#You don't have to worry your response is good too! ^-^

[evilminji]

And like? What are they going to DO? This is clearly getting the trigger happy circles raring to go. But? It's not a "punch it" problem so much as "gently corral the wandering sheep with swords" problem. The KID clearly isn't responsible. He's just the focal point. And frankly?

They could do a LOT worse then "good kid, trying his best, has no idea what to do with his new found army of fanatically loyal skeletons". He's LAW ABIDING. Has a strong moral code. Even BATMAN isn't worried. (A lie, Batman is always worried. Batman has Bat Anxiety. He just doesn't think this is a problem YET and hopes it never will be.)

So like? Can they buy him a ranch or something? Move the skeletons AWAY from city centers? Idiots keep attacking the soilders. And no amount of explaining "don't DO that. You WILL lose. Possibly your life." Deters them! Ffs, GOVERMENT idiots are making noises about attacking the soilders!

That would be a catastrophically bad idea.

What the kid NEEDS? Is a nice, soothing, low stress environment. Where he can get governance and ethics lessons, finish his college degree, and keep his new friends out of trouble. He's already made it clear he has no interest in USING them for anything. Short of planetary defense? Let the kid relax with a smoothie!

(And like? Imagine THAT? The Glowing Skeleton ranch. Middle of nowhere. With the Nice Young Man and his army of the damned. They'll help you plow the fields! Not too bright, those skeletons. But they clearly mean well. They'll hold your yarn for hours while you knit. Listen while you talk. Play tea party.

The Justice League just needs them to, you know, not go a wandering. And yeah, folks can get that. They look pretty spooky. You get used to it. John borrows some to stock shelves, ever since he threw out his back. Helped me find my keys!)

Cause I mean? If SUPERMAN and WONDER WOMAN ask? And the Nice Young Man "seems polite"? Isn't it the right thing to do? He's just trying to keep his Skeletons out of trouble! Whole lot of responsibility for someone so young. It must be like having a crowd of toddlers!

Fic prompt #23

Dpxdc

Did you have in mind a plot where the protagonist goes back in time to save the future? What if Danny had become the King of Ghosts, but due to various problems in his human life, he had a rough time adjusting to his new social position? Despite this, Danny is deeply loved by his subjects—especially the skeleton army, who adore him after suffering under the tyranny of Pariah Dark. So, what if the army traveled back in time to serve Danny and free him from his human problems?

The Justice League is very concerned about the mysterious appearance of skeletons that seem to be obeying a teenager.

[sweetcalebb]

Another request if that's okay🙂‍↕️ so Caleb is nosing through MC's books (again) and he finds some queer romance books? And he's confused as MC has never said anything about being queer🫡

Caleb reacting to you being queer ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

a/n: again, if this isn't what you envisioned, feel free to comment, DM me—just let me know!

wc: 1k

Caleb should've learned his lesson the first time he snooped through your books. But how could he resist when the first time he did it, you ended up reenacting one of your smut scenes? The opportunity was just too good to pass up.

You're in the bathroom, completely oblivious to the snooping Caleb in your room.

He's grinning ear-to-ear, ecstatic to see what other kind of filth you read. He bends down, running his finger across the spine of your books while he hums to himself.

Then Caleb stops.

He picks out whatever book his finger landed on and takes it out. Caleb gives the book a once-over. A barely-there look before he starts flipping through the pages.

"What other kinda stuff do you imagine, Pips?" he murmurs to himself, leaning against your bookshelf as he skims every few lines.

So far, no smut.

But he does find something else.

"She" and "I".

You're reading a first-person point of view with a male protagonist. That's what he assumes, anyway, as he continues to read through the pages. But he almost reaches the end of the book and there's still no smut.

Caleb pouts, a little disappointed.

"So you're not a complete fanatic." He lets out a small breath at his own teasing, about to put the book back in place when he pauses.

He glances at the back.

Caleb doesn't know why he decides to read the summary. He just does. Then he sees it.

Caleb looks closer, like maybe he read wrong, but he didn't. The protagonist isn't a "he". The protagonist is a "she."

Caleb's brows pinch together.

Did he misunderstand something? You'd never said anything. Had you..?

He's turning questions in his head, trying to make sense of it all.

Then you walk in and he gets an eerie feeling of déjà vu. You smile at him as you walk past, barely looking at the book he has in his hands.

Sure, last time was mortifying, but now you know you can trust him with that part of your life. So you don't really question him. Just sink down into your mattress.

"What do you have there?"

Caleb’s gaze shifts between you and the book. He opens his mouth, brows still furrowed like he's going to ask something, then he closes it again.

You quirk a brow at his lack of response. "What?" you laugh. "What are you reading this time? Monster smut?"

Caleb widens his eyes. "W-What?" he nearly chokes. "You read that stuff too?!"

You shrug. "No, I only have like, one book."

Caleb makes a mental note to ask you about that later. "Uh. Well, no... it's not monster smut."

Your smile falters slightly. Why was he being so serious? Your eyes dart down to the book, but you can't make out which one it is.

"Okay… So… What did you find?"

"It's..."

If you wanted to tell him, you would’ve, right? He stutters, "Uh… it's just.." But he still can't find the right words, so he simply shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

You stand up and walk over to him. What did he find that could possibly be worse than all the things you read? "Caleb, what is it?"

You snatch the book from his hands.

Then it makes sense.

"Oh."

You feel your chest tighten as you look back up. Not because he's angry. But because you can't tell what he feels at all. He doesn't look angry, or disappointed, or shocked. Just.. nothing.

"Is that—I mean—is that personal to you?"

You hear the question he won't ask and you feel your chest squeeze again.

You fidget with your book, absently running your nails through the pages. "Yes."

Silence.

Agonizing, deafening silence.

Why isn't Caleb saying anything? Why is he just... looking at you? You hate it. It's making your head spin with worry.

"Are you mad?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Caleb seems to finally notice the weird look he has. His eyes widen and he instantly steps towards you, hand reaching out to grab yours.

"No! No, not at all! Not.. mad.. Just.." He sighs, giving you a gentle squeeze. "Upset."

"Because I'm—?"

"No! God, no!" Caleb groans, running a hand down his face. "I'm digging myself a deeper hole. Sorry, no, not because of that. I just wish you felt safe enough to tell me sooner."

You let out a quiet breath, the tension finally bleeding out of your shoulders. "Wait, so you don't mind that I'm queer?"

"No," Caleb repeats, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. "I just.. I'm selfish."

"Selfish?"

You still feel your heart pounding, but a soft smile is tugging at your lips now.

"Yeah." Caleb's lips purse with a small pout. He doesn't even mean to do it.

"I wanna be a part of every aspect of your life, Pips. I want to know every secret, every detail…" He sighs. "I want to know everything about you."

"But you're really not mad at me?"

Caleb laughs. "Never."

"Okay."

You stare up at him, your chest all warm and fuzzy. And you think this is it. That everything is fine because you finally said it and Caleb doesn't mind. But the small tremble in your lip takes you by surprise.

Everything went fine, so why do you feel like crying?

"What?" Caleb breathes, pulling back when he sees the small shake of your lip. "Did I say something wrong? I didn't mean to, Pips—"

"No," you whimper, shaking your head. "I don't know why I feel like crying. I just—I thought it would be this big thing but it wasn't. And you were so sweet, but I was so scared—I just—" You stop yourself, biting your lip to stop yourself from actually crying.

Caleb softens, tugging you in by your hand and wrapping his arms around you.

"It's okay. You're safe."

You let out a weepy laugh, nuzzling into his chest and letting a few tears melt into his shirt.

"So… Do you wanna talk about this?"

You shake your head. "Not yet. But it feels nice that you know."

Caleb nods. "Okay. Wanna watch a movie? Your pick."

You scoff and playfully nudge him back. "Of course it's my pick. You're in my house."

Caleb puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, no need to get all snappy."

You laugh, blinking away the rest of your tears. "Thank you, Caleb."

"Of course."

—

go to my tag list if u want to be tagged every time i post a new piece :)

tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @asiatic-apple @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @starryeyed-apple @heartyluv @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @browneyedgirl22 @beaconsxd @crimsonrubie @schnittled @saturnsringss @anthrokiaera @floofycookie @0nyxvesper @sylusqt @calistaxoxo24 @crimsonsylus @alyssac9 @frostydragonsstuff @bidisasterforevermore @politefawn @destinysrequiem @haleaf @goochfiddler99 @calebsbabyapple @peachlycheetea @lioria @colonelpantysniffer

(sorry if i missed anyone </3)

[whore-ibly-hot]

Hii ! I really like your work, especially with Joey! >< I really wanted to know what the layout of events would be if reader was a doctor (kind and sweet, but with a strict character) who came to the village in the summer to enjoy her vacation. And one hot day when Joey was working, he lost consciousness because of the heat, and at that moment the reader was not far and saw it and hurried to help and woke up, Joey told her "are you an angel? Am I in heaven?" I hope it won't make it difficult for you🤍Anyway, thank you very much

Aw! This is so cute!

I think once Joey realized you weren't an angel, he would immediately feel embarrassed. A tough farm boy like him passing out from some heat? He ought to know better.

Once he gets fixed up and out of the hospital, he'll ask you all sorts of questions about your job. Do you treat animals too? He wouldn't mind having you around the farm more to help out.

Turns out, you treat everyone in town, even the kids. The idea of you treating a kiddo with such kindness, Coddling them when they are sick, makes you even more perfect in his eyes.

Suddenly, he finds himself 'sick' more often than not, laid up with a fever or complaining of aches. One day; you make a joke about him getting sick only to see you, and he laughs right alongside you. However, your next joke worries him.

"Gonna be tough for your future missus to take care of such a sick guy all the time." You had offhandedly joked, putting away the thermometer. His face went pale at the thought. Of course! He'd been pretending to be all pale and sickly, how could you see him as a provider! Suddenly, he's all better, even finishing work at the farm so quickly he can come help you lift crates of medicine and whatever else you need to the storage room of the office.

At town functions, he's rough housing with kids, but is sure to call out and chide any unsafe or playful behavior, hoping that you'll see what a responsible and safety minded man he is.

Eventually he works up the courage to ask you out, and when you accept he's over the moon. Admittedly he has a really hard.time picking out a spot for your date. You're a doctor, you don't wanna go swim in a gross lake, but maybe you don't wanna eat junk food at the greasy spoon diner either. It might be best for you to come up with the date location.

Boys in town who might also be into the pretty doctor quickly find out through a not so passive aggressive chat he has with each one that it'd be a good idea to back off of you. He could frame them for something, though he asserts this by saying he'd 'hate to get you in trouble.' If they don't listen to that warning, next time Joey needs a farm hand, they will mysteriously get into an accident with one of the farm animals. Joey promises next time the injuries will be bad enough even you won't be able to help them.

Overall, he really does think its a match made in heaven. The towns golden boy and a sweet lil' newcomer doctor. You really oughta stay, the towns head doctor recently got accused of sexual misconduct and fled town! There's an opening in the county and in his heart, and you wouldn't deprive the people of what they need, would you?

[paracosmic-murdock]

days of the new avengers* lives

episode seven: pets

you and yelena watch french movies that aren't dubbed, so you ask valentina for a french tutor to learn. alexei buys pets for the team. bucky training bob goes wrong.

careful who you assemble

pairing: new avengers* x fem!new avenger!reader

tags/warnings: new avengerz assemble, found family kinda, bullying john (maybe affectionately), mockumentary, sapphic reader, eventually mel gold x reader, using y/n as little as i can, this one has some feelz there around and lots of platonic bucky x reader that could be misunderstood (and was by certain someones), reader and bucky get caught in the void!!, tony stark mentioned, reader's position on civil war revealed, past wanda x reader (romantic + unrequited) mentioned, mentions of wanda's death, russian as sokovian, reader likes dogs, more to be added bc i'm going with the flow tbh

3.3K words

✰ days of the new avengers' lives masterlist

✰ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

Yelena and you had started a new tradition: movie night.

Your newest idea was to watch French movies. Thus far, you have seen Les Misérables, Persepolis, and Benedetta. Your difficulty to understand it well enough was stealing the magic from it, so you considered something.

Something that would require blackmailing and dedication.

As nobody else ever joined you —in all honesty, you wouldn’t want it any other way— you could put your plan in practice without much trouble. That way, you could also watch sad movies, cry in French, and not worry about John's mocking looks.

Because John is kind of an asshole and he finds your emotions funny.

“Can you imagine if John was there when we watched La La Land?” Yelena laughed.

“I think he would’ve cried, too,” you replied. “Unless he and Olivia are doing well.”

“Wait, they're talking like that?”

You looked at her, amused. “Are they talking like that? You bet things have been happening in John F. Walker's routine.”

“Things?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Things indeed,” You gave her a knowing look.

“Wait, what does she even know about my routines? I only go pick up my son!”

“Which son?” Ava asked with a smirk. “Your second-born in the making?”

“Shut up, Starr,”

“If it's a girl, call her Ava. If it's a boy, Bucky.”

“Beep off.”

Yelena and you grinned at each other as you worked on your conversation exercise to introduce yourselves. The greetings, deciding whether to be formal or informal when talking, wondering how it would be to make up new names were probably the most fun you've had in months.

The French lesson lasted two hours, and Thérèse, your teacher, even left you homework for the next class. You two were getting ready to do it when the elevator rang to announce Alexei's arrival from a mystery shopping session.

“Team!” he yelled, almost distressed, catching your attention immediately. “I brought gifts!”

“Dad, you scared the beep out of me!” she complained and stood up, looking at the ungodly amount of pets he was carrying. “What's all that?!”

“I brought pets!” Alexei exclaimed, putting the tanks and cages on the floor. “You take the yezh.”

He encouraged you to walk towards it and pointed at the hedgehog in its cage. “What?”

“This is Josh,” he said. You looked at the camera in awe. “I named her Josh because it sounds like yezh. But it's female.”

“Yezh is hedgehog in Russian,” Yelena explained.

“I know that,” you replied. “I meant what the beep.”

“Dad, why did you bring animals here?”

“For you to learn responsibility,” he said.

“I already have Sweet Cheeks and I'm very responsible, mind you.”

“And I basically co-parent Sweet Cheeks and Alpine,” You shrugged. “I- I can't-”

He smiled and put his hand on your shoulder. “You will be an excellent hedge mother. Where are the others?”

Soon enough, Bucky, Bob, Ava, and John were in the common room.

“I don't think this is a good idea, you know?” Bucky mentioned.

“Bob will have the lizard,” Alexei instructed, pointing at the very small leopard gecko in its tank. Bob approached it on the table and started looking at it carefully. “And Ava will have the fish.”

Ava made a disgusted face at the half a dozen of cardinal tetras, but accepted her unfortunate fate.

“John, the hamster will be yours,”

“Beep no, Alexei!”

He frowned. “Do you prefer the dog?”

“We will be returning those, Alexei,” Bucky said. “We can't have so many animals here. There's enough work with Yelena's guinea pig and Alpine when we go on missions.”

“No problem, we'll have them for a week only unless you decide to adopt them,” He grinned. “And I keep the dog. The pet person said this gets along with cats.”

Ava frowned. “I'm sorry, how did you manage to get that dog? I'm pretty sure that's a ridiculously expensive Charles Spaniel here.”

“I got a credit card from Valentina.”

“Uh, can you take care of a dog, Dad?” 

“We'll find out,”

You shook your head. “No, we won't. I take the dog. John takes Josh. You take the hamster.”

“What are you doing? Why are we entertaining this beep?” John questioned.

“I'll name them Maple,” You smiled and took the puppy in your hands. “Is it a girl or a boy?”

“Female.”

“C’mere, my baby,” you whispered to the puppy and then left her on your lap. “I think I'm keeping her, though.”

Bucky shook his head. “We're not keeping any of them.”

“Beep off, Bucky. I literally fought for Alpine to stay,” you reminded him. “And, calm down, you won't have to be Maple's uncle.”

He rolled his eyes.

“The gecko's name is gonna be Syrup,” Bob commented with a smile. “Like maple syrup.”

Your face lit up. “That's so cute! You are Maple's favorite uncle.”

Bucky huffed and stood up, leaving the common room.

“It's okay, baby, Uncle Bucky is just super grumpy. He'll get over it. Let's find Alpine before he takes her to his room!”

“See? The pets were an amazing idea.”

John, Ava, and Yelena groaned in annoyance.

“That beep hedgehog is nocturnal.”

Ava snorted, smiling amusedly at the camera. “Sorry for that, Walker.”

“At least we aren't She-Hades and her dog. She's the one who'll have it hard.”

“Totally,” she agreed. “And I'm not particularly planning on taking care of those fish. If we go on a mission, the only person willing to take care of them is most likely to be on said mission with me or in charge of her own torment. Or worse, of all the pets: Maple, Syrup, Alpine, Sweet Cheeks… I can't add to the reason she goes insane, that's what John is here for.”

“We can never have a civil conversation, can we?”

“If you want one of those, you're looking at the wrong place to have one.”

“Yeah, I should know better at this point,” John rolled his eyes. “Anyway, let's go now. Alexei wakes up at ten.”

“Me and John are going to return our pets,” Ava announced, pointing at the tank and cage John was carrying. “Don't you snitch on us, Chad.”

Bucky, John, and Alexei believed that your lack of presence in the training room meant they could work with Bob themselves.

Since the mission had been very smooth and Bob had been great, they thought he was ready for ruthless fighting techniques. To teach him moves so he could later apply his brute force into them. To improve.

However, they were failing miserably.

“I beep told you that it would be too much!” John yelled at Bucky. “How many soldiers have you trained, huh? Huh?!”

Bucky groaned in annoyance. “Oh, and how many did you train?”

“Like, dozens!”

“Were any of them enhanced, Walker?!”

“What difference does it even make?! We're not training Sentry right now, this is Bob! You want him to turn into Sentry suddenly and use enough strength to kill us in one punch? No, right? Then stop pushing too much!”

“You are acting like he's Hulk.” Alexei said.

“Actually, emotion does trigger transformation,” Bob noted. “Y/N and I found out the bad way.”

“The bad way?” John frowned.

“Yeah, you don't wanna know,” he replied, trying to look unphased.

“What? You punch her?” Alexei asked.

Bob shook his head. “I wish it was something like that,” and he sighed. All three looked at him in acknowledgement and wondered how you had the guts to leave the training room without giving away the fact that you spent hours in the Void only to help Bob, as if it was nothing. 

But Bucky knew. He knew why you did it: because you cared. Because you had been where Bob was: taking that ‘chance’ to be part of something bigger, maybe to help in a way that mattered, not in control, having something anyone would call a gift being closer to Hell on Earth, on the wrong side before earning a choice, redeeming yourself as if you could make up for everything you've done one day. And, if you could do something to help ease Bob and support him in his journey, you would. You would go to lengths beyond you if you knew it would help him. Bucky knows that too well because you've done the same for him.

The connection you and Bucky share goes way beyond the people and spaces that link you. It goes beyond Steve and beyond Wakanda. It is there in key moments: being HYDRA's favorite toys to break, you leaving everything behind so you could be there for him despite not knowing him—not really at least, realizing that the only thing keeping you from solitude and insanity was having each other, facing the loss of the people you loved the most together, crossing the line of morality to protect each other… the things you have done for him and he for you, the things you are still willing to do without hesitation; that is what connects you.

“You guys don't have to do any of this, you know? Just because I felt like training today doesn't mean I had to.”

So, maybe it was the Bucky that loves you and wishes to protect you above all, or maybe the Bucky that was jealous at the thought of his best friend going through all that trouble for someone else. Like, is he not the special one anymore? 

He doesn't know which option was more embarrassing for him.

“Yeah, I honestly think we have to be heavily trained first,” John noted. “But I'll talk to Y/N.”

“I'll help,” Bucky said. “We can do this, Bob.”

“Are you sure? I know you knew what I meant when I said I hurt her worse than physically. I don't want to do that to you.”

Bucky raised the corner of his lips in a kind, small smile. “You won't hurt me, Bob. I'm not scared of you, I trust you.”

Chad congratulated them for the meaningful shot and left.

“He totally shouldn't have trusted me,” Bob said with embarrassment. He looked anywhere else to avoid the camera, eyes landing on Syrup.

He sighed.

“I guess I should learn to be in control.”

“Shit, fucking shit,” you murmured to yourself, running into the training room and closing the door behind you in hopes for Bob's relapse not being bad enough to spread much further to the point it could exist or be seen outside the room. “Fuck…”

You threw your bag anywhere and ran into the shadows, getting ready to spend the possible worst couple hours of your month there.

Once you were inside, you appeared in your room. The one you got used to by now.

And you knew the drill: ignoring your family's bodies, turning the man crouched and about to find you under the bed to stone before he saw you—before he took you, getting under the bed and in front of a smaller yourself, wiping your ten-year-old version's tears, and kissing your own forehead. “Vse budet khorosho, detka.”

Telling yourself that ‘everything will be alright, little one’.

It hurt, but not enough to harm all that much.

When you opened your eyes again, you were in your old room at the Avengers Compound. This one? It was new, and you already hated seeing Tony that last time and sensing the disappointment in his voice he tried to hide as he said goodbye.

“I heard it's too hot in Wakanda,” He shook his head. “And that there's not much to do.”

An eighteen year-old you grinned. “Actually, I think there's a lot for me there, you know? Like… too much happens in this fuckass city. A little peace will do no harm. And you can call me, you know? I can always come visit if I'm welcome.”

“Are you one call away?” Tony asked, a bittersweet smile on his lips.

“As long as nobody throws my ass in jail,” You saw yourself shrug. “I'm sorry for… leaving. I feel like staying out of it was choosing the side of indifference, but I never wanted to be against anyone. I was never sure what was the right thing, I don't think I'll ever be, I just know I never wanted to hurt my family. That includes you and Steve too.”

“And Wanda.”

You pressed your lips tightly. “She got dragged into another war. When she was gaining as much normalcy as an Avenger can get, Lagos happened. This happened. I don't blame her, even if you do.”

“But it hurts,” Tony pointed out the thing you knew too well.

“She got away,” you murmured. “I thought we had had enough war for a hundred lifetimes, that we could just leave and start over. She thought otherwise, so… now she's gone and overthinking it is of no use.”

“I'm sorry about this. I shouldn't have let this happen, let it come this far.”

You sighed. “We are all at fault, Tony. I'm sorry about it, too. I'm sorry for leaving.”

“But you're still a kid. You don't have to be sorry for choosing yourself for once.”

That was the problem. You weren't choosing yourself—you were choosing Bucky.

You were choosing the man who killed his parents over him and he knew it better than he would've wanted to. He knew why. He knew you saw in Bucky the darkness left by the light HYDRA stole from both of you. He knew you enough to catch it from the moment you backed off and decided to leave them to fend for themselves instead of signing the Sokovia Accords or choosing teams.

Tony felt your betrayal, you knew he did. And he saw that silent awareness in your eyes as you let him live in your lie. He knew how it killed you to leave it all behind, so he chose someone other than himself for once and just went with it to spare you.

And, if he knew that would be the last time you saw each other, he would have hugged you before closing that door without looking back. You, however, knew that it was probably the last time, but didn't have the guts to stop him.

You just cried without realizing it before blinking and appearing in Westview that day, when Wanda's hex was finally lifted and she chose to leave instead of picking you. She rejected your love like you knew she would, because you meant little compared to the grief Vision left behind. That day haunted you because you could have done more. You could have insisted she stays instead of blaming her for leaving you. You could have offered comfort instead of telling her she would lose the one person who loved her through everything, that not even Vision knew her like you did, that nobody would love her like you always have, that she was making a mistake. You could have had some dignity and respect instead of making her feel guilty for trying to find her own path. If you hadn't been so hard on her, you know she would have stayed.

Because she loved you, too; maybe not like that anymore. But she loved you. And your words were what pushed her to the edge that one day, what caused the detrimental solitude that drove her mad.

And now she is gone, and you have made peace with it despite who you turned into the moment she walked away from you, but you could never forget her or the mark she left on you.

So you turned around and, when you did, you saw Bucky breaking down. You saw him look at himself as the Winter Soldier, telling Steve he was his mission, hitting him as if he were a punching bag in a rage room, hearing his best friend say he would never hurt him back because he was with him ‘til the end of the line, whatever that meant. So you ran to Bucky like you have learnt to do by force of habit.

“Buck, Bucky, look at me,” You got in front of him, interrupting his view. “I'm here. I'm right here. I'm…”

Suddenly, the void perished. Bucky was still on his knees, crying in silence, a vacant stare you hadn't seen in a while.

You didn't look away, you didn't care for it.

“Bucky,” you whispered, meeting his eyes. “It's over. You are here, you are safe, you are safe with me.”

His breathing was ragged, soon turning into desperate gasps for air. You only held him, driving his head to your chest so he could mimick your breathing and his ear could catch your heartbeat.

Steady, alive, there.

You hushed him and caressed his hair. Gently, softly, careful, with a fondness that grounds him, especially when he has felt it for long enough to remember he is too privileged.

Just then, he held you tightly as if you could slip away any second. As if the moment he let go of you, you would go somewhere more important. As if he was just lucky that you stumbled onto him first.

But it wasn't like that, because Bob was at ease already. Mel, appearing like God himself had summoned her, was standing beside him and staring at the whole thing.

And when you looked up and noticed it, you caught no one other than Chad there filming the scene of you and Bucky.

“Chad,” you called him. He cut immediately and showed you a thumbs up, like congratulating you for the show. “Listen to me very carefully because I will not repeat myself: if you don't delete that video right this fucking second, I will kill you. I am not saying this just to say it, I am not joking, and this is not a warning. This is a threat, and you might as well report this to HR or even the police, because I am dead serious.”

“Delete it, Chad,” Mel ordered. “The views or whatever you want, they're not important. This is.”

Once Chad had shown her that he did indeed delete the footage of you calming Bucky down, Bob escorted him out of the training room.

But Mel stayed for some reason she ignored and witnessed first hand how deep your connection with Bucky was. She realized that you couldn't live without each other, and that whatever she was feeling and whatever you might feel too, if anything at all, would never be anywhere as great.

“I'll be heading out,” she informed, taking a step back.

“Mel,” you called her and, against her better judgment, she stayed. “Thank you.”

Mel didn't know for sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't you thanking her. Maybe the delusional in herself wanted you to tell her that it wasn't what it looked like, asking if she could wait for you and talk. But it wasn't that, which only meant that you saw her as her actions, not as her.

All she ever wanted was for anybody to see her. The Mel she is outside of Val's assistant, the Mel she might be.

She thought you didn't.

But you certainly did, just not right this moment where the only person who had never left you, who had always accepted you, needed you the most.

Mel also valued that. Seeing you being so caring made her like you even more, made her wish so bad she could get that version of you for herself.

But does she have to be a broken thing to get your attention? Or would just Mel be interesting enough?

[snowflkes]

hello! i'm new to the whole concept of radical feminism. i've detransitioned a month ago and i'm now a tomboy-ish girl. the idea is that my partner is trans ( mtf ) and ever since, i couldn't rlly feel the same abt her. sorry if i'm getting a bit too personal, but i genuinely feel lost and i have no one else to talk abt this... she's a nice person and all, but i do think that our opposing views will end up clashing and ruin things between the 2 of us. i did try to break up with her, but she ended up guilt tripping me instead, saying things along the lines: "i did all of this so u could stay", "u were the only person who i deemed to be special" and what not. i can't remember precisely. i feel lost. it's not just the fact i started to question things more regarding the whole concept of transness and how i started to see my ex-community's wrongs, but also the fact that i started to lose feelings for her. they weren't rlly that present to begin with. i do feel bad for dragging her into this. i was trans by the time we got together, so i felt understood by her, but i couldn't rlly be happy as trans. that was the problem. no matter how much i tried, i ended up failing regardless at feeling happy with myself. i later realized it was mostly due to my insecurities that have been present for a good amount of years. i felt as if i failed to be a girl, so i had to be a boy instead. dysphoria isn't bothering me as much ever since i ended up detransitioning bcs i have no reason to keep trying to be a boy, so there's that. the question is: what should i do? i do constantly worry abt her mental state, so i feel stuck, knowing that she'll suffer if i end up breaking up with her. do i just continue on distancing myself away from her? again, i don't want people to take it the wrong way. as i said, she's a good person, but i genuinely think she's a bit too "in her own echo chamber" ig u could say. i don't want to make people feel bad for me. as i said, i just feel bad for dragging her into all of this, but i can't help my confusion and dilemmas. i'm not sure if u r going to answer due to how personal it is, but again, i'm not going to force u to respond. i'm just desperate, that's all it rlly is. idk what else i can do. no anonymous bcs yeah, I'M THAT DESPERATE.

HELLO HELLO it's completly fine for u to reach out and ask for help so don't worry !! 🫶

what matters the most are your feelings i'd say, even if your partner might feel hurt by your decision — staying in a relationship that no longer feels good or too complicated isn't the coolest thing u can do for yourself. their mental health isn't your responsibility, staying only out of guilt won't solve anything and it could possibly make you both suffer even more. she shouldn't make you feel bad for growing as a person, whether is means detransitioning or gaining a new opinion on your identity. do what you feel is right but remember that prolonging a relationship you don't feel safe or satisfied in could harmful so please be careful 🙏

[crownmemes]

Medical Professional Sentences, Vol. 5

(Sentences for doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You're losing a lot of blood right now."

"I just need to borrow a bit of your blood."

"Why are you walking? You were in a coma!"

"Have you ever helped a patient recover memories?"

"Do you promise that I'm going to be okay?"

"How would you like to save a life?"

"How badly are you hurt?"

"In a moment, you'll begin to be light-headed, then drowsy."

"I liked it better when you couldn't talk."

"You're a medic! Act like one!"

"How long will this take to heal?"

"I told you that doctors make the worst patients."

"You're drinking too much."

"You must be healed by now, on the outside at least."

"Don't you die on me! You hear me?"

"Human blood is very hot. On a cold, humid morning, you can see it steam."

"You look a little pastey. Perhaps you shouldn't have checked yourself out of the hospital?"

"Do you know what a stomach wound does to a person?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. Not with the morphine."

"I know I'm supposed to tell you that it'll be okay, but I don't know if that's true."

"Everything's going to be okay. I'm not going anywhere."

"What's happening right now is medically impossible!"

"Hey, don't go to sleep. You probably have a concussion."

"A panic attack is a miscued fight-or-flight mechanism. You think it's a heart attack, but the body is just sending oxygen to organise that need it for defence."

"Let me give you some free medical advice - stop smoking those things!"

"Have you actually be discharged from the hospital?"

"Are you a good doctor?"

"I got into medicine to help people, so trust me when I say that helping you helps me too."

"Am I going to die?"

"Doctors are expert liars."

"How are you still alive?"

"You have nothing to worry about. This is a clean bill of health."

"If you tried to stand right now, could you?"

"Jesus christ, do they let any idiot into medical school?"

"You're not responsible for diagnosing anyone. That's not your remit."

"I can hardly wait until I get you sedated."

"Are you hallucinating?"

[veiloflamentation]

The woman froze when she felt the blade against her skin. She should have known better, the likes of her kind aren't taken kindly. A curse forever burdened to her. She couldn't move, in fear of the very wrong move could get her killed, and all of the people that depend on her would be doomed.

Vitalia spoke softly, keeping her eyes on the ground, "my name is Lady Vitalia Botezatu. I am not from these parts. I traveled from far from Timișoara. I am not interested in taking any innocent life, if that concerns you. I assume you know what I am, already? My circumstances aren't like the power hungry, starving parasites you must be used to slaying. I will forever be grateful for those who rid this world of my kind. Monster hunters, angry villagers, I'm grateful for them all, but I am not the one to be slain. I have people to take care of as well, if you are willing to hear what I have to say, before piercing my heart and dooming them to the ones who ought to be slain."

"please.." she murmured, "if I die now, all will be lost for them. At least let me tell you who are in need of assistance, where to find them, and then you may do as you wish to me as long as you save them, send them my regards if you must and tell them in their name, I perished. It's too late for me, obviously, but not for my people, they deserve a chance. If you don't believe me or won't hear me out, then let me go and I will travel away from your people to get help elsewhere, or at least plan my next steps to get them help. You needn't worry about me, nor my intentions. I'm fine feasting on the creatures of these woods. I've done so for a long time up until this point."

"I beseech you, sir... spare my life for now. I will cooperate."

Closed starter @askadrianalucardtepes

The night was as cruel as ever. It howled every night since the day Vitalia turned. It would almost scream at her. The cold was no longer a concern for her skin, as it had long paled since the bite. It certainly was not easy escaping, but she had chosen a good hour. Just as her aunt, cousins, and servants were awoken. She swore to the humans she would get the help they needed. Letters weren't enough to encourage a hero to find the estate in Timișoara, so it was high time she made her move.

Vitalia walked through the forest, holding up her embroidered dress. She can't recall when she left, and worried how many nights she had seen. How many times she had to quickly find shelter from the sun, how many times she's had to help herself to a deer or wild boar. She wondered if her people were alright without her, knowing all they've been through and what they may go through without her there to delay any blood parties.

Guilt eats her from the inside, like the festering parasite she once considered vampirism to be.

Upon first sight, she would seem to be a noblewoman. Hair carefully tended to, pearls adorned within the strands, playing on the hairnet. It was slightly loosened up, given the length of her travel, but miraculously still kept together. She wore a dress fitting for a woman of her status: gold, red, pure white. Embroidery she had a hand in the fabric before her escape. It was a bit heavy to walk around in for several hours, especially with her tight heels. Her toes were nearly squeezed together as she walked. The wrong shoe size was an inconvenient punishment, called by none other than Varujan. If she weren't locked in coffins or had other cruel punishments, her eldest cousin knew the best ways to harm Vitalia for her rebellious nature. Her inability to accept who she is. What she is.

Vitalia let out a pained cry, falling onto her knees. She lost her footing, causing a sharp pain to spike in her ankle. Enraged, frustrated, Vitalia began to dig under the hem of her dress to furiously yank the heels off her feet. She threw them at a tree with a hiss and another loud cry. What followed her the jewels on her hands, thrown across from her. Her hands found her hair, furiously and desperately trying to undo parts of her hair that was tightly snug before. Pearls were ripped out of her hair in the process of this struggle to undo her hair.

[into-the-milgramverse]

Fuuta crash out when

(don't mind the tags, i'm talking to fuuta)

[itsclydebitches]

Something I don't think we talk enough about in discussions surrounding AI is the loss of perseverance.

I have a friend who works in education and he told me about how he was working with a small group of HS students to develop a new school sports chant. This was a very daunting task for the group, in large part because many had learning disabilities related to reading and writing, so coming up with a catchy, hard-hitting, probably rhyming, poetry-esque piece of collaborative writing felt like something outside of their skill range. But it wasn't! I knew that, he knew that, and he worked damn hard to convince the kids of that too. Even if the end result was terrible (by someone else's standards), we knew they had it in them to complete the piece and feel super proud of their creation.

Fast-forward a few days and he reports back that yes they have a chant now... but it's 99% AI. It was made by Chat-GPT. Once the kids realized they could just ask the bot to do the hard thing for them - and do it "better" than they (supposedly) ever could - that's the only route they were willing to take. It was either use Chat-GPT or don't do it at all. And I was just so devastated to hear this because Jesus Christ, struggling is important. Of course most 14-18 year olds aren't going to see the merit of that, let alone understand why that process (attempting something new and challenging) is more valuable than the end result (a "good" chant), but as adults we all have a responsibility to coach them through that messy process. Except that's become damn near impossible with an Instantly Do The Thing app in everyone's pocket. Yes, AI is fucking awful because of plagiarism and misinformation and the environmental impact, but it's also keeping people - particularly young people - from developing perseverance. It's not just important that you learn to write your own stuff because of intellectual agency, but because writing is hard and it's crucial that you learn how to persevere through doing hard things.

Write a shitty poem. Write an essay where half the textual 'evidence' doesn't track. Write an awkward as fuck email with an equally embarrassing typo. Every time you do you're not just developing that particular skill, you're also learning that you did something badly and the world didn't end. You can get through things! You can get through challenging things! Not everything in life has to be perfect but you know what? You'll only improve at the challenging stuff if you do a whole lot of it badly first. The ability to say, "I didn't think I could do that but I did it anyway. It's not great, but I did it," is SO IMPORTANT for developing confidence across the board, not just in these specific tasks.

Idk I'm just really worried about kids having to grow up in a world where (for a variety of reasons beyond just AI) they're not given the chance to struggle through new and challenging things like we used to.

[chase-solidago]

So you found a dead body in the woods

The worst thing you've worried about, going on hikes, happens. This happens often, in the grand scheme of things. It's always joggers and dogwalkers and hikers. My unlucky day came on October 24, 2022.

So what do you do when you find a dead body?

Look in the other direction and take a breath. Panic wont help you or them.

If you are comfortable, approach them and try to help. If not, it's okay. I was unwilling to approach (they looked real dead) and my 911 operator was 100% totally supportive and okay with that.

Walk a little ways away. There is no reason why you need to keep staring at them. It's okay. Seeing a dead person is really wack!

When you've caught your breath, call 911. My first thought was "Oh god, I don't want to talk to cops." and, good news, it's not cops! 911 responders are different people. They are trained to talk to you, to reassure you, and to help you. They are there for you. They understand you are freaking out. They are kind and patient.

Your new buddy, the 911 person, will help you figure out where you are, exactly. They have access to your location via cell-tower and GPS, but if, like me, you were off-trail (oops), they might need your help navigating to you. I offered to also send a photo, and he provided an email, which he received immediately. I deleted the photo I took right away.

Hang out on the phone with your dispatch friend. They're going to want to keep in touch with you as the paramedics approach. Are you freaking out by chattering too much? Are you freaking out by being dead silent? Both are okay! Apparently, my panic response is to become Super Midwestern Chatty. I was able to make him laugh, which I count as a win.

Holler to the paramedics. My paramedics came deep into the ravine-filled woods, about six men, steering a rolling bed thing. We shouted at each other until they made it to the body. It would have been funny, watching them fumble along, if it wasn't so serious.

Get out of there! The paramedics don't need anything from you. They're busy doing their job. They shooed me back to the trail and to the parking lot. I didn't have to go anywhere near the body.

Meet cops in the parking lot. In my situation, the cops didn't want anything from me. They were just picking their noses in the parking lot while the paramedics did the real work. The cops said thanks for helping, while covering their bodycams, because they're pigs.

Go eat donuts. Christ, that was a lot. Let yourself comedown and get some sugar to kickstart your system.

Feel good that you gave a family closure. Yeah, that sucked. Yeah, your therapist is going to hear about this. Yeah, next time you come to this location, you're going to need a friend with you. But you did the right thing. You'll never know their family, but know that you gave them closure.

[phantomrose96]

Okay I have a story.

So my birthday is this Sunday (May 26th). My mom ordered some presents for me but one of them (an Etsy purchase) was seemingly stuck in transit and might not make it on time. I tell my mom all good, no worries. She gets in contact with the seller. After a long delay in response they get back with "Right we'll fix it!" It ships, tracking label and everything, good to go! ETA May 22nd (yesterday.)

During the work day I check the tracking and it says it's been delivered in/at mailbox! I double check with my mom "hey, is it mailbox size?" because if not, I don't want it sitting at the front door where anyone walking by could snag it.

She says "it's definitely NOT mailbox size." Okay. I text my neighbors in the building "Anyone seen a package delivered? It's a birthday gift from my mom and I wanna make sure it gets inside!" Success! Floor 2 David (not to be confused with Floor 1 David) had brought it inside. Inform my mom. All good!

I stop by home briefly around 4pm, because yesterday was hot-hot and I just installed my window A/C that morning in the living room, and according to my cat cam my stupid cat hasn't spent a single second in the climate controlled living room and is, instead, voluntarily baking herself elsewhere so I'm like "great" and hop on my bike to go home (10 minute ride) to check on her.

I get in the building door. Patches is crying from the top floor because she heard me. I maneuver my bike in the front hall. The ugliest fucking 6-foot-tall cat tree(?)/totem(?)/statue(?) I've seen in my entire life is just. Standing there.

My first thought is "What the fuck is that." My second thought is "Oh fuck that is for me." I look around at the floor in case there's perhaps anything else that might, in fact, be the gift.

No. Me and Cat Pole.

It's taller than me. I turn it around to face me and its face is painted and this is, in fact, uglier than it looked from the back.

Um.

Patches is crying. So I just haul it up to my level. MAYBE it was supposed to come with twine that I wrap around it (and hide its face from the world) for Patches to scratch. Maybe this is a prank. Maybe this is an inside joke, because when my mom moved into her current house the neighborhood gifted her some ugly-as-hell totem that apparently, by tradition, each newest-comer to the neighborhood is required to have and display in their window so maybe this is a very good riff on that.

Patches rubs against it. She's not afraid of this horrid facsimile of her kind.

Great.

Meanwhile SHE'S fine and the condo is a little toasty but totally liveable so I'm like "Good, cool, you're not baking. You're having a good time. Enjoy your new sister, I guess, I'll see you later."

I go back to work because this is a problem for later me.

After work, after my run, after whatever, I get home and it's like 8:00pm and Patches is so happy to see me and the totem pole is still just. There.

I text my friends like "so a bday gift is here from my mom and it's the Biggest Ugliest cat pole I've seen in my life. Is this a bit? Did my mom go 'that's so ugly haha! send!' Maybe she genuinely found it cute. How do I navigate this." My friend Sarah has the good advice to maybe text my mom neutrally like "Got the cat pole!" and feel the waters whether my mom is like "Isn't it ugly? 😂" or "Hope Patches likes it! 🥰"

My mom goes to bed early so I don't do any of that yet. Problem for tomorrow me.

This morning, Patches wakes me up for breakfast. I get her situated and I'm staring at the fucking Cat Pole again. I wonder if my Mom's been wondering all night what I thought of it.

I take a picture. I text her.

Okay.

I get on call with my mom. I ask for clarity that the ungodly horrid thing is NOT my birthday gift and is in fact a mix-up from the seller who sent me this instead of my actual gift. She's wheezing between words. She thinks I'm being too charitable for the amount of Absolute Fucking Ugly this is. I have to gently talk her out of using the word "monstrosity" while messaging the seller asking what the hell happened here.

I tell her I need to apologize for harming her dignity with Floor 2 David, who thinks this fucking thing is my mom's idea of a great birthday gift for her to-be-28-year-old daughter.

My heart goes out to the poor soul who did actually order this cat totem and is lacking it on this lovely day.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

I think the reader's response to this post is probably going to either be "That's incredibly minor" or "Holy shit YES I'M ALSO PROUD", depending on people's personal experiences with academia, but:

Today I am incredibly proud of one of my students.

In the interests of disguising identities, let's call them Ceri. Ceri is one of my third year undergrads (meaning their final year, for anyone unfamiliar with UK uni systems.) They transferred to us last year, and within two weeks I was giving them the contact info to get to Student Services and get themself screened for ADHD; they have some mental health struggles, but I clocked pretty quickly that they STRUGGLE with procrastination, and punctuality, and attending 9am lectures in particular. Naturally, as is the way of my people, it took them a further four months to remember to go to the screening. Lol. Lmao. Rofl, in fact.

But, they did it eventually! Their screening lit up like a Christmas tree at the ADHD section, and they got a free laptop and optional one week extensions and a study support worker named Claire. This has helped tremendously, and although mental health + until-then-unsupported ADHD meant their academic profile had slid sideways somewhat, with the new tools available and a couple of resits they passed the year and hit this year running.

Until, that is, the last fortnight.

Now, I take them for a Habitat Management module that has two assessments: an academic poster presentation before Christmas, and a site-specific management plan in May. Naturally this means we are at that happy point in the year for the poster presentations. I give out the briefs at the start of the year, so they've had them since October; I've also been periodically checking in with them all for weeks, to make sure they don't have any major burning questions. The poster presentation was to pick a species reintroduction project, pull the habitat feasibility study out of it, and then critique that study; Ceri chose to look at the hen harrier reintroductions proposed for the southern UK. All good.

Which brings us nicely to today! Ceri's presentation is scheduled for 2.30. At 11am-1pm, I am lecturing the first years on Biodiversity, while Ceri is learning about environmental impact assessment with a colleague I shall call Aeron. This means we are separately occupied during those same hours.

Nevertheless, Aeron messages me at about 12.

"I think Ceri needs to see you after your lecture," he writes. "They're panicking, I genuinely think they might cry. I'm worried. Are you free at 1?"

I say I am. At 1, I get lunch and sit in the common area; Ceri comes to see me. To my personal shame, imagine all of the following takes place while I stuff my face with potato.

Now: this part is going to be uncomfortably familiar to anyone who has ever tried higher education with ADHD, especially unmedicated. It certainly was for me. All I can say is, I never had the courage to take the step here that Ceri did.

"I have to confess," they said quietly, and Aeron was right, they were fighting back tears. "My mental health has been so, so bad for the last fortnight. I've left it way, way too late. I don't have anything to present."

"Nothing at all?" I asked.

"I've been researching," they said helplessly. "I found loads on the decline of the hen harrier. But it wasn't until last night that I finally found a habitat feasibility study to critique. Generally... I've been burying my head about it, and it just got later and later. I thought I should come in for Aeron's lecture, and I should at least tell you."

This part is a minor thing, right? But honestly, I remember being in the grip of that particular shame spiral. I never did manage to tell my lecturers to their faces. I just avoided. I honestly can't imagine having the courage it took them to come in and tell me this, rather than just staying home and avoiding me.

"I think..." they said hesitantly, "I know I can submit up to a week late, for a capped mark. I think I need to do that, and apply for extenuating circumstances. But then I'll have both Aeron's assignment and yours due at the same time."

Which meant they would crumble under the pressure and likely struggle to pass both; so me, being as noble and heroic as I unarguably am, stopped eating potato and said, "Let's make that plan B."

(It was good potato. I am a hero.)

So, we made plan A: I moved their timeslot to 4.30, giving them three and a half hours. The shining piece of luck in this whole thing was that this was the crunch time assignment - if it had been Aeron's, they'd have had to try and write a 3000 report in that time. But for me, all they had to write was an academic poster, and those things are light on words by design. We found them a Canva template, and then we quickly sketched out a recommended structure based on the brief: if it's habitat feasibility, look at food availability, nesting site availability, and mortality risks in the target release site. Bullet point each. Bullet point how well the study assessed each. Write a quick intro and conclusion. Take notes as you go, and present the poster itself at 4.30.

"You think I should try?" they asked doubtfully, looking like I'd just asked them to go mano-a-mano with a feral badger.

"If you run out of time, so be it," I said. "But your brain is trying to protect you from a non-existent tiger. That's why you've procrastinated - it's been horrible, and you've been shame spiralling, and your brain is trying to shield you from the negative experience; but it's the wrong type of help for this situation! So while you're sitting there working on it, hating life, every time your brain goes 'This is hopeless, I can't do it', you think right back 'Yes I can, it just sucks.' And you carry on. Good?"

"Good," they said. "I'm going to mainline coffee and hole up in the library. Enjoy your potato."

And then, of course, I had to go and watch the other students' presentations, so that was the end of me being any help at all. I spent all afternoon wondering if they were going to manage it, or if I would be getting a message at 4.25 telling me they'd failed, and would have to submit late and hope for an EC.

And Tumblrs

Tumblrs

Let me FUCKING tell you

They turned up at 4.15, fifteen minutes early, wearing a mask of grim, harrowed determination and fuelled by spite and coffee, and they pulled up that poster and started presenting and yes, okay, I'll admit their actual delivery was dramatically unpolished and yes, they forgot to include the taxanomic name for the hen harrier on the poster and yes, fine, I admit that there were more than a few awkward moments where they lost their place in their hastily scribbled notebook but LET ME FUCKING TELL YOU -

They smashed it. It was well-critiqued, it had a map, it had full citations, it had a section on the hen harrier's specific ecology and role in the ecosystem, it had notes on their specific conservation measures. They described case studies they'd read about elsewhere. They answered the questions we threw at them with competence and depth. There was analysis. All that background research they'd done came right to the fore. They were even within the time limit by 15 seconds.

You would never have known they'd produced it in three hours, from a quivering and terrified mess fighting the bodily urge to dehydrate via tear ducts. After they left, the second marker and I looked at each other and went "So that was a 2:1, right?"

I caught up with Aeron downstairs and he was beaming. Apparently Ceri had seen him on their way out, and had gone over to talk to him. Aeron said the difference between the Ceri of this morning and the Ceri of then was like two different people; in four hours, they'd gone from their voice literally breaking as they admitted the problem, ashamed and broken, to being relaxed and happy and smiling.

"I reckon I've passed," they apparently told Aeron, pleased. "Maybe even a 2:2. There's things I wish I'd had the time to do better, but I'll be happy if I passed."

They won't know until late January what they got, because we're not allowed to release marks until 20 term days after hand-in, and the Christmas holidays are about to hit. But I'm really hoping I can be there when they're released.

But mostly, I'm just... insanely proud of them. I cannot tell you how happy I am. And I know, I know, obviously this is not a practice I would want to see them do regularly, or indeed ever again, and it only worked because they were fucking lucky with the assignment format, but like... when life is just punching you in the face, and you hit a breaking point... isn't it nice? That just this once, you pull off a miracle, and it's fixed? The disaster you thought was about to ruin you is gone? To get that relief?

Anyway. Super super proud today.

[ccsainzleclerc5516]

You’re My Baby Too

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: none

You'd think that the second pregnancy would be a breeze. You already know everything about how it goes, how to prepare, what to expect, but in your case, your second pregnancy was dreadful.

First trimester, horrible nausea, you spent half your time over the toilet with Lando holding your hair. Your baby boy was so much bigger than Isla it made your back hurt like crazy all the time, and the worst thing of all was that your baby boy didn't wanna come out.

You prayed you wouldn't give birth before Lando finished the season, so when the season ended you were relieved. But then your due date passed, and nothing happened. Then five days passed after your due date, nothing again. 10 days after your due date - the baby just doesn't wanna come out.

You were frustrated, exhausted, and tired of being pregnant. You just wanted to be able to see your feet again and be able to get up off the couch without Lando having to pull your hand.

"It's because you make such a good home for him he doesn't wanna come out, love." Lando tried to calm you down in a nice way, not even realizing that he irritated you with that because he's been saying that for the last 10 days and your nerves have become very thin hearing it.

"I swear, if you say that one more time.." You barked rolling your eyes at him while holding your still very pregnant belly.

"I'm sorry, I'll shut up.."

“Thank you.” You glared at him.

He didn't hold it against you for your brazen response because he understood that it had become too much for you. Lately, he's been walking on eggshells around you because everything has been annoying you, and he didn't want to be the one to contribute to that.

When the twelfth day passed since your due date, you realized that too much time had passed and you even started to worry a little that something was wrong. So Lando decided to take you to the hospital, where you very clearly told the doctor that you weren't leaving the place until you gave birth.

You thought that by some miracle, as soon as you stepped into the hospital, labor would start and you would just pop the baby out and everything would be over in less than two hours just like it was with Isla, but of course that wasn't the case with this baby.

"I think we have no other choice but to induce the labor." The doctor said.

"Okay, how long does it take?" You asked. "Is it like natural labor or?"

"Induced labor can last from a few hours to a few days, it depends. It's most often completed within 12 to 18 hours from the start of the procedure."

"Oh my God" You sighed in despair with tears in your eyes and Lando immediately squeezed your hand to offer you at least some comfort.

"Does it hurt more than a normal birth?" Lando was very concerned about how painful it would be for you. While you were giving birth to Isla, Lando was of course by your side, and even though it was much shorter and easier, he was still terribly shaken to see the pain you went through.

"I don't want to discourage you and scare you right from the start, but many women have said that induced labor is more painful."

And boy oh boy was it painful.

When they gave you the drip to induce contractions, that's when the real agony began. The drip makes contractions stronger and more frequent and you can't even begin to explain what you'd compare that pain to.

You were sweating.

Crying.

Gripping the sides of the bed and Lando's hand, which at one point you thought you were going to break.

You honestly felt like dying. What was supposed to be the most beautiful experience of your life was quickly turning into a nightmare.

Lando was heartbroken seeing you like this. He was putting cold compresses on you, hugging you, kissing you, comforting you, begging you to endure this.

"I'm so sorry baby, I wish I could go through this instead of you. I'm so sorry."

He didn't leave you for a second, except when you caught a 5-minute break from the contractions and managed to close your eyes for at least a moment and calm down. Lando said he had to go to the bathroom.

He lied actually. Instead he went to the hallway outside your room where his parents were patiently waiting. By the look on his face, Cisca and Adam could see that Lando was not well and that he himself was traumatized.

Lando didn't say anything, he just hugged Cisca and buried his face in her neck, soaking her shoulder with tears.

"I'm so fucking scared for her. It wasn't like this the first time." Lando cried quietly.

"Oh honey, y/n's going to be alright, I promise you. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but soon this will pass and you'll be going home with your baby." Cisca comforted trying to lift his spirits. "Honey, you need to get yourself together, alright? She needs you right now and you need to be there for her."

When labor finally began after 14 long hours, you were running out of strength. You were so exhausted that you weren't sure if you would be able to push the baby out.

"Push y/n, push!" The doctor encouraged.

"I c-can't" You cried breathing rapidly. "Lando, I can't do it.."

"Come on baby, you can, I know you can. Just a little bit more and it's done, I promise. You've got this" He was pushing your hair out of your face, holding your hand, and holding your leg at the same time.

"Come on, push, push! I can see the head!"

Finally, the baby's cry was heard and soon the baby boy was on your chest. As soon as you saw him, all the pain instantly vanished.

He was so perfect. So worth it.

Lando couldn't contain his emotions as he rested his head on your shoulder, carefully observing his baby.

Later that day, when everything had calmed down, Lando was still there by your side. He couldn't be separated from you nor did he want to. His gaze shifted between you and the baby watching you both sleep peacefully.

He was tired too. He didn't really remember the last time he slept, but he knew you had it worse than him anyway, so he didn't even think of complaining.

"Lan?"

"Hey, love" His face lit up when you opened your eyes. When he saw you smile, it brought energy back to him. He took your hand and pressed a kiss to it. "Did you get some rest?"

"I did, why didn't you?" You asked him when you saw the huge dark circles under his eyes and the same clothes from the day before yesterday. "Baby, please go home, I know you're exhausted too."

"The only way I'm getting out of here is with you two."

You didn't want to argue with him because you knew it was pointless. You were just grateful that he was there and that he was yours.

"My pretty, pretty girl. I'm so proud of you." Lando said softly caressing your cheek and looking into your tired eyes. "I love you so much you know that, right?"

"I know, I can feel it. I love you too, so much." You say before kissing him. "Where are our kids?"

"This little guy is sleeping here without a care in the world."

"And Isla? She didn't come with your parents?"

"No, I told them not to bring her because I knew you'd get too emotional if you saw her, and I wanted you to rest as much as possible."

"You should've told them to bring her, I really miss her and I can't wait for her to meet her brother." You said, but you could still see the worry in Lando's eyes. "I'm fine, Lan, I promise."

"We're done with the kids. Our family is complete now."

"Lan.." You chuckled.

"No, I'm serious. I never want to see you go through so much pain again. It's been so hard to watch you like that and not be able to do anything and I'm not putting you through it again. "

"It was worth it tho. Look at him, he's so perfect. I'd do it all over again for our baby"

"I know, I know, but you're my baby too." No matter how many children you have, his protective attitude towards you will never change.

"Oh, love.." You pulled his hand to get up from the chair and come sit on the bed next to you so you can cuddle up next to him.

"I can't wait to take you home, both of you." He said quietly kissing your forehead.

You rested your head on his chest, knowing that wherever you are, as long as he's there, everything is fine.

[nochepsicodelica]

You wake up from a nap that went on a little too long, only to see that Toji still isn't next to you in bed. It's dark already, and when you check the time on your phone, the screen reads 10:14. You see light underneath the bedroom door and get up, dragging the blanket along with you. When you open the door, there Toji is, sitting on the couch, watching TV with his hand in a bag of chips. You peek at him from the hallway entryway and watch as he puts another chip in his mouth.

"Hi," Toji says, not the slightest bit oblivious to your eyes on him. His gaze shifts to you and the big, puffy blanket you have draped around you. "How'd you sleep?"

You don't answer, but instead start making your way towards him, the blanket tailing behind you as it drags on the floor. Five more steps and you're right in front of him. Without a second thought, you're climbing onto his lap and making yourself comfortable. Your big blanket covers him, as well as his bag of chips, now, too.

"Still tired, mama?" Toji asks, when you bury your face in the crook of his neck. You grunt, affirmatively, in response, tightening your arms around him. "That's how you answer, now?" He asks, chuckling when you grunt, again. "I'm rubbing off on you. You sound like a bear."

"Why didn't you come sleep with me?" You ask, your voice quiet from being underused.

"I went into the room to check on you and you were knocked out. Even got some cute pictures of you drooling, and you still didn't wake up."

You whine, annoyed at this revelation. "Not cute at all. It's like you don't even love me," you mumble, turning your face away from him, your cheek now positioned on his shoulder.

"Love you enough to keep an album full of these pictures."

"What? Toji." You briefly turn your attention back to him.

"There's eighty in there. Well, eighty-three, with the ones I got today."

You sigh, dramatically, and rest your cheek on his shoulder, again. "I have nothing more to say to you. Goodnight."

You can hear the smirk on Toji's face when he says, "'Night."

In the short amount of time that you slept on Toji, he was witness to yet another one of your dreams. He's been around for plenty of them. Some were nightmares, others just random dreams that made you jolt awake with a jump scare. He's even been around for the good ones that cause breathy renditions of his name to spill from your lips. This one was just weird.

Toji felt you stirring and watched as you nuzzled into his shoulder. He listened in on your nonsensical thoughts and grinned, amusedly, at the randomness. You sounded worried as you mumbled things about your eyes and how you wanted to keep them, and then something else about changing your mind and not being ready. He had no time to wonder what you weren't ready for, because you woke up and you looked scared.

You sit up on Toji's lap and blink a few times as you look around. "Toji, do my... my eyes?" You question, not finding offense in the way Toji looks like he's trying not to laugh. You're still very much concerned about your eyes.

"What about your eyes, ma?" He asks, his gaze darting after yours as you keep looking around.

"Do my eyes still work?" You ask, still panicking on the inside.

"I don't know. Do they?" he says, only further adding on to your fear. There's a small crease between your eyebrows, making you look conflicted. Your expression goes sad when you look away from Toji.

"Ma, wake up," Toji says, pinching your cheek a few times, while wearing a teasing grin on his face. "Look, if you're actually scared, we can check." You really need that confirmation, so you give Toji your full attention. "What's this?" He asks, tapping the scar that strikes his lips.

"Your handsome, sexy, all you can eat, full course meal of a scar," you mumble.

Toji deadpans and tilts his head, furthering his unamused expression. "Your eyes are fine."

"Test me, again. Pleaaaase?" You beg, giving him a soft smile and puppy eyes.

He sighs and gives in, no fight put up against you, whatsoever. "What color are my eyes?"

You hum as you lean in to examine the subject more closely before coming to your conclusion. "The most handsome bobansome, beautiful, crispy green apple, shade of green."

Toji scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief. "See? Your eyes are fine. On that note, you're banned from sleeping on me."

You gasp, dramatically, as if he offended you. "Aren't you the one always manhandling me so that i'm sleeping on top of you? And during our afternoon naps, you put my leg over your hip. And when I try to get up, you--"

"Okay, you're not banned. Jeez." You outsmarted him and it shows through the way he subtly clenches his jaw. "If you like sleeping on me that much, just say so."

You narrow your eyes at him, before pushing off of his chest in an attempt to get off of him.

"Whatcha doing?" He asks, holding your hips down so that you can't move.

"Going back to the room," you say, trying to peel his hands off of you, to no avail. "I would like to sleep on our bed, now, Toji."

"Then, tell me that and I'll take you. What are you doing pawing at my hands, trying to get them off of you?" He takes one look at the involuntary lift of your lips and already knows what's going on. "Oh..." he chuckles. "You a grumpy little bear, now?"

"Don't talk to me," you grumble, huffing childishly and turning your attention away from him.

"Aren't you the one always calling, saying you just wanted to hear my voice while i'm working? And you get goosebumps all over when I talk directly into your ear. And when I don't--"

"Stooop," you whine, leaning forward and burying your face in the crook of his neck, again. Your arms wrap around his neck and your thighs squeeze his waist. "You're not fair," you mumble, into his warm skin.

"Yeah, i'm so cruel to you, huh, baby?" He says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, a soft smile lingering on his lips when you hum out a little "mhm" in response. He moves his bag of chips aside and turns off the TV, before wrapping the blanket around you and tucking the excess away, so that he doesn't trip over it as he walks. With ease, he stands up from the couch and starts towards the bedroom, with his lump of a blanket clinging to him.

[incognit0slut]

A little death

Softcore In which you provoke his jealousy, and he learns a lot more about himself.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 8.3k…. yeah Content: Jealous spencer, bratty reader, dom!spencer, fingering, edging, overstimulation, squirting again (do NOT look at me i am just a girl), and voyeurism if you squint bc someone overhears them a/n: don't you just looove it when they match each other's freak

-

Spencer doesn’t get jealous.

Jealousy, he believes, requires a certain level of entitlement. He’s never really had that. Never let himself believe he owed anyone’s affection, let alone their attention when his romantic history is threadbare at best, sparse enough that he could count past relationships on one hand and still have fingers left untouched.

Even calling them relationships feels generous. Fleeting moment of interest sounds more accurate, a handful of clumsy encounters that never made it past the shallow end of connection. False starts, quiet exits. Nothing solid or lasting. Certainly nothing that ever made him feel like he had the right to be possessive — not since he learned, in the cruelest of ways, that love and loss could be spoken in the same breath.

So no, he doesn’t get jealous. He’s never been presumptuous enough to think that someone could be his to lose in the first place.

Yet what he feels right now is something uncomfortably close to it.

It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.

A defense mechanism.

A biochemical reaction.

But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.

And you’re not even his.

Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.

"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.

His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.

Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.

Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.

And his vision starts to blur.

“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.

“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”

“I don’t mind the travel.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”

“Stability?”

“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”

“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.

“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”

The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.

He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”

Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”

Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”

The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.

Spencer keeps his head down.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”

His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.

And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.

He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.

But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.

“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”

His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.

Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.

“So, do you?”

You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.

“No, I don’t.”

He quickly falls off your orbit.

“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”

Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.

“Sure. Seven it is.”

He stalks out of the room without a word.

Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.

At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.

At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.

At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.

At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.

By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.

It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.

You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.

There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.

A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”

Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”

Silence, then you square your shoulders.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.

“You barely know him.”

You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”

“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”

He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.

“Why are you doing this?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”

His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.

A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.

If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.

He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.

A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.

In the careful distance between your bodies.

In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.

In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.

“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”

A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.

Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”

“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”

You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"

He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.

An audible click echoes in the room.

He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.

“He’s not good for you.”

Neither is he.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

Neither does he.

It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.

And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.

But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.

“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”

Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.

Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”

"Mhm.”

He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.

“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.

“I know.”

"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.

“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.

“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”

He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.

“Should I leave then?”

He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.

He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.

But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.

He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.

There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.

His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.

He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.

The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.

He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.

He presses his middle finger inside you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.

You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.

You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.

You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.

You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.

But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.

"Don’t—"

He curls his fingers upward.

"Go—"

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"Don't want you to see him."

Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.

Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.

But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.

“Stay.”

You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.

“Spencer…”

“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”

You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.

You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.

The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.

You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.

Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.

You shudder when a finger prods your hole.

But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.

You feel quite the opposite.

The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.

“Define purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”

He hates how easily you read him.

Hates more that you’re not wrong.

“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.

He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.

“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”

Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.

But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.

His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.

“What if I am?”

Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”

The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.

Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.

He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”

True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.

“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”

You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”

A gentle slap falls onto your clit.

“Without the attitude.”

He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”

“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”

You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.

And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.

“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”

The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.

You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”

The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”

His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.

It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.

“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.

It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.

It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.

And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.

It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.

“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”

“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”

“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.

“Go on, answer it.”

“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you really want me to stop?”

The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.

You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.

The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.

“…no.”

“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”

You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.

You inhale a sharp breath.

“Detective... Palmer?”

Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.

“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”

“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”

Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.

“You might want to answer him.”

You blink hard.

“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.

“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”

You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.

Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.

Spoken by someone else entirely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.

“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”

“…yeah.”

“How about breakfast—”

The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.

“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”

You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.

But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.

00:50

00:51

00:52

By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.

And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.

Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.

The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.

And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.

You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.

“What was that?”

“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”

He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”

You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.

“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”

He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”

“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”

He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.

So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.

Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.

God forbid he stops now.

He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.

It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.

Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”

“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”

You slowly shake your head.

But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.

“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.

You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.

“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”

Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.

Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.

“Red?”

The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.

He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.

They’re still burning, nonetheless.

It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.

You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.

Your toes curl.

Your stomach tightens.

Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.

“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.

He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.

Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.

He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

It earns him a puzzled frown.

You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask.

He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”

It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”

“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”

That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.

And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.

“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.

“So it was intentional.”

“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”

You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.

You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.

The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.

But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.

You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.

Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.

The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.

He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.

Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.

Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.

The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.

Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.

“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”

His throat scrapes like sandpaper.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.

Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.

But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.

The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.

Again, he’s selfish.

Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.

You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.

Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.

"She sought death on a queen-sized bed." A Little Death—The Neighbourhood

[becomingthatgirl111]

these are the habits you have to give up before the year is out:

worrying about people and things you can’t control

negative conversations with others

obsessing about what others think

lying for others

expect others to do what you want them to do and get angry if they don't do it

creating expectations on others

gossiping

making excuses for not taking care of your responsibilities

lying to yourself

putting your needs lasts

giving priority to other people's opinions rather than your own

letting the negative opinions of others affect you

limiting yourself

comparing themselves to others and putting them on a pedestal

giving prominence to people who do not deserve it

set boundaries with others but not with yourself

spending too much time on social media

habits you need to implement:

create a daily routine that you feel comfortable with and suits you

calming your mind a few times a day

positive affirmations and healthy thoughts

complimenting others and congratulating their success

letting go of things you can’t control

ending toxic relationships

more time outside

making yourself and your health a priority

self compassion and self forgiveness

taking responsibilities

more self care

beginning with a motivation each day

do what you need for yourself

starting something new (activity, hobby, habit)

not to depend on others and to learn to do things you want to do on your own

focus on the good things and not on the things you don't like

exercise and eat healthy for the sake of your body and not to fit into a beauty canon

getting out of your comfort zone

focus on building healthy relationships rather than being guided by false expectations of how relationships should be

be true to yourself and your values

not to sell or denigrate you for money or lavish gifts