they found you.

And next time, it won’t just be a scout.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚

The bathroom light flickers softly overhead. It's the only sound filling the room, save for your quiet breathing and the occasional metallic click of the first aid kit.

Dabi leans back against the sink, shirt pulled up, blood trailing from the gash along his side. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s deep. Ugly. Another scar to add to his ugliness, he thinks.

You bend your head beside him, steady, despite the adrenaline still burning in your veins. There’s a towel pressed beneath him to catch the blood. Your hands work quickly, disinfectant, gauze, needle. Every so often, your fingers brush his skin, and he twitches—more from the softness than the sting.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s fine,” he grunts. “Just finish it.”

You thread the needle with trembling precision, then look up at him, meeting his glacier-like eyes. “I need you to stay still.”

He huffs. “Not my first time getting stitched up.”

Your brow creases, but you nod. The moment stretches as you press a hand against his side, guiding the needle in. His breath shudders, and you both fall quiet again.

Aside from the kiss from last night, it’s the closest you’ve ever been to him. Seeing him so vulnerable and at essentially your mercy was new.

The heat of his skin. The rise and fall of his chest. The flex of his abdomen. The bite of pain he doesn’t vocalize. He watches you as you work. Your furrowed brow, the way your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. You’re so focused, so careful.

Someone gave a damn about him. In this tiny, too-warm bathroom with blood on the tile and soap that smells like orange peel.

He doesn't deserve it. But it’s here and can’t keep lying to the one person who's seen more of him than anyone in years.

When you finish the last stitch, you straighten up back, rolling your shoulder back to ease the tension that has built up form your focus, exhaling slowly. 

“There. Try not to rip it open, okay?”

He nods, lowering his shirt. He opens his mouth, the words are caught in his throat for a moment. 

Then he says, voice raspy, “Touya.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, eyes fixed on yours. “You were right. It’s Touya.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, you told me that before. I don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in, and his gaze sharpens. “Touya Todoroki.”

You freeze. Eyes widen.

Your breath stalls in your chest.

He waits, expression unreadable, like he’s bracing for you to recoil. To look at him differently now that he exposed who he used to be.

But you don’t move. Not yet.

“That Todoroki?” you whisper.

He gives a dry, hollow laugh. “Exactly what you’re thinking.”

You stare at him, slowly putting away the tools to the first aid kit.

It clicks, slowly. The burn scars. The blue flames. The reason he hates heroes like he was born to. It doesn’t feel real.

But it makes too much sense not to be.

“I wasn’t supposed to survive,” he mutters. “But I did. And they buried me anyway.”

You swallow hard, heart aching as he turns his face away slightly.

“I tried to become someone else,” he adds. “Tried to burn him out of me. Dabi was supposed to be a weapon. A ghost. No past, no attachments.”

He looks back at you.

“And then you showed up.”

The silence stretches again, but it feels different this time.

He’s still leaning back against the sink. Bleeding. Burned. Broken.

But he’s told you everything.

And when you slowly reach out to rest your hand against the side of his bicep, he doesn’t flinch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Just that. No judgment. No questions.

Just okay.

His eyes search yours for something he wants to figure out but can’t. 

“You don’t seem surprised,” he mutters after a beat.

You swallow hard, eyes trained on the thread and antiseptic in your hands. “I had . . . suspicions.”

“Yeah?”

“White roots,” you murmur, threading the needle. “The fire quirk. The way you look at people, like you're always ten steps ahead of hurting them.”

He snorts. “You sound like my therapist.”

“You had a therapist?”

“Briefly. She quit.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s small. Quick. Gone before it settles too long. But he sees it.

“I knew Endeavor had kids,” you say quietly. “Didn’t know he lost one.”

“‘Lost’ is generous.”

“They ever look for you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches your hands work, disinfecting your tools and the space around the sink with a quiet precision. Each movement is deliberate, methodical, and practiced. Like this is something you’ve done a hundred times before. Like tending to wounds is just muscle memory for you.

He wonders what your life looked like before all this. Before the secrets and shadows. Before he tore you out of it. Were you always this calm under pressure? Did your hands always move like that, with a steadiness he hasn’t felt in years?

Guilt coils in his gut, low and sour.

A reminder: you weren’t supposed to matter this much. And yet here you are, patching up the man who helped wreck your world with the same care you might give a friend or something worse.

He should look away. Should shut this part of himself off before it slips further. But he doesn’t.

He can’t. He’s already in too deep.

“That doesn’t matter. I am what he made me.” he says flatly.

Your fingers linger a second longer than necessary on the first aid kit, before you grab it and tuck it away under the sink.

“No,” you say. “You’re what you survived.”

He’s not sure what to do with that. The truth of it. The weight of someone seeing him without shrinking back.

You stand, rinsing your hands in the sink. He watches the blood that got on your hands swirl down the drain like it might take something else with it.

“We should move again soon,” he says. “That scout wasn't alone. Others will come.”

You nod, drying your hands on a towel. “I’ll pack. But first, you need rest.”

“I’ll sleep when—”

“You’ll sleep,” you cut in gently, but firm. “You’re no good to either of us exhausted, better yet dead.”

He opens his mouth to argue. But instead, he slumps a little against the counter. Exhaustion tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re bossy,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, already walking out to grab a fresh shirt for him.

He stays in the bathroom a moment longer, staring at his reflection.

You’re what you survived.

He steps out into the low-lit apartment and follows the sound of your footsteps down the hall.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

taglist (open + ask to be added): @reggieswriter @d4rlinxs @dabislittlemouse @jelliephia @tulnht @ninja-hxych @slothsmoths @sukunasbabymomma @moremaple

[cherrylacuna]

Im begging for young Hayden smut 🙏

2000 years I mean

Fangirl In Yellow Ferrari

Summary: You never planned on staying long at the Malibu beach party. Just long enough to snap a few shots for your portfolio and maybe catch something real through your lens. What you didn’t expect was a yellow Ferrari… or the man leaning against it — Hayden Christensen. Celebrity you've been dreaming about every night.

Pairing: 2000s Hayden Christensen x f!Reader

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), fingering, clothed grinding, vaginal sex (unprotected), dirty talk, power imbalance (celebrity x fangirl), light aftercare, fangirl energy, public setting (parked car), use of "baby"/"mine," smutty fluff ending.

Note: Written to the song Yellow Ferrari — The Toxic Avenger

The air was thick with salt and summer sweat, mingling with the faint scent of sunscreen and bonfires. Malibu’s beach party pulsed with a careless energy — laughter spilling over waves of music, a kaleidoscope of bodies tangled on the sand. But for you, the chaos felt more like static, an echo drowning out the quiet you were searching for.

Your camera hung heavy around your neck, its strap digging into sun-warmed skin. You moved through the crowd, lens lifted, hoping to catch something real. Someone who wasn’t just posing for the ‘Gram or shouting over the bass. But every frame you shot felt flat, forced — nothing like the pictures you dreamed of capturing. Faces blurred, smiles too wide, the scene too crowded to breathe.

The ocean glittered beyond, but even the tide seemed restless tonight. You slipped past groups of shouting friends and flashing phones, edging away from the congested shore. The salty breeze tangled your hair, drawing you toward the quieter edges of the beach.

And then, there it was.

Parked alone against the backdrop of the sun dipping low, a yellow Ferrari gleamed like a beacon. The paint caught every last ray of gold, its curves sculpted perfectly in the fading light. It was out of place here — too polished, too sleek — but somehow, it made the whole scene feel electric.

You raised your camera instinctively, fingers tightening around the grip as you framed the shot. The gleaming hood, the way the light stretched across the windshield, the faint shimmer of ocean spray in the air — this was what you were after. The kind of beauty that didn’t shout but held you in its quiet spell.

Click. Click. Click.

You lost yourself in the rhythm, each picture a small rebellion against the noise behind you. Time seemed to slow as the sky turned softer shades of amber and rose, the world shrinking down to this single, golden moment.

Suddenly, a voice cut through your focus, smooth and casual.

“Yeah, I also like this car. It’s stunning.”

You nearly dropped your camera. Heart thumping, you turned to face him — the man leaning casually against the driver’s side door, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes amused but warm. His face was familiar, almost too familiar: sharp cheekbones, intense eyes that held stories behind them. The kind of face you’d seen in magazines, on movie posters, but here he was — real and close, like a secret you’d been waiting to uncover. 

Someone you know well.

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

He shrugged with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. Can’t leave a pretty thing like that all alone, can I?”

You glanced back at the Ferrari, then at him. “I’m a photographer. Thought I’d try and capture the light.”

He nodded slowly, eyes drifting over your camera. “Mind if I see some?”

For a moment, you hesitated — but then something in his tone made you feel less like a starstruck fan and more like an equal. You flipped the screen around to show him a few shots, his gaze sharpening with interest.

“Not bad,” he said quietly, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. “You’ve got a good eye.”

You smiled, the tension easing. “Thanks. Would you… maybe want some pictures of you with the car? It’s not every day you see something this perfect parked at a beach party.”

He laughed softly, a sound that settled around you like warmth. “Sure. Let’s make it interesting.”

You followed him around the Ferrari, adjusting angles, finding the right light as the sun slipped lower. He posed like a natural — easy, confident, but with a flicker of something else behind his eyes, like he was letting you in on a secret.

Between shots, you caught glimpses of a smile, a teasing glance. The kind that said he was enjoying this — the attention, the moment, maybe even you.

You tried not to show the slight trembling of your hands. After all, you knew exactly who this man was.

Then, casually — too casually — he tilted his head toward the car and asked,

“Wanna go for a ride?”

You blinked, still caught in your camera’s viewfinder. “In that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the front pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out a slim black key fob. With a quiet click, the yellow Ferrari chirped, headlights flashing once in confirmation.

Your jaw actually dropped.

He just smirked, sliding the key back into his pocket like he hadn’t just set your entire pulse on fire. “Yeah,” he said, lazy and cool. “She’s mine.”

You stared at him, genuinely stunned. Honestly? You don't even know why. “That’s your car?”

Hayden lifted a brow like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why else would I be standing here waiting for you to take its picture?”

You laughed, half-nervous, half-delighted. “I thought you were just… loitering with really good timing.”

“I mean, yeah. But with style.” He tilted his head toward the passenger door. “You coming, or are you just gonna keep photographing her like you’re in love?”

Your fingers tightened around the camera. “I kind of am in love.”

“Damn,” he said, moving to the driver’s side. “Now I’m jealous of a car.”

You hesitated for only half a second — then something clicked inside you. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe the way he was smiling like he already knew the answer. Maybe it was just Malibu air, tasting like salt and rebellion.

You slid into the passenger seat, and the door closed with a satisfying thump.

Inside, everything smelled like leather and heat, sun-soaked and rich. You sank into the seat, still gripping your camera like a safety net, trying not to let your brain melt into the upholstery.

Hayden glanced over at you, hand on the gear shift. “Seatbelt.”

The word landed somewhere between a warning and a promise. You fumbled with the buckle, hands suddenly clumsy, pulse loud in your ears.

He didn’t start the car right away.

Instead, Hayden leaned back in the driver’s seat, arm draped over the wheel, watching you with that slow, unreadable gaze. The silence stretched — thick with something unspoken — and when you turned to glance at him, you almost flinched at how close he was.

His voice, when it came, was low. Velvet and heat.

“So… you a car girl,” he murmured, “or was it me you were taking pictures of?”

You huffed a laugh, eyes flicking toward the windshield. “Bit of both.”

“Mm.” He smirked, eyes still on you. “Thought so.”

The Ferrari purred to life, a deep, masculine sound that vibrated through the seats and straight into your bones. He shifted into gear and pulled onto the coastal road like he owned it — one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the space between you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his skin.

Malibu’s lights blurred by in streaks of gold and blue. Music thrummed low from the stereo — some sultry, unfamiliar beat that felt too in sync with your pulse.

You tried to focus on the view — ocean to the left, city to the right — but it was impossible with him sitting next to you. Hayden Christensen, in the flesh. You’d crushed on him in high school. Watched Clone wars mostly for him. Oh and you saw Revenge of the Sith five times in theaters. Had a poster on your dorm wall you used to pretend you didn’t look at every time you changed clothes.

Now here he was. In a car that cost more than your college degree, driving like sin itself, glancing over like he knew every single thought in your head.

“I’ve seen that look before,” he said suddenly, lips quirking.

You blinked. “What look?”

He shot you a sidelong glance, slow and smug. “The one you’re trying not to give me.”

You laughed, nervous. “And what look is that?”

“The ‘I’m not gonna act like a fangirl, but I definitely used to imagine this exact scenario’ look.”

Your stomach dropped. He was too good at this. Too casual. It made you want to crawl into yourself — or crawl right into his lap.

You didn’t say anything at first, just stared ahead, pretending the leather seat wasn’t making your thighs sweat.

Hayden turned onto a quieter road, lined with tall hedges and empty beach houses, the kind of road people used when they wanted to disappear for a little while.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said softly, eyes still forward. “It’s kind of sweet.”

You swallowed hard. “What is?”

He finally looked at you again — and this time, his expression wasn’t teasing.

“The way you’re trying so hard to be chill around me,” he said. “Like you don’t want me to know how badly you’re feeling this.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The air between you seemed to shrink.

“I’m not—” you started, then stopped, because lying felt impossible when he was looking at you like that.

He smiled again, softer now, something in his face shifting. “It’s okay. I think it’s hot.”

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

“I mean it,” he said, voice dipping even lower. “You, all nervous and flushed in my passenger seat? Kinda the best part of this day for me.”

You hated how good that made you feel. Hated the way your body betrayed you — the way your skin felt too hot, too tight. You clenched your hands in your lap and stared out the window like it might save you.

It didn’t.

Especially not when he said, almost too casually, “What’s your name?”

You told him. Voice barely above a whisper.

He said it back like he was tasting it. Like he might need it later when his head was between your thighs.

“Pretty,” he murmured.

And then — god help you — his fingers brushed your bare knee.

You startled a little, but didn’t move away.

“You okay?” he asked, too smooth, too knowing.

You nodded, breath stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

His hand stayed there, resting lightly, like he wasn’t doing anything. But every nerve in your body was screaming — because you knew what this was. It was permission. It was heat. It was the slowest, dirtiest flirtation you’d ever endured.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said softly, fingers curling just a little. “Otherwise…”

He dragged his hand up, up — over your thigh, beneath the hem of your skirt, slow enough to give you time to say no.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because the tension had built into something unbearable — something electric and desperate and real. You weren’t just a girl with a camera anymore. You were his focus. 

His fingers paused just beneath the hem of your skirt — resting, waiting — like he wasn’t touching you at all, and yet your body knew exactly where he was.

The road hummed beneath the tires. Trees and shadows slid past, but none of it existed now. It was just you and Hayden, your name still warm on his tongue.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not looking at you. His hand pressed just slightly into your inner thigh, like he already knew the answer.

“I’m fine,” you lied, breath catching.

He smirked, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Yeah. That’s what they all say.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of the ache of his touch, the weight of your wanting.

Then, with no warning, he flicked the turn signal and pulled sharply onto a narrow dirt path that disappeared between a thicket of trees. The car crunched over gravel, headlights slicing through the dark. He parked beneath the wide, overhanging branches of a cypress, ocean waves faint in the distance.

The engine cut. Everything went still.

Except your heartbeat.

You turned to him, pulse thudding in your ears. “Why’d we stop?”

He unbuckled his seatbelt with one hand, slow and deliberate, and then turned to you with the kind of look that makes your stomach drop.

“You really need me to spell it out?”

Your breath hitched.

“I saw the way you looked at me,” he went on, voice low, steady, wrecking. “From the second I caught you taking those pictures — biting your lip like you weren’t dying to know what it’d feel like if I touched you.”

He leaned in a little, eyes flicking down to your mouth.

“I’ve seen that look before. But you?” His lips curled into a dark smile. “You’re trying so hard not to fall apart. And it’s turning me the fuck on.”

You didn’t realize how hard you were clenching your thighs until his hand slipped higher, fingers now resting just beneath the edge of your underwear. Barely there. Just pressure. Just presence.

You gasped softly, breath fogging the window beside you.

Hayden’s eyes flicked down, watching the way your chest rose and fell. His hand moved higher, his fingertips now skimming heat and cotton and trembling skin.

He leaned in. “C’mere.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come sit on my lap.”

The words made your stomach twist.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he added, voice gentler now. “But if you’ve been dreaming about this even half as much as I have since I saw that camera in your hands, you’ll stop pretending.”

You stared at him.

And then… you moved.

Wordless. Breathless. Like gravity pulled you toward him.

You climbed over the console slowly, one knee between his legs, then the other, your skirt riding up as you settled onto his lap. The Ferrari’s seat was deep, the leather creaking under your shifting weight. Hayden’s hands caught your hips immediately — firm, possessive, like he’d been waiting all damn night to touch you like this.

You didn’t even realize how wet you were until the pressure of your body against his thigh made you gasp.

He felt it.

You knew he did, because he groaned — low, rough, from the chest.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he whispered, eyes locked on your face. “Already soaked for me.”

Your cheeks burned. You dropped your eyes, but he tipped your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Nuh-uh,” he said, voice thick. “You don’t get to hide now.”

You squirmed, the friction of your panties against his jeans maddening.

He hissed. “Keep doing that.”

You moved again — a slow, desperate grind against the ridge of his thigh, heat sparking in your belly. His hands gripped your ass, guiding your motion, dragging you over him just hard enough to make you want to cry.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Use me.”

You whimpered, forehead pressing into his shoulder, but he wasn’t done.

“You ever ride someone like this before?” he asked, right against your ear. “Still dressed? So fucking needy you can’t wait?”

You shook your head.

He chuckled darkly. “Of course not.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “You’re gonna make yourself come like this, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. Your hips kept moving — slow, tight circles that made your whole body ache. You could feel how hard he was beneath you, could feel the shape of him through the denim, and it made you reckless.

“Say it,” he growled, hand sliding up your back. “Tell me you’re close.”

“I—” your voice broke. “I am.”

“Good.” His hand tangled in your hair, tugging your face close to his. “Then come for me.”

His mouth was right there, lips brushing yours, breath warm and heavy.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Make a mess on my fucking lap.”

And god help you — you did.

Your whole body clenched, pleasure hitting hard and fast, thighs shaking around him as your hips jerked. You muffled the moan against his neck, but he felt it. All of it.

He held you through it, grinding you down just enough to draw it out, to tease the edges of overstimulation. His hands were everywhere — cupping, stroking, soothing and wicked all at once.

When you finally stilled, shaking and breathless, he leaned back just enough to look at you.

“Still think you’re gonna play it cool around me?” he asked, smiling like he already knew the answer.

You gave a breathless laugh, pressing your forehead to his again.

He let you rest there, one hand stroking your thigh gently, the other tracing your spine.

“I haven’t even kissed you yet,” he murmured.

You blinked. Pulled back slightly.

And then… he did.

Slow. Deep. Tongue sweeping your bottom lip before sliding inside, tasting every breathless, trembling part of you. The kiss wasn’t hurried — it was intentional. Like he was claiming it. Claiming you.

When he finally pulled back, he licked your lip like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m not done with you,” he whispered.

And the worst — or best — part?

You didn’t want him to be.

Your head was still spinning when he kissed you again — slower this time, like he wanted to taste what he just did to you.

Hayden’s hand slid beneath your skirt, palm warm against your trembling thigh. He didn’t move higher. Not yet. He just held you there, grounding you in that soft, dizzying afterglow.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “That was…”

“I know,” he said, and you could feel the smirk in his voice. “Didn’t even need to take your panties off. Look what I do to you.”

You could barely breathe, let alone argue.

He slid his hand further — fingertips grazing the wettest part of you through the soaked cotton of your underwear. He stilled for a moment, exhaling a rough sound into the shell of your ear.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

Your breath hitched, thighs twitching under his palm.

“Open your legs for me, baby.”

The words were soft. Not a command, but a request wrapped in velvet — the kind of thing that made your whole body obey before your brain caught up. You shifted in his lap, knees spreading as far as the car would allow. His eyes dropped instantly, fixated on the sight of you perched there, open for him, trembling and wrecked.

He brought one hand to your jaw, tilting your face up, kissing you slow while the other slid beneath the edge of your panties.

Skin to skin.

He groaned into your mouth the second his fingers found your slick folds.

“Fuck. You really came for me, didn’t you?”

You whimpered, hips bucking gently, your body begging for more.

“Look at you,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “All wet and pretty in my lap, like you were made for this.”

You gasped as his fingers dipped between your folds — slow, deliberate, teasing your entrance but never pushing inside. Just tracing, circling, feeling everything.

“Bet you’ve thought about this,” he whispered. “Touching yourself in bed, thinking about me.”

Your breath caught.

“You have, haven’t you?” His voice dropped an octave, a dark rasp that made your toes curl. “In that cute little bed of yours, late at night… pretending it was my fingers instead of yours.”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

He exhaled sharply — like the confession did something dangerous to him.

“How often?” he asked, dragging his fingers slowly over your clit, not pressing down, just enough to make your hips twitch. “How many times have you made yourself come thinking about me?”

Your voice broke. “Too many.”

That made him grin. His mouth ghosted over yours. “Filthy little fangirl.”

His fingers circled your clit again, this time with pressure, and your whole body arched in response.

“Hayden—”

“Shhh,” he soothed, slipping two fingers just inside you — slow, stretching you open while his thumb kept working soft, wet circles above. “Let me make it better.”

You cried out softly, biting down on your lip, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance.

He watched you — eyes locked on your face, drinking in every twitch, every moan, every trembling breath.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, fingers sliding deeper, curling just enough to make your eyes roll back. “God, I wish I could fuck you right here. Want you bouncing on my cock in this seat — windows fogged up, this skirt around your waist, moaning my name so loud the whole fucking beach hears.”

You clenched around him, hips moving on instinct.

“You like that?” he whispered. “You want me to ruin you in my car?”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to form the word.

His mouth was back on your neck — kissing, licking, biting — as his fingers fucked you slowly, working you open while his thumb kept flicking over your clit in maddening little circles.

It was too much. Not enough. Everything at once.

You were panting now, face flushed, thighs shaking in his lap.

“You close again?” he asked, voice like smoke.

You nodded, a whimper breaking from your lips.

“Then give it to me,” he whispered, voice trembling with restraint. “I want to feel you fall apart on my fingers. Come for me again, baby.”

You shattered — legs locking around his waist, hips grinding helplessly as your climax hit like a wave, rolling through you in hot, dizzying pulses.

He kissed you through it — deep and messy, your moans swallowed into his mouth.

You collapsed against his chest, trembling, breathless, and completely undone.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close like he meant it.

After a long, quiet moment, he spoke — voice softer now, but still full of heat.

“I told you I wasn’t done with you.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “You really weren’t.”

He kissed your cheek. “This was just the warm-up.”

You were still catching your breath, body limp against his chest, when you felt it — the thick press of him beneath you. Hard. Unforgiving. Straining against his jeans.

He hadn’t moved much. Just sat there quietly, letting you fall apart in his arms. But now?

Now his hands slid up your back, under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin.

His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re not leaving here without knowing how good you feel around me.”

You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively in his lap — and the friction made you both hiss.

“I want it,” you whispered, the words shaky, your voice barely yours. “Please.”

He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding it in this whole time.

“Say it again,” he murmured, both hands sliding down your spine. “Slower.”

You swallowed. Looked him dead in the eyes. “I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes darkened — something raw and hungry flickering to the surface.

Without a word, Hayden reached for the seat controls and pushed the backrest down, reclining both of you until you were sprawled across the leather, your body draped over his. The sudden movement had your skirt hiking higher, baring the tops of your thighs, your ruined panties clinging to you like a second skin.

He shifted underneath you, unbuckling his jeans with one hand, lifting his hips to slide them down just enough — and then he gripped your hips again, positioning you right over him.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

You did. Your eyes locked, wide and wanting.

Hayden hooked two fingers into your underwear and dragged them aside, baring you completely. His cock nudged against your slick entrance — hot, thick, unrelenting.

He held there. Didn’t move. Just rubbed the head slowly between your folds, gathering your wetness, teasing you both until you were nearly sobbing with need.

“You sure?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yes.”

Still, he didn’t rush.

Instead, he gripped your hips tighter, guiding you down… slowly.

The head pushed inside, stretching you open inch by inch.

You cried out softly — not in pain, but from how deep he already felt. How real it was now.

Hayden’s breath caught. “Fuck, baby.”

He was watching you again — your eyes fluttering, your lips parted, your body swallowing him whole.

You sank lower, his cock stretching you further, your walls clenching around him in slow pulses.

When your hips finally met his, when he was buried all the way inside you, he let out a long, low groan that sounded like it had been building in him for years.

You froze there for a moment, both of you barely breathing.

Then he spoke — voice rough, reverent.

“Feel that?”

You nodded, unable to speak.

“That’s how deep I am,” he whispered. “I’m fucking inside you.”

Your walls fluttered around him at the words, and he felt it.

“Oh, fuck, you like that,” he rasped, hands sliding up your sides. “You like when I talk to you like this.”

You whimpered.

His hips rocked up — just once, deep and slow — and your whole body jolted.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered. “Tight little pussy, soaking wet, wrapped around me like she knows who I am.”

You moaned, forehead dropping to his shoulder.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Ride me.”

You hesitated.

He brought one hand up to your jaw, tilted your face again. “I want to watch you.”

So you started to move.

Slow at first — shallow rolls of your hips, sliding up just enough to feel the drag of him inside you, then sinking back down, gasping at the fullness.

He watched you like he was memorizing it — every whimper, every twitch of your thighs, the way your lips parted around a silent moan.

His hands never left you. One cupped your ass, guiding your rhythm. The other dragged up your spine, holding you close.

And when you started to speed up — moving faster, your thighs burning, your body chasing the high again — he groaned, bucking up into you with a sharp thrust that made your eyes roll back.

“God, you’re so fucking hot like this,” he growled. “You ride like you need it.”

“I do,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He slammed up again, harder. “Need me to fill you up?”

You nodded desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck—say it.”

“I need you,” you choked out. “I need you to come inside me.”

That broke something in him.

Hayden’s grip turned bruising. He took over — slamming up into you with rough, controlled thrusts, his cock hitting deep, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he gritted out. “You feel that? Mine.”

You cried out, orgasm building again — your body a livewire of overstimulation and need.

“Come again,” he growled. “Fucking come on my cock.”

And you did — for the third time, your body convulsing around him, legs trembling, tears pricking your eyes.

He followed a moment later — with a deep, broken groan, thrusting hard once, twice, then stilling completely as he spilled inside you.

You collapsed on his chest, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you there like you weren’t just some girl at a beach party.

Like you were something more.

After a long beat, he kissed the top of your head.

“You good?” he murmured.

You nodded against his chest. “Very.”

He smiled. “Told you you wouldn’t forget this night.”

You laughed, still breathless.

“Nope,” you whispered. “Burned into my brain forever.”

You didn’t move for a long time.

Neither of you did.

The only sounds were your shared breaths — heavy, quiet, full of something deeper than just sex. The windows were fogged to opacity, the outside world forgotten.

Hayden’s hand rubbed slow circles on your bare thigh, your ruined panties still clinging to one side. His other hand stroked up and down your back beneath your shirt, lazy and soothing, like he had no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and real now — no teasing, no heat. Just concern.

You nodded into his neck. “I’m so okay.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, kissing the side of your head. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” you mumbled, breath catching. “You completely wrecked it in the best possible way.”

That made him smile. You felt it against your skin.

He shifted slightly, slipping out of you with a soft groan. Your body clenched at the loss, and you instinctively tightened your thighs — his hand immediately went to your hip.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You sat up slowly, legs trembling, skirt bunched around your waist. Hayden reached for your panties — still tangled to the side — and gently helped guide them back into place, his fingertips light, reverent. Not rushing. Not smirking. Just kind.

He leaned in, placed a kiss on your inner thigh. “Sorry I made a mess of you.”

You looked down at him, dazed and dizzy and glowing.

“Don’t be,” you whispered.

He grinned, his hand still warm on your leg.

You shifted back into the passenger seat, wincing slightly as your thighs pressed together. He fixed your skirt for you. Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. And then he reached for something on the center console.

Your camera.

You blinked, watching as he turned it gently in his hands, flipping the power on like he already knew what to do.

“What are you—”

“Pass me my phone,” he said, nodding toward the dashboard.

Still half-buzzed from the high, you handed it to him, unsure of what he was doing.

Hayden typed something into the screen — quick, one-handed — then held it up.

His phone number. Clear and bold across the glowing screen.

He angled it toward your camera lens.

“Take the shot.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

He gave you a soft smile, the kind that didn’t belong to the Hayden Christensen from magazines. It was real. Crooked. A little shy. But underneath, something else shimmered — something certain.

You lifted the camera slowly. Clicked once.

He held your gaze, voice quieter now — barely a whisper.

“I think you’re the one.”

[silverflameataraxia]

The scenes where Tamlin comes for Feyre or when the debt collectors come to shatter Papa Archeron's knee are written to make Nesta look bad, but really, they make Papa Archeron look bad. He should be protecting all three of his daughters; not forcing them to protect themselves.

These moments are written in the narrative as a means to showcase Nesta's selfishness, but really, they reflect the exact opposite. If Nesta were selfish, she wouldn't have protected anyone. Instead, she proved that she would rather be harmed - she would rather die than allow harm to come to Elain.

The way this narrative portrays these scenes is like Feyre is the only one who matters. Nesta's sacrifice means less because she was protecting Elain rather than Feyre. I see people even say that it's proof of Nesta's neglect of Feyre or her isolating Feyre. Two things to say to that:

1. All legal definitions of neglect hold parents, caregivers, and legal guardians responsible. Nesta is none of those. She's literally only three years older than Feyre.

2. Their mother isolated Nesta and Elain by grooming them and not Feyre. Feyre was largely allowed to do what she wanted throughout her childhood, which, yes, was because of her neglect, but in this case, Feyre's neglect meant that she wasn't being groomed.

Their grandmother isolated Nesta even further from her sisters by using dancing lessons as a means to beat and verbally abuse Nesta.

Nesta and Elain have shared trauma because of being groomed together; Feyre does not share in that trauma. As much as Feyre may want Nesta's protection, she didn't need it the way Elain did. Nesta protected the sister who needed it the most.

I know people will say that Nesta loves Elain and hates Feyre as some sort of proof that Nesta neglected and isolated Feyre, but it's the same with Feyre: she loves Elain and hates Nesta. People always get after this fandom for pitting female against female, but that's what this entire narrative is based on. We're not introduced to Feyre as a character that we're supposed to like based on her own merits. We're supposed to hate Nesta and Elain and love Feyre by default. This entire narrative has a habit of constantly needing to beat Nesta down in order to prop Feyre up.

We're supposed to hate Nesta for not taking care of Feyre when their mother died. Nesta was twelve. A twelve-year-old who had known twelve years of abuse and neglect. Feyre was almost ruined (Rhysand's words; not mine) by a few months of abuse as a young adult. How much more so is twelve-year-old Nesta going to be ruined by twelve years of neglect, grooming, and abuse? But people think that at the age of twelve, she can just throw her trauma to the side without a day of therapy so she can be a mother to Feyre? That's cruel and fucked up.

Then we get to the hunting, which, once again, was due to Papa Archeron's neglect. Nesta was the only one who tried to learn how to hunt, but somehow, she receives more hate for "letting" Feyre hunt than Papa Archeron and Elain, even though neither of them tried to learn. People want to say that Nesta and Elain were "leeching" off of Feyre, but it takes a lot more than hunting for a family to survive and function. Feyre mentions the stews that were going to be cooked for dinner but failed to mention who does the cooking for the family. Feyre and Elain couldn't cook, and Feyre would have given Papa Archeron credit if he had. So, that leaves Nesta who did the cooking that kept the family alive, and she deserves just as much credit as Feyre for it. It was Nesta who chopped the wood that kept the family warm. It was Nesta and Elain who did the household chores (laundry, dishes, cleaning, etc). So much of this basic narrative falls apart with two seconds of thought, and SJM has somehow been writing this narrative for ten years now. Shows you how much thought she puts into these books.

Rhysand wants to roar at Nesta and Elain for failing to protect Feyre, but who has ever protected them? No one or else they wouldn't have been abused and neglected. No one has ever protected any of the Archeron children; it's not all about Feyre. Rhysand refuses to forgive anyone who has caused Feyre to suffer, but what about everyone who has caused Nesta and Elain to suffer? Or does their suffering not matter in this narrative? Feyre may have been neglected, but Elain was neglected and groomed, and Nesta was neglected, groomed, and beat. All the sisters matter, not just Feyre.

And the thing is, Nesta and Feyre are very much alike. They both can be selfless and selfish, they can both be grateful and ungrateful, they can be loyal, brave, courageous, fierce, determined, cunning, and strong, but they can both be incredibly cruel and toxic. I think the big problem is that Feyre is a self-insert for SJM, so she never wants to admit that Feyre has flaws, so she projects Feyre's flaws onto Nesta and then punishes Nesta for the flaws that both characters possess. This is why we get a narrative that punishes Nesta for hurting Feyre's feelings, but Feyre never gets punished for burning the LoA.

The fact that they're so alike is probably why they hate each other so much and why they're always at each other's throats. It's also, unfortunately, why Nesta's strengths and achievements have to constantly be undermined and her trauma invalidated in an effort to reinforce Feyre as the fmc. But I think it's why both characters are getting parallel story arcs with the IC's treatment of Nesta in ACOSF and HOFAS directly mirroring that of Tamlin's treatment of Feyre in ACOMAF.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

mira’s notes: hi everyone feel free to ignore this !! it is just the (unfinished) first scene of the very first hsr fic i almost wrote for none other than dan heng 🙂‍↕️ not main tagging or anything because i am only really posting it for cee SDKJHF but i mean anyone can read idc 😭

wc // warnings: 3.2k // blood and gore and death mentioned, urine briefly mentioned (a guy pisses himself SKHDF), this makes no sense because. well it is only the first scene of what was meant to be a longish fic, a lot of the wording from this i lowk think i reused in later projects so it may seem familiar lol sorry, female reader, this is meant to take place as a planet visited after the luofu but before penacony !!

The Captain of the Lucyke Army was a tall man, his shoulders perpetually set against the harshness of the winds which battered at his back, his hair forever sticking to his pale brow. His uniform consisted of a tan coat — once it was waterproof, but he didn’t bother with such extravagances anymore, not when everything ended up soaked regardless — and a cruel smile, which twisted his formerly-handsome face into something darker and darker as Hava’s Storm raged on. There was a thin, silvery scar on his temple, which he often claimed in between hollow bouts of raucous laughter to be the fault of the Llidans, and sometimes, when he had been on the field for too long, his nose would bleed, randomly and without any real cause.

You could picture it even now, the way it would trickle down his lip, viscous and dark, staining his smile as he lifted his gun and took aim. He was colder than you, possessing a cruelty forged by hardship, and although you often condemned him for it, it was that very cruelty which you wished you had in spades at present. 

“Moon-savage,” the man before you hissed, pressing a blade into the tender flesh of your neck. “I ought to kill you!”

Red streaked through the rough bone-white of his scleras, and the breath he panted into your face smelled of flesh, his opened mouth revealing the mangled mess he had bitten his tongue into. The storm had abated enough that you could hear his every trembling inhale, and although he did not dig his knife into your throat, you were keenly aware of its razor-edge wavering right above your pulse, moving in time with the man’s heaving chest.

A few paces away lay your sword, close enough to grasp it if you tried but far enough that he’d kill you before you could pay him back in kind, which was more maddening than if it were out of your reach entirely. The iridescent blade winked at you playfully as the world flashed white in a stroke of lightning, and your fingers twitched. The small motion was rewarded by a shriek from the man and the sharp stench of ammonia-soaked urine.

“Don’t test me!” he said, his voice shrill and his knuckles grey as he squeezed the handle of his dagger. “Don’t even think about moving again, Lucyke bitch! I know who you are. I know what you are capable of. I’ll kill you if I must, no matter what my superiors say!”

“Your superiors…don’t want me dead?” you said. Already, the rain had washed away the reek of fear which rolled off of him in waves, and for the first time you considered the storm to be more of a blessing than the curse it truly was. The man, who, based on the polished stones fastened to the breast of his shirt, was no less than  a Lieutenant Colonel of the Llidan Army, growled at you, baring his teeth like they were fangs with which he could defend himself.

“That’s enough out of you,” he said before stiffening, his eyes going wide. “Who’s there? Hey! Who’s there? Show yourselves!”

Abruptly he grabbed you, holding you to his chest, the point of his knife hovering dangerously close to your heart. You gasped but did not dare move, knowing that he was in that state of hysteria where he really might snap and kill you at even the slightest provocation. You knew not why he hadn’t done so yet, but you were not so foolish as to question your good fortune, and so instead of fighting you remained very, very quiet.

“Who is it? I’ll kill her if you take another step! Surrender now if you wish to survive. I said surrender!”

The forest was eerily still, and you could feel the man’s heart beating like a trapped mousejay against the cage of his skeleton, hammering against the back of your head as you scanned your surroundings, trying to discern what it was that he was seeing. Thunder crashed on the horizon, and your sword glimmered, which was the only warning you had besides a high-pitched whistling sound as something flew through the air.

“Get out of there!” an unfamiliar voice shouted as the man’s grip loosened on you. You collapsed to the ground, rolling out of the way of a pair of black boots as they thudded past. Crawling towards your sword, you hugged it to your chest, the packed leaves of the ground too slick for you to attempt to stand on your weakened legs. It was all you could do to watch as a man you did not recognize pulled a spear out of the Lieutenant Colonel’s forehead, spinning it in a complicated series of maneuvers you could not hope to replicate before skewering your would-be captor through the stomach.

“Hey, we’ve got you,” a gentle voice said, and then warm, sturdy hands were hooking under your arms and pulling you to your feet. “Are you alright?”

“Whew!” the boy from earlier, the one who had warned you, said. “Good thing you’ve got such good aim, Dan Heng! You could’ve—”

“Let’s not frighten her, Caelus,” the man at your side interjected,  patting you on the shoulder and brushing off your back from the debris littering it. “Nothing happened, so there’s no point in dwelling on possibilities. Miss, we heard your distress signal and came to offer our assistance. Are there any other enemies nearby? If there are, you must tell us as soon as possible, so that we may deal with them at once.”

“Distress…signal?” you repeated, your head spinning, the words leaving your mouth as if through cloth. “No, wait, I didn’t send any of those…” 

“Maybe you don’t remember, but you definitely did. How else would we have gotten it? And, I mean, you were in trouble, weren’t you?” the only girl of the group said. She had eyes like ice, and her  hair was the pink shade of the hazy fog before a cyclone; when she noticed you were looking at her, she beamed at you in greeting. “Hi! I’m March 7th.”

“Commander — Y/N. My name is Y/N L/N,” you said. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“No, we’re the Nameless, from the Astral Express,” the man at your side said. “I’m Welt Yang, and these are my companions. Like I said, we received your distress signal when we were passing by and made an emergency landing to ensure your safety.”

“This is the second time you’re mentioning a distress signal, but I swear to you I sent no such thing. Why would I? It isn’t as though anyone would respond to it,” you said, unable to stop the bitterness from creeping into your tone. March 7th cocked her head, and then she brandished her phone at you.

“How do you explain this, then?” she said. You squinted, lowering your eyelashes against the rain as you tried to make out the dim, unfamiliar code on the screen.

“March, let’s not trouble her with reading that,” Welt said. “If she says she didn’t send it, then she must not have. In the meantime, Miss, have you seen any more of the Lucyke in the general vicinity? We ought to move quickly, so that we can find whoever did call for aid.”

“More? No, why would there be any more? I’m capable enough on my own. My capture was a fluke, a mere accident, but I assure you that is the first and last time I will lose to one of them,” you said.

“It’s not a question of your skill,” Welt said. “It’s just, ah…”

“‘I have been overrun!’” March exclaimed. I cocked my head at her as she clenched her fists by her sides, her eyes clamped shut and her face bowed. “‘If any allies can hear me, come to my aid, or this beast will end me and Llides’s legacy for good!’ That’s what it — woah!”

“Leave at once,” you said flatly, the tip of your sword digging into her frail throat. “It is true that you saved me, and so I will repay that favor by sparing you this time, but my mercy will not extend any further. Leave and do not come back.”

“Wait, let’s discuss this first, Miss Y/N,” Welt said, his hands raised in what he must’ve considered a placating motion but which only stoked the flames of your anger into a blaze that even one of Hava’s greatest storms could not quell. “What is the matter?”

“What is the matter? Let me ask you something in return: where do you think you are right now? Who do you believe you are speaking with?” you said.

“Isn’t this Llides?” March said uneasily, shifting from foot but doing nothing more, obviously wary of the way her life balanced on the edge of your sword. 

When no one spoke to correct her, your jaw dropped, and you were reduced to staring at them in a mixture of amazement and derision. Of all the directions their strange story could’ve taken, this was by far the strangest, and you found yourself at a genuine loss for words as you tried to wrap your mind around it.

“Llides! What sort of a fool confuses this place with that barren, desolate land? No, indeed, you are somewhere else entirely,” you said.

“What? Where?” March said, but before you could answer, someone else spoke up.

“Lucyke.” This final member of the party, who they had called Dan Heng, was more somber than the others by far, his eyes the unsettled, shifting shade of the sea in the summer’s version of the storm, his lips folded into a thin, disapproving line which curved downwards at the corners. He held a spear by his side, the point still rusty with the blood of the man he had killed, and though he did not brandish it at you, the threat was implied with only its presence. “Isn't that right?”

“Yes, good sir, that is the case,” you said, and though you did not sheathe your sword as you knew he must’ve wished for you to, you did pull it away from March, leaving it pointed only in the group’s general direction — your version of a compromise. “You have aimed for Llides and landed upon its green moon; if you know enough to differentiate between the two, then you know why you are not welcome here.”

“Wait a minute,” March said. “If this is Lucyke, then does that mean that that man…he was the one who sent the signal?”

Your eyes flicked to where already, the pallor of death was creeping over the body of the Llidan soldier, and you chuckled humorlessly.

“And, presumably, I am the beast he sought to escape from, even as he took me hostage,” you said. “What a pity. A signal he thought would save him, and it spelled his death.”

“Uh, Mr. Yang, we’ve got a problem,” said the one you presumed to be named Caelus. He had a charming, boyish quality to him, and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he used his hand to shade his phone screen from the rain. “Himeko texted the group. Looks like the impending storm is too dangerous for us to attempt warping again, especially given the damage we took while landing, so we’re stuck here until it passes.”

“Any allies of Llides are not welcome here,” you said immediately. “Whether by death or ‘warping’, it matters not, but regardless, you will leave this place at once.”  

“We are no more allies of Llides than we are allies of Lucyke,” Dan Heng said. “And you can try to fight us if you’d like, but there’s four of us and you are alone. Do you think that you have any chance at winning?”

“I can kill at least one of you before you kill me,” you said. “This I am sure of. And maybe I will not win, but it does not seem to me that you will risk such a conditional victory, so you will either be sloppy in your movements or decisive in your surrender.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t push her,” Caelus said before saluting at you with an inordinate amount of pride. “She seems like she’s telling the truth. Alright, ma’am! We’re off to, uh, die! Since we can’t warp and all.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “I pray that you didn’t actually believe that would convince me.”

He exhaled heavily. “I did have my hopes.”

“Like Dan Heng said, we weren’t trying to declare our allegiance when we landed here,” Welt said, ignoring March’s eye roll and Caelus’s grin alike. “In our line of work, we encounter objects such as Stellarons with regular frequency, and when we heard the word beast in the distress call, we imagined that it might be referring to one of the monsters that frequently accompany such cancers.”  

“The only monsters on Lucyke are our invaders, and the only cancer I’ve ever heard of is Llides itself,” you said, trying to discern if they were telling the truth or not. Naturally, they seemed earnest enough, but then again, lying wasn’t such an esoteric art as to be ruled out entirely.

“Well, we’re good at beating up monsters, so if that’s your problem, then you definitely want us around!” Caelus said.

“Yeah!” March said. “Please don’t kick us out of here. We’ll kill as many monsters as you want!”

“But it would be nice if you paid us a bit,” Caelus said, although he hastily clarified before you could even react: “Not that you have to!”

“I think she’s being metaphorical,” Dan Heng said. Unlike the others, who let their guards down more and more with every second of your inactivity, he remained vigilant, his eyes scanning the forest, his shoulders straight and his spear never wavering. You found it admirable enough to take note of — albeit not admirable enough to warrant outright praise — and tucked it away in the back of your mind where you kept all such curiosities.

“Although that may be the case, March and Caelus are telling the truth. We’ve aided in solving issues for planets before, and if you tell us the full situation, then we would be happy to assist Lucyke with its troubles in exchange for a place to stay during this storm,” Welt said.

You weighed his suggestion carefully. On the one hand, it seemed to be a fair exchange for all involved, which lent veracity to it, but on the other, they could have made up the entire situation in order to infiltrate the Lucyke government — the Llidans had resorted to such tactics in the past, and you would not put it past them to attempt to do so again. For all you knew, these so-called Nameless weren’t even associated with the famed Astral Express at all, and behind their carefully maintained facades of generosity lay snakes with Llidan mouths curled into venomous smirks.

“You don’t believe us,” Welt said when you did not speak for some time. “That’s understandable.”

“Aw, man,” Caelus said, hugging himself and frowning. “This rain is making the cold even worse than it would be otherwise, and I totally hate it! I just want to go inside somewhere. I promise we’re telling the truth!”

“I would like to accept what you’re saying without question. Believe me, Lucyke has never had anything in the way of allies, so the thought of even just one is…thrilling, to say the least,” you admitted. “But you understand the situation. You came here, whether intentionally or unintentionally, at the request of a Llidan. For all intents and purposes, you have aligned yourself with them. Even letting you live is against my directives, but I am willing to do that. You should take what you can get and devise some method of escape before I alert the rest of the military as to your whereabouts.”

“We killed that Llidan army man,” Dan Heng said, pointing at the corpse with the butt of his spear. “You watched me do it. And yet you think that we are their unquestioning allies?”

“To be fair, she had her back to him,” Caelus said.

“You thought he was a Lucyke,” you said. “Forgive me for saying this, but no, that’s not entirely confidence-inspiring. Anyways, even if you did know who he was, that wouldn’t be the most convoluted scheme the Llidans have come up with in their quest to take over Lucyke. Either way, such an action is meaningless in supporting your cause.”

“Wait,” March said. “Why don’t we just show you the Astral Express? That’ll at least prove that we’re telling the truth about who we are.”

“There’s nothing like a big train to remove your doubts,” Caelus said. “You’ll love it! And you can meet Himeko and Pom-Pom. Himeko is cool, but Pom-Pom is, like, super special. I bet they’ll really impress you, and then you’ll have no choice but to let us stay!”

“One day, I would like to speak with as much unearned assurance as you do,” you said.

“Huh?” he said. 

“Your willingness to show me this Express of yours does ease my worries a little,” you said, waving him aside dismissively and addressing the entire group. “No matter how advanced Llides is, they could not even attempt imitation of such a mystical entity. From my knowledge, anyone less than a Genius would fall woefully short.”

“The Express is powered by a fallen Aeon,” Welt said. “Indeed, very few can come close to that.”

The pitch of his voice teetered forwards, like you were a frightened foxdeer that he was attempting to coax without frightening into aggression or flight. Perhaps it would’ve worked if you were such a creature, or if you had those sensibilities, but if that were the case, then you would long ago be dead. You could not base your decisions on such fickle concepts as affinity and tenderness, not if you wanted to survive the war against Llides.

In the end, it came to Dan Heng. Lightning split the sky, leaching the world of color for the briefest instant, yet uncannily and without explanation, a deep blue continued to churn in the depth of his eyes, which rested upon you with a cold, detached conviction. Worse still, at that exact moment, a familiar voice which you had not heard in some time whispered a warning in the back of your mind, trailing spidery fingers along your neck and forcing your back to straighten at the breathy sound.

Careful, now. That man isn’t frightened of anything. He will not hesitate to raise his spear against you if he must.

You swallowed, and unbidden, a question brimmed to the surface of your consciousness, trembling and small and unsure. And if he does?

The voice could not laugh, of course, for it was a figment of your own imagination and therefore not capable of amusement at your expense. However, if it could’ve, then it definitely would have chuckled as it delivered its final verdict.

You will die.

[vivonnn]

Velvet & Veneer poly relationship with reader! —headcanons

DISCLAIMER! The poly relationship is only targeted towards the reader and NOT between the siblings!

Also, this was an idea by @yuckfqr in a post, I hope you like it! -Gender-neutral reader

If you have any requests about these two, feel free to send them!

✩ They both have their unique way of showing just how much they love you. Veneer is very open about it, he will tell you at least 100 times per day as well as cover you with kisses, leaving many, many marks of his green lipstick.

✩ Velvet, on the other hand, is more reserved and shows you her love in small actions. A kiss and a hug, as well as some encouraging words from her, does equal the amount of the almost overbearing Veneer.

✩ Veneer winks at you from the stage while Velvet throws you kisses. They both make you blush like crazy.

✩ If something happens, such as someone bullying or hating you online (or even publicly), Velvet does the hate speech and probably cancels the person while Veneer comforts you. Velvet might not show her love as much as Veneer, but she will go beyond mad if someone hurts you.

✩ They are open about dating you at the same time, and they are proud despite some of the backlash. But being as famous as they are, more people accept it than don't, no matter what.

✩ Veneer was in fact open to the idea of him and Velvet both dating you, while Velvet refused with all her might. She didn't want to share you with anyone else, let alone her own brother. But seeing that neither of them managed to win you over and you clearly liked them both the same, she was willing to compromise, and surprisingly, it worked.

✩ Both of them are absolutely cuddly people. So when they are tired and fussy, they always cuddle with you, so you are caged in from both sides.

✩ People found out about you dating Velvet and Veneer when they both kissed your face everywhere, leaving both green and red lipstick. It was on purpose, of course. They wanted to cause the biggest scene in pop star history. And they did.

[romanticatheartt]

Anti Amren crowd are the most unserious people ever lmao