#and also maybe change drawer will be correct as is

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

To be perceived: Husband!Nanami x Reader

“I don’t feel good in anything!” Your clothes are strewn around the room, victims of your self-image. Nanami holds up a dress, raising an eyebrow in a silent offer. You shake your head. “That hasn’t fit in years!”

He sits down heavily on the bed, surveying the emptied drawers and your increasingly desperate face. He tries discreetly to check his watch. He’ll call and move the reservations back, no problem.

You take off the latest rejected outfit and sit down helplessly in the middle of the room. “Kento, I’m an ugly slug.” Your husband joins you on the floor, wrapping both arms around you.

“You’re a beautiful slug, dear.”

You laugh and lean your head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I know we’re running late…”

He kisses the top of your head. “Don’t worry about it. I just want you to feel good. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, my love.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to be perceived, you know?”

Nanami nods thoughtfully. “I can’t make that happen, but maybe I could help distract people. Make it so you’re not the one they’re staring at.”

You turn to look up at him. “What do you mean? You’re wearing your scheming face…”

“Don’t worry, angel. You just finish getting ready and leave it to me, okay?” He disappears into the bathroom.

In a few minutes, you’re feeling a bit better. You’ve put on a comfortable outfit and done your makeup. Nanami’s voice is muffled from behind the door. “Are you ready, darling?”

“Yes, ready when you are!” You call back.

Your husband emerges from the bathroom, a confident smile on his chiseled face. Your mind short-circuits for a moment, not sure what to focus on first- the shock of blonde hair slipping over one eye, the expertly applied black eyeliner, or the skirt swaying around his muscled thighs. He looks beautiful.

“Kento, what is this?” You squint. “Is that my eyeliner?”

“No, it’s mine,” he says easily. “I’ve had it since high school.”

“And the hair? I’ve never seen you without it gelled up…”

He blushes a little at that. “Also high school.”

You shake your head in disbelief, your heart racing at the unexpected transformation. “Well I know that’s my skirt,” you giggle.

“Ah, yes. That’s correct. I found one with an elastic waist, so I could fit- but I’ll change if you mind me using it.”

“No, not at all!” You reassure quickly. He has a good eye for fashion, despite his usual insistence on a leopard-print tie. He’s paired the skirt with one of his own button-downs, sleeves rolled up over his ropy forearms. You step forward, cupping his cheek in your hand.

“You like it, then?” He asks softly.

“You’re beautiful,” you sigh. “But what’s this all about?”

He chuckles. “I figured that although you look stunning as ever, I might get a little more attention than you tonight. Help with the whole ‘being perceived’ bit.”

You laugh and lean up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, careful not to muss his hair. “You’re an angel. A sexy, stylish angel.”

“As long as I’m yours,” he murmurs. “Now. I’ve moved our reservations once, let’s not be late for them again, hm?”

Nanami’s theory was correct. Every eye in the fancy restaurant is on him as the two of you are escorted to your table. Some stares are admiring, some judgmental, but he’s completely unbothered. He looks at you from across the table as if you’re the only other person in the world.

You clink your wine glasses together. “To my beautiful wife,” he smiles.

“To my beautiful husband,” you smile back.

[theamberparadise]

MASKY THIRSTS

includes three NSFW drabbles/mini-fics. read at your own risk.

TWs; gun fucking, loooooooots of bl00d and bl00d play, gun play, degradation, choking, mentions of fistfight, slapping k1nk, mentions of masky m45turb4t1ng to snuff, hoodie being an asshole lmao

A/N; my fingers are on the keyboard again.... my fingers are on the keyboard again......

DISCLAIMER! these are very badly written as I have little grasp on what I want Masky's character to be in my AU. please forgive me for this!! i genuinely did not know where to go for these. PS; i hope you dont mind the new divider!

After hearing rumors of you having sex with Hoodie for extra "perks" around the mansion, Masky pulls you inside his personal liquor room with a gun to your head. Out of pure pettiness and annoyance, you unbutton your polo shirt and guide his revolver down inside your pants before you start grinding your clothed clit against the muzzle.

"You fucking bitch," he slams the opening of the gun against your temple. He has your collar pulling towards him, his pointer finger threatening to curl against the trigger.

The cold, hard edge of his makeshift bar table presses against the back of your thighs as you tried to pull away-- the yellow overhead lights flashing your sight in the process.

It was all a harmless rumor.

Not to Masky, it wasn't.

It all started with Hoodie trying to get you into bed with him. Of course you wouldn't be so gullible as to actually get through a night with a cocky asshole who repeatedly tries to install secret cameras inside your bathroom to watch you shower.

So after you rejected him, he retaliated. By the forms of rumors.

You, apparently, made out with him in a closet just to get the good pods of coffee hidden in the drawers. You also gave him a blowjob so he can provide you with extra protection during missions. And finally, the most ridiculous one of all-- you fucked him last night so you could get by breaking a few rules in the mansion without being reprimanded.

At first, you laughed at the stories. You didn't even bother correcting them, because you really can't change what people think of you. This was a lesson you learned long before you arrived in The Operator's domain.

But when Masky started bumping into you while in the halls, staring you down during meetings, scoffing whenever you try to speak about something, and giving shallow "compliments" about your clothes, you start getting frustrated with him.

You tried to tell him you never really made out with Hoodie, or even came close to giving him a blowjob, but he never really budged. You started wondering if him and Hoodie were an item, and yet you never got a clear answer.

That is, until the latest rumor.

You were peacefully walking towards the mansion library to return a few books you used as a step-stool to fix a light in your bedroom before Masky started storming towards you. You stopped in your steps, before dropping the books due to him dragging you by the collar inside the room beside you.

Everything happened in such little time. You wince in pain after feeling the back of your hips hit against the wooden bar table, and before you knew it he was shoving a gun in front of your face.

Your feet were hanging off the floor as you sat on the hard wood you unwillingly were shoved on. You could feel Masky's breath take in heaps of air as if he was trying to breathe in any fear you had to offer, but all you can give is pure hatred-- and maybe a little bit of adrenaline. And a tiny smidge of arousal.

"Do you even know of anything that I have done for you?" he hissed. The sound of his voice being muffled by the mask was nothing but an open barrier that couldn't hold back the venom that his voice was soaked in.

The opening of the gun was so firm against your skull you were sure it was bruised beyond hell.

"Do you know how many vicious little shits I've almost died from the effort of saving your ass?"

"You didn't even-- hck!-- have to do that, you fucking-- unck!-- asshole!" You choked out. You can remember all the times he "saved" you without even needing to, hurling at targets that weren't even close to harming you, restraining frail victims even when he knows they can't even land a scratch on you.

You thought it was funny. You didn't know if he was trying to show off in front of you or just being concerningly twitchy.

The thought of this brings a slight smile to your face. "What were you even trying to do anyway? Showing off or-- ack!-- what?"

Masky growled. You can hear his gloves almost break against the grip of his gun. "I was protecting you. Saving you. And for once, you couldn't even say thank you, let alone fuck my co-worker!"

His screams flood your ears. Then he laughs.

"So it's just like that, huh? Use me as a human shield, then run along and sit on some unworthy dick that doesn't even come close to making you cum." his voice was low and deadly.

You spit on his mask, earning a hard jolt from him. "That isn't even fucking true! He made that shit up just to spite me!" he stayed silent.

"You just keep jumping on conclusions don't you!?" you attempt to kick him but he doesn't budge. "Thinking I'm in danger then proceed to steal my kills, you really are fucking delusional!" you chided.

He doesn't peep a word. Just his breathing. His cold, ragged breathing. His eyes look like they're trying to hold something back.

Something that escapes its bars, and turn into a famished, hungry animal.

Then, a voice.

"You don't know how much effort I've put in for you." he muttered. A confused expression washes over your face.

"How much effort-- how much shit I had to do so I can get your fucking attention." his grip on the gun tightened at each syllable.

"How many kills, how many missions, how much blood do I have to spill just to get a simple 'Good morning Masky', or maybe even just a smile from you?" you felt your spine shiver at his sick impression of you saying good morning to him.

Suddenly, something clicked. It all made sense now. The way he gets extra filthy in blood after missions, insisting to team up with you, your stolen kills...

Fucking hell.

You don't know whether to feel terrified or flattered, though you find yourself leaning onto the latter.

A smile creeps onto your face once again, your canines shining at him.

"You want attention?" you chided. "I'll give you attention, you fucking bastard," with a swift motion, your hands shoot upon the first button of your polo shirt, looping the white circle out of the small hole before moving down and unbuttoning another one.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Masky rasped, his grip on the gun slowly lightening up as a full view of your pink, lacy bra greets him.

"Paying you some attention," by this time your shirt was fully open, your torso doing a little dance for him. "Am I doing a good job, sir?" you purred, giving him you sickly-sweet doe-eyes as your fingers grazed over his leather belt.

With a steady hand, you gently reach up to were he was holding the gun. And for a second, you feel him seize his grip, before letting up just slightly-- once again.

Ever so slowly, you pull the gun down, deeper, further, until it's inside your waistband.

Masky breathed. You can feel his adrenaline radiating off of you as his gaze traveled down to the gun-- his gun-- in your pants.

You let him take the sight in before starting to rut your hips, making him jolt. He moves closer, before rubbing his boner against the little space of the table in between your thighs. You snicker.

"You better shut the fuck up before I pull the trigger, brat," he hissed, instinctively pushing the gun further in, and when you feel the deepened, contact, you moan.

"Fuck, you like that, don't you?" he mocked. "You like my fucking revolver inside your cunt?"

You nod, keeping eye contact with him. "Yes sir, yes sir," you babbled.

You keep grinding your clit against the cold metal. You can feel yourself dripping, you were sure you created a puddle by now.

A minute goes by with you just desperately tribbing your needy hole against a weapon that killed many. You don't know when Masky's other hand pulled down the waistband by your belt loops to get a better view-- revealing your very soaked laced panties, with some of the slick seeping out and onto the gun.

The sight turned you on even more, you can feel your nipples hardening under the padded fabric you still had on.

Soon enough, you feel your head throw back as you welcomed your orgasm. Your mouth dropped open and your eyes closed shut, screaming his name and babbling about how you were so close to cumming.

You hear a chuckle, before feeling the gun ramming inside your still-clothed hole, making you shriek in ecstasy.

Your legs shake like a deadly earthquake. And he didn't stop there-- no. Masky kept on furthering the gun in, earning short bursts of gasps from you.

"Fuck-- fuck, ah!--" you writhed against him. "Masky! Fuck--"

"That isn't my name." he threatened like a curse. "That isn't what you should call me." you could practically sense his grin. "I'm better than that playboy motherfucker, aren't I?"

You can't think straight. "Amma--mgonna--ungh!---"

"Say it right, sweetheart, or else I might just pull the trigger." the sound of his finger squeezing the metal sent delicious goosebumps up your spine.

Your lips trembled. "Y-yes-- yes, sir. Yes, sir."

Drunken bickering gone wrong has you slapping Masky out of anger after a bloody fist fight between you two, inside an abandoned shed, but when he slaps your face back, you moan.

It's hot. Everything is hot.

Your ribs ache. Your arms ache. Your legs ache.

You're pretty sure you're covered in bruises by now, but it definitely isn't only you.

You could only remember what led up to this point, a small, snarky comment from him was countered by one of yours after an almost jeopardized mission. Then, one after another, insults were hurled between you and him until you slap his face after having a gnarly punching match, knocking his mask off onto the floor.

He froze, his figure hunched over while his fists tightened while his eyes remain fixed on the fallen mask. You stepped back, mustering up an apology and a back up move.

You choose the first option.

"Shit. Look I didn't mean to--" you were interrupted by his meaty hands on your neck, plummeting you to the cement wall behind you, a pained grunt escaping your busted lips.

You look up against the bright, mellow ceiling light, a shadow of Masky's raised arm blocking the off-white glow. Your eyes pressed firmly shut, the pain striking your cheek sharply.

When the strike hit, your cunt flutters so suddenly, a small pool of wet staining your panties. Your breath hitches, then you inhale, and you moan.

"Oh, fuck," you breathed. You can feel your thighs rub together while your eyes clamp shut-- unaware that another pair was looking right down at you. Your hips unconsciously rut up and down, desperately grinding on nothing.

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Masky spat. His grip on your neck curls tighter, making you cough against the restriction of air.

You open your eyes to find him staring you down in angry shock. Before you could respond, he speaks again. "Are you that much of a dirty whore in heat to be turned on by me slapping the shit outta your face?"

Your eyes furrowed in returned frustration. "Says the one who jacks off to snuff films in the bathroom," you pique.

That statement earns you another slap from him, making you moan once more-- except this time, it's more drawn out.

"Fucking masochist," he chuckles darkly. "That's sexy as fuck." he leans in closer to your face, studying your turned on expression.

With a rough pull, he drags your neck and tosses you on the floor as he watched you gasp and cough, before caging your body with his.

He reaches to his side, grabbing his discarded mask and putting it on once again, earning a scoff from you.

"You always looked so fucking dumb with that shit on," you hissed, giggling a bit while your mind hazed out by the second.

"Shut the fuck up, brat," the nickname was barbed with spikes before both of his hands reached down to rip your shirt open while he forces his knee to your crotch. He's breathing heavily, like a coyote finally catching its meal.

"Y'know, I might actually think we're meant for each other, baby," his voice stings like alcohol. "I like pain, you like pain..." his hand strikes at you again, making you howl in pure bliss.

"We're fucking perfect together."

After managing to slaughter a cult against The Operator, you make out with Masky in the middle of the corpses both of you just murdered, all the while both of you are unapologetically soaked in red blood. After you two are naked, he brands his name onto your body in the red that you both had spilled.

You knew he couldn't hold back much longer when he started sucking your tongue like it was candy in the midst of an after-mission ritual.

After a few one-night stands with him here and there, you learned that it was his way of relaxing after committing manslaughter, a much preferred method of his over masturbating.

The sounds both of your lips made was nothing short of unholy.

And you were soaked in blood. Your clothes, parts of your face, hell, even your hair is soaked.

He was no different, chunks of his brown hair were also damp with red, his jacket, his mask...

It did nothing but turn you on even more.

He pulled away from your lips to get some air, his mask only slightly tilted to the side to reveal his lips but so he can still see. And before you say anything, you were interrupted by him pushing you onto the floor before he kneels down.

You grin at him while you felt your jacket being torn off of you, uncovering your white sports bra-- now also stained with splotches of blood, and your bare torso.

The floor was a sickening red because of how much blood your victims let out, and by the time you laid down, your hair is completely soaked.

You're laying on a floor, inch deep with blood.

The back of your sports bra and your shorts were already wet, crimson leaking up to the side of the fabrics. Masky's pants were no different.

You reach up and undress Masky too, leaving him shirtless in the cold air. Then, you dip your hand in the deep red puddle beside you and smeared him in red. You moan at the sight, giggling shortly after seeing a silhouette of your hand imprinted on his chest.

Masky raises his hand off the floor and swipes across your abdomen, leaving behind a trail of red. He reaches down and starts kissing you once again, the sounds of your tongues squelching together was enough to make your cunt flutter.

You moan against him, feeling his blood-soaked hand cup your tit through your bra.

He raises his other hand and reaches down your shorts, fingers slithering inside your panties until they enter your sopping hole.

Masky took his fingers out after breaking the messy kiss, before bringing his slick-covered fingers to your mouth.

"Suck." he commands.

You reach your tongue out and lick his two fingers, a tang of metal from the blood that was already on his fingers laying onto your tongue before you take his digits into your mouth, before bobbing your head up slowly, making a loud pop that reverberated inside the room.

"Good girl," he coos. You and him were covered in a disgusting amount of blood that wasn't either of yours. Suddenly, he lifts up your thigh, slightly turning it to the side to get a better view. One hand was holding the bend between your knee and calf while the other reaches down.

Then, he dips his pointer finger into the crimson puddle, raising the dripping red to your thigh, firmly pressing on what felt like... letters?

He draws an M, then an A. He dips his fingers again, then an S, a K, an a final dip, before a Y makes an imprint on your thigh.

You breathed, both in amusement and attraction.

"You want everybody to see that?" you purred. Masky clicks his tongue before responding.

"Mine," he rasps.

You grin. "Yours."

[vainvenus]

mind games | ln4 | pt.8

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You're out of the bath after the entire situation with Lando and he's still there and trying to convince you that everything is normal and fine.

Includings: Dark!Lando Norris, obsessive/possessive + manipulative + delusional behavior, emotional coercion, forced proximity, power imbalance, sweet(ish) lando ig????

An: "Next chapter drops this weekend" I said then I got obsessed with the new season of love island and forgot 💔💔

@eclipsedcherryblossom @slutforvoldy @alliseeisversainz @taylorrtgs @lorena-mv33

You spent a little more time in the tub than you would normally have and to your surprise Lando didn't come back there. He was strangely quiet after you heard the rummaging through your drawers end, the faint sound of your TV playing instead.

You got out, towel wrapped around you as you stepped back into your room and say him laying on your bed, his head back against your pillows as he was watching the TV.

He was just sitting there like he belonged there. Not only was he sitting there but he had also somehow changed into much more comfortable clothes which was both confusing and unsettling to you.

He glanced back over to you, a small smile spreading across his face as he sat up. "How was the rest of your bath?"

"Fine." You murmured as you grabbed the pajamas he picked out for you. It was just a simple t-shirt with plaid pajama pants. You looked back over to him to see that he was still staring at you and you narrowed your gaze.

"Are you gonna watch me change?"

"I'll look away if you want me too." He shrugged. "But it's not like I didn't just see you naked."

You didn’t reply to that.

Instead, you turned your back to him and slowly began to change, slipping on the soft cotton t-shirt and plaid pajama pants he had picked out like he knew your drawer better than you did.

Your hands were trembling. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you had to breathe slowly to keep them from fully giving you away.

Behind you, the mattress creaked as he shifted, but he didn’t get up.

Didn’t leave.

Didn’t even pretend like he wasn't looking.

You could feel his stare, heavy and unrelenting, like he was memorizing the curve of your shoulders, the movement of your spine, the delicate way you folded your towel and placed it over the back of the chair.

You finally turned around.

He was still watching you.

His eyes weren’t devouring, not in the way you would’ve expected after everything.

No, this look was worse. It was soft. Gentle. Intimate. Like you were already his, like everything that happened before had been nothing more than a fight between lovers. Just a bump in the road.

He gave you a smile. Small. Pleased. Like your body in pajamas that he picked out, in front of him, letting him be there like it was some kind of win.

“Feel better?” He asked, voice smooth and casual like it was any other night, like the air between you wasn’t dense with fear.

You didn’t answer. Not at first. Your mouth was too dry.

He raised an eyebrow at your silence, tilting his head slightly. “You were in there a while. I thought you fell asleep. Or maybe you were hiding from me again.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why are you still here?”

Lando leaned back into your pillows like they belonged to him. "I've got nowhere to be at four in the morning on a Monday."

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He gave you a look like you were the one being unreasonable.

“I brought you home, ran the bath for you, picked out your pajamas,” He slowly said, listing off each point like they were all huge favors. “I waited. I gave you space. I didn’t even come back when you were washing up. And now I just want to spend time with you.”

You stared at him. “You drowned me.”

He winced at the word.

“Almost drowned you." He corrected softly, like it mattered. “And only because you kept ignoring me. I didn’t want to do that. You made me do that.”

Your breath caught.

“It made me angry.” His eyes met yours, almost sincere. “When you wouldn’t talk. When you shut down like that. You made me feel like I didn’t exist to you.” His voice cracked a little. “And it made me think of that day again. When you wouldn't give me a second of your time like I was useless."

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. It felt like the floor had tilted.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. I just needed you to see me again. To hear me.”

Lando sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was pleading now. “Everything I’ve done, everything I do, it’s because I love you. And you keep running from that like it’s some kind of threat.”

“It is.” You whispered.

He paused.

The silence stretched long between you. The TV was still playing in the background, but you couldn’t register what it was saying. It was just noise now.

Then, he let out a small laugh, almost breathless. “You’re still scared of me.”

He said it like it was a discovery. Like it wounded him.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He continued, voice quieter now. “I thought once you were home, once you were safe, we could just...reset.”

Your brows furrowed. “Reset?”

Lando nodded. “Start over. There's no race this week, no pressure. No media. Just us. Maybe we could cook something later. Watch a movie. Go somewhere quiet."

He was talking as if this were normal, as if the two of you were a normal couple. As if you were a couple at all.

"You can wear that white sundress you like. I’ll take you somewhere private so it's just us."

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your expression neutral but your bottom lip was wobbling. “There's no us, Lando."

His entire body stilled.

But he didn’t snap. Didn’t yell. He just inhaled slowly, like he was trying very hard to keep something inside from cracking.

He stood up, not fast, not aggressive. Just…calm. Methodical. Like he was controlling himself.

He walked to your side of the bed. You tensed, but he didn’t touch you.

“I know you don’t see it yet.” He murmured, standing close enough that you could still smell the faint scent of your perfume. “But you will. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. So we can keep pretending this isn’t happening, or…”

His eyes burned into yours.

“…you can accept that you already belong to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He smiled again, soft, but with an edge. “We can have a quiet day for us later on today. Then Tuesday or Wednesday we can go somewhere more public so the media can get a couple pictures, get some fans to start up some rumors."

“No.” You managed to say, your voice barely audible.

He hummed like you hadn’t said anything at all. “Then we can post a few pictures of each other, nothing with our faces in it of course. A soft launch. Everybody loves a good soft launch."

You stepped back again.

This time, he let you.

“I’m going to stay here tonight.” He said casually, like he was announcing the weather. "You’re tired. You’ve had a long day. So have I.”

You stared at him like everything was happening in slow motion, blinking as you slowly shook your head. “You...You can't stay here.”

But he was already settling back into your bed, pulling your blanket over himself, hands behind his head like he owned the space. “I'll sleep better near you."

You stood frozen in place, heart racing, skin clammy.

“Come on." He murmured, patting the space next to him. “Let’s just…lie down. No fighting. No more stress.”

His voice was too soft. Too gentle. Like the last hour hadn’t happened.

You didn’t move.

He patted the bed again, more deliberate now and his voice a bit more needy. “Please?"

You didn’t move.

“I’m not gonna do anything.” He said after a beat, his tone quieter now. “I just wanna be near you.”

You stood there for another long moment, heart hammering. He was watching you like a hawk—smiling softly, like this was something gentle and sweet, but his eyes said something else.

You knew what happened when you didn’t listen. What he was capable of when ignored.

So you forced yourself to move.

Your feet felt like they were filled with sand, but you crossed the room, inching closer to the bed. Every step made your chest tighter. Your breath shorter.

You sat. Carefully. Barely on the edge of the mattress.

Like the moment you relaxed, you’d fall into a trap.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

“See?” He murmured. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer.

He turned his body slightly toward you, close but not quite touching. You felt the heat radiating off of him. It made your stomach twist.

“You don’t have to be scared of me." He said after a moment. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you if you just—”

“If I just what?” you whispered. Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. “If I just… do what you say?”

His jaw tensed.

You turned your head just slightly, enough to see his face. “Is that it?”

“I’m trying,” Lando said, like you were the problem. “I’m here. I’m being calm. I gave you space. You won’t even look at me.”

Your mouth was dry. “You tried to drown me.”

“You we're being mean.”

You blinked. “I wasn’t even saying anything!"

“Exactly!” He said, almost sharply. “You shut me out. Like I didn’t matter. I couldn’t take that again. You don’t know what that feels like.”

You flinched.

He softened again in an instant. That fake, practiced tenderness crawling back into his voice.

“I’m not the bad guy here." He murmured. “I love you. I want this to work.”

Your breath hitched. He noticed.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” He asked gently.

He inhaled slowly, exhaling through his nose like he was keeping himself in check. “I want to start over with this, pretend that what happened earlier never happened."

“No.” You whispered.

“It's kind of hard to forget something like that, Lando.” You said before you could stop yourself. Your voice was too shaky to sound brave.

He was quiet for a beat. Then he said, almost heartbreakingly, “Do you really think I can't fix this? That we can't start over?"

You didn’t respond.

He looked at you like you’d just torn the sky apart.

“Right.” He muttered, sitting back against your pillows. “Okay. Guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

You didn’t want to know.

You stood up silently and pulled back the covers. You crawled in slowly, limbs stiff, hands trembling as you tucked the blanket over yourself. You turned your back towards him, staring at the wall.

You didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t ask him to leave.

You just laid there, chest tight, stomach churning and back turned to the boy who still thought this could be turned normal.

The mattress dipped as he shifted in beside you.

It was silent, just the hum of your TV until he spoke up;

“Goodnight. I love you.”

Your throat tightened as you clenched your fists around the cover, voice soft and barely above a whisper.

"I wish you didn't."

You heard his breath hitch like you told him you hated him.

Maybe in his mind there was no difference.

[carbonfiction]

Hii - What would it be like if Frank dated a reader who was too oblivious when it came to affection? - like, after sex she always pulls away and goes to sleep far away because she can't stand the heat, not because she doesn't like Frank or physical touch, but because she's sensitive to temperature, sometimes touch, sometimes food selectivity.

Ooooh!! Now this is a really interesting thing to think about, i love it! Some of my favorite things to write is the different ways Frank cares for his partner sooo.. Heres some headcanony thoughts!

Warnings?: mostly soft and fluffy! Aftercare with obviously indescriptive mention of smut!

So I do feel like many of us frank writers say this but i genuinely see frank being so perceptive to these kinds of scenarios!!

Much like the actual sex, frank is always keeping track of what you seem to like or dont. And while at first Frank might be a little confused the first few times you pull back from him post sex, seeming to drift into your own bubble on the other side of the sheets, he absolutely would pay mind to the fact people need different things.

Its completely normal and natural that something that works for him in the come down, doesn't always work or help you and vice versa! So he looks for a bridge.

Frank would watch. He'd silently learn every little thing you reach for or even pad around to collect and add them to a mental note.

Slowly he'd start leaving bottles of water, perhaps a soda, maybe even some candy or treats you like, around the bedside tables. Simple but easily accessible things.

Taking all the tasks you had often gravitated to from your hands with a soft kiss pressed to your hair and a gentle "Hey aint gotta move yet..you stay there, i got it", "second drawer down, got you a couple of those candies you like" or even "you want your usual snack or feelin somethin different today sweetheart? Whatever you want"

I also believe frank would take great care with the clean up in this situation- infact it almost becomes a replacement of the close contact physical touch (actual cuddles and whatnot) if you often feel too overwhelmed sensory wise for it!

With a grumbled stretch of his muscles he's treading to the bathroom (still completely bare) and, depending on how intense things were, grabbing a pleasant temperature flannel or running a bath.

With the correct temperature flannel option hes cleaning over your skin as feather light as possible- a task for his usually heavy handed fingers. One that had taken you time to let him accomplish alone. Spit, slick, cum, sweat- anything and everything that could even begin to make you feel anymore overwhelmed or uncomfortable. Pushing your hair out of your face and hushing "almost done babydoll, i know..", "anywhere else not feelin comfortable?" and "still feelin too sensitive there sweetheart? Yeah? Alright, ill go more gentle kay? Tell me if its too much"

While with the bath hes carrying you- no if or buts. Frank will even put a shirt on just to do this if thats what you'd prefer than the press of sweaty skin. But nothing is stopping him from picking you up from that bed like a trembling legged baby deer. "Ready? Up we go, theres my princess" or "lets getcha nice n clean yeah? Made a real mess a' ya didn't i"

If you rather him help then he's absolutely going to- leaning over and cupping water over you hair, massaging in your favorite products, soaping over your skin with body wash and prasing every inch. Practically smothering you in warmed towls after and helping you dress (if thats what you'd rather do than remain bare)

Otherwise he'll give you the time alone if thats how you prefer it, choosing to change over the sheets so everything feels nice and fresh for you to nap. Perhaps even finding some movie or show you like to help lul you off.

But all in all hes taking your cues and building off of them, each situation unique to you. And like.. Frank doesn't mind in the slightest. He just wants his girl comfortable, content and taken care of; your needs are not any trouble to him.

A lil bonus thought- Perhaps you get a fan (or a blanket if you run colder) so you can indulge frank for a moment. You dont think of it a big deal when you set it up, frank never had for you so..why would it be? But It becomes the first time you've ever seen him just completely melt, the flutter of his lashes slowing as he blinks, the grumble of half asleep snores rumbling against your skin. The occasional compromise feeling even better than sex somedays.

Sigh.. You guys i love writing domestic, boyfriend frank. Its like drugs to me- Hes just everything, my beloved guy <33 more more more!!

[luveline]

i'm missing coworker!james so much... is he doing okay?

James is poorly :( fem

James is a cruel kind of ill. Desperate to escape the dreaded ‘man flu’, he tries hard to portray the common cold. Doesn’t whine, groan or moan, simply suffers the near constant sneezing and his twinging neck without comment. 

Luckily, he has two —two! because you like him enough to be concerned! barely!— nice deskmates who ply him with tea and worry alike. 

“Did you take that antihistamine?” Remus asks. 

“I did, yeah. You watched me take it an hour ago and try as I might, I haven’t regurgitated it yet.” 

“Don’t be disgusting, he’s just worried,” you say. 

A month ago, you might’ve said it with deep, genuine ire. James annoys you and his choice of imagery is hardly workplace appropriate, but for some reason you’re good to him lately. You’re softening, and why shouldn’t you be? James is a boy worth softening for. 

He sneezes hard into a tissue in his palm and knocks the desk, sending his small crowd of figurines skittering, their light green bodies scuffed with scratches. They fall over each day. You like rearranging them. 

You also like feeding James biscuits, and pretending you don’t like him. Or maybe pretending you do. It’s hard to tell what’s real. 

“Jesus,” he says, forgetting to be demure as he drops his forehead against his closed fist. “I can’t take it much longer.” 

“You need to calm down, is all. Every time you sneeze you trigger the inflammation in your nose, which makes you more likely to sneeze again,” Remus says. He doesn’t sound particularly pitying, but he does then stand to grab James’ mug as he heads to the kitchen. 

In an office made up of mostly Brits, it’s extremely common for everyone to make one another a tea or coffee when they get one for themselves, but it’s a sweet gesture for Remus to keep James topped up nonetheless. It also provides for moments like this: you and him alone. Not awkward anymore. 

“Do you have painkillers?” he asks.

You open the drawer of your desk and offer him your pouch. “Here.” 

Inside are many things. A box of lil-lets, plasters in sterile wrappings, throat soothers, ibuprofen, a treasure trove of cures for little ailments. 

“Just, help yourself to anything you want.” 

“You’re an angel.” James unveils a shiny purple chocolate bar. “I can have Freddie?”

“Freddo,” you correct. “Come on, James, it’s on the packet.” 

He doesn’t truly want it. He doubts he could taste it, and he drops it back in. 

“Oh, no, you can have it!” you say, softer. “I’m just being pedantic.” 

“Thanks, but I don’t think I can do chocolate right now.” 

“Right, um… well, I have a sandwich?” 

“What kind of sandwich?” he asks. 

“One of those impossible BLT’s. But I can get you a proper sandwich, James. They have those sesame seed rolls in the vending machine.” 

James doesn’t understand why you’re being so nice to him. “I must look awful,” he murmurs, letting his aching, pulsing head drop onto the desk. He sniffs uselessly. Fuck, he hates work. Why can’t he go home?

“You never look awful,” you say. 

James turns his face to see you’ve lowered your own, resting your cheek in your hand, your knuckles grazing the table. 

“You’re being too nice to me. I’m dying.” 

“You’re the one who’s mean to me, James. I’m your unwilling victim.”

“As opposed to being my willing victim.” James hates being ill, his lips are dry and his throat feels sharp and he’s changed his mind, he does want the Freddo. “Please be nice to me again.” 

“You know what’s good for this? Nasal spray. That’ll fix you.” 

“You could fix me,” James says. You don’t answer. He presses his nose to the table. “My days are always good ones when you can't be bothered to pretend you don’t like me.” 

“Who says I’m pretending?” 

James whines. “That’s worse.” 

You tease a bit of his hair behind his ear. James is content to let you, content to never move again, balmed by the softness of your touch as you draw along the outline of his ear to his jaw. “Don’t press your glasses into your nose, you’ll start sneezing again,” you whisper. 

James refuses to move. “Stroke my hair,” he demands.

“No way.”

“You’re no fun.”

“But I’m having a much better day than you are.” 

He sulks. This is exactly why James hides your stuff and leaves you off of email chains you should probably be in. You’re horrible, awful, evil, with no sympathy for him and no friendliness, either. James was far better off when he was solely annoyed at you, and not whatever useless state of being this is where his mood depends on your willingness to make friends. If James could, he would—

“Are you okay?” you say, your voice as soft as your fingertip where it traces slowly through his curly hair. “Maybe you should go home and rest. I’m worried about you…” 

James might fall in love with you if you keep whispering sweet stuff like that. You hesitate at the nape of his neck before dragging your hand up through a tuft of curls. 

“If you don’t get better soon, your voice will go and I’ll have to talk to Lang and Co. on the phone again. You know I hate their finance team leader,” you finish. 

You sound so pretty that James almost misses your slight. Then decides he’ll allow it as long as you keep stroking his hair.  —

coworker james au

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 31

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Content Warning: jealousy: angst;

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Your day had started as normal as ever. Well, as normal as an ER could ever be, two strokes, a stabbing, and an irate man who tried to seduce his way out of a CT scan.

You had just finished examining the patient on bed 8 when Dana leaned in through the glass doors.

“Heads up,” she said, grinning. “Hot visitor inbound.”

You blinked. “What?”

Dana tilted her head toward the sliding doors. “Surgical conference. Some visiting hotshot. Apparently used to work here. Tall, dark, and very... playboy fantasy.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the nurses’ station to write some notes. 

That is, until you heard the voice.

“Robinavitch?” a woman’s voice rang out behind you. “Is that you?”

You turned in your chair and froze.

The woman who strode into the ER with heels, confidence, and a fitted navy dress was anything short of gorgeous.

Tall. Elegant. Polished in that “spent a summer in Provence” kind of way. Her dark eyes were locked on Robby with warmth—and maybe just a little heat.

You stood slowly, setting the tablet aside.

Robby turned, a smile forming. “Addison?”

Addison. Of course, her name was Addison.

She swept in like a breeze from a memory and wrapped her arms around him.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she murmured into his neck.

Robby laughed, stepping back. “You disappeared to Baltimore, what, five years ago?”

“Six,” she corrected, still smiling. “But who's counting?”

You blinked.

You were.

You were counting.

It was ridiculous. Petty. Juvenile. Robby wasn’t yours to own.

Except he kind of was.

But this woman had just walked in and slipped under Robby’s skin like muscle memory.

You didn’t like it.

You especially didn’t like that Addison was now looking directly at you.

“And you are?”

You cleared your throat. “Dr. Y/N Williams. ER attending.”

Addison extended a manicured hand. “Addison Blake. Trauma surgeon at Johns Hopkins. Old friend of Robby’s.”

Old friend, you thought darkly. Right.

Robby, bless his oblivious heart, seemed not to notice the tension at all. “Addison’s one of the best surgeons I’ve ever worked with,” he said. “We used to cover overnights together.”

Oh good, you thought. She probably knows his coffee order and the exact sound he makes when he’s tired and trying not to fall asleep at the desk.

Dana caught Y/N’s eye from across the station and gave her a look. The kind that said you okay, honey? but also oh no, she’s hot.

Addison smiled. “Maybe I’ll shadow one of your cases today. See if you’ve picked up any bad habits.”

“I’m sure you’ll be impressed,” Robby said, tone light.

You turned before your expression could betray you. “I’ll be in room 8,” you muttered.

--------------------------------------

The rest of the shift dragged. You couldn’t focus. Every laugh Addison let out, every flash of her hand on Robby’s arm—it all felt like static noise in Y/N’s head.

You knew you were being irrational. You trusted Robby.

But some part of you, the small, unhealed part, still worried you were the younger, less experienced, not-quite-as-elegant woman who got to keep him for now.

It wasn’t until you were digging through the supply drawers in the back that Dana walked up next to you, chewing her gum with a suspiciously smug grin.

“You gonna breathe soon or...?”

You scowled. “I’m fine.”

“You’re scrubbing alcohol into the wall.”

You glanced down at your gloved hand. Shit. “I’m just cleaning.”

“Mhm. Totally unrelated to Surgeon Barbie over there flirting with your man at the nurses’ station?”

You narrowed your eyes. “She’s not flirting.”

“She’s touching his arm, kid. You don’t touch a man’s arm unless you’re handing him a scalpel or you’re picturing him shirtless.”

“That’s not—" you sighed. "I’m not jealous.”

“Sure. And I’m not three seconds away from calling security just in case.”

—------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t seen Addison in over a year—some conference in Boston. They’d dated for a handful of months almost six years ago. Nothing serious. Nothing lasting.

Nothing like what he had now.

What he had now.

He glanced down the hall, eyes automatically tracking for a flash of yellow—Y/N’s cardigan.

“It’s a mess today, so if you’re looking for quiet—” He started explaining.

“Oh, I never am,” Addison said, leaning against the nurses’ station a little too casually. “I’ve always liked the chaos here. Reminds me of when we used to…” She trailed off, eyes glinting.

He raised a brow.

“I’m with someone,” he said bluntly.

Addison blinked. “I didn’t ask.”

“You were about to.”

“Wow. Someone’s gotten sharper in his old age.”

Robby didn’t rise to it. “Just being honest.”

She tilted her head. “Is it serious?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to. His eyes drifted, instinctively, back towards Room 8, where you were reviewing imaging on the wall monitor, your brow furrowed in concentration. You looked like you hadn’t noticed anything at all.

He hated that. That you thought you had to pretend.

Addison followed his gaze.

“Oh,” she said, tone shifting. “That’s unexpected.”

“Not really.”

She studied him, then let out a laugh. “You know, I always did think you had a thing for challenges.”

Robby smiled despite himself. “She’s a better doctor than either of us.”

“And ten times more charming,” Dana muttered from behind a computer as she walked by, not even looking up.

Addison gave a short, amused exhale and picked up a patient chart. “Well. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“You never could,” he said lightly.

She walked off with a wink, but Robby had already stopped paying attention.

His gaze was fixed on you again—your expression stormy, your shoulders tight.

And when you walked past him ten minutes later without meeting his eyes, his gut twisted.

He knew that look. He knew every look you had.

Jealousy.

And damn it, it made him love you even more.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

By the end of the shift, You’d barely spoken to him.

Robby found you in the lounge, rinsing out your coffee mug like you were turning it into a mirror.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

You sighed. “I’m just tired.”

“Sure.”

You looked up at him, biting your tongue.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said quietly. “If that’s what this is.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But you thought it.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the counter.

“I didn’t realize it would get to you like this,” Robby said, his voice softening. “Addison and I are just friends. Good friends. We dated years ago.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

You blinked.

“And if I wanted to be with Addison Blake,” Robby said, stepping in close, “I wouldn’t have spent the last ten months falling in love with you.”

Your breath caught.

“I know we said we’d keep things under wraps. For professionalism. And I know we’ve been careful.”

His voice dropped.

“But I’m done pretending.”

Your brows furrowed. Confused. 

He turned back towards the ER, where nurses bustled and residents ran from one to another. And before you could stop him, he strode to the center of the main floor and cleared his throat.

“Hey!”

The room paused. Not stopped entirely, but slowed.

Dana straightened in her chair.

Robby’s voice carried, steady and firm. “For the sake of clarity, and so I don’t have to watch anyone else flirt with my girlfriend… I’m dating Dr. Williams.”

Silence.

Then someone dropped a chart.

“About time,” Dana muttered, and a round of cheers broke out.

Santos, the resident, whooped. “I knew it!”

“Lost a whole betting pool over this,” one of the nurses grumbled.

Y/N covered her face with her hands as her ears burned.

Robby turned back to you, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You met him halfway, heart in your throat, eyes burning with laughter and something warmer.

“You are such a menace,” you whispered.

“You were spiraling.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he leaned in to kiss your cheek in front of the entire ER, you didn’t move away.

“I’m happy for you,” Dana said with a grin. “Now go home before HR gets wind of your lingering stares.”

They left together twenty minutes later.

[takumaswife]

love your chan fic. could you do another chan x reader where reader is either sick or on her period and is embarassed but he takes care of her pls

My Responsibility - Bang Chan

Genre: Fluff, fem reader but could also go for afab.

Word Count: 933

Masterlist

A/N: This fic is a little shorter than my others, but I tried to make it sweet and cute.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

You held your stomach as the cramps continued pulsing through your lower abdomen. Burying your face into your pillow, you groan as pain shot through your abdomen to your crotch. You wish you could punch your stomach. Laying there, you heard your phone buzzing on your nightstand. Grabbing the device, you saw a text from Chan asking if he could come over for the night. Despite dating for almost 8 months and sleeping over a handful of times, he still asks out of respect.

'I'm sorry, channie.. I'm not feeling well. We can postpone until this weekend!"

Even though you've been dating for months, talking about your period to Chan was still uncomfortable. Talking about it in general was uncomfortable. Anytime he tried to make plans during your time of the month, you always came up with an excuse. However, despite the lies, Chan shortly figured it out around the third month you had told him you were too busy. He realized the dates were similar and immediately knew.

As soon as you pressed send, immediately your phone lit up with Chan's face. He was calling and you could already hear him freaking out. "Hello?" You asked, trying to keep your voice steady from the pain radiating in your body. "Are you okay? Do you need me to bring medicine?" Chan's deep voice rang through the phone. You immediately shook your head, even if he couldn't see you. "No!..uh, just stay home. I don't need you getting sick. I hear the bug going around last for a few days." You replied. Chan smirked as he knew his assumption was correct. "Okay, baby. If you need anything, just let me know." He responded. "Yes, love you bye!" You spoke quickly and hung up before screaming into your pillow from the pain.

Laying in bed for a little while, you could feel that you needed to get to the toilet as you could feel how heavy your period was getting in this moment. Slowly getting up, you waddled to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Going to change your product, you reached into the bathroom drawer to see you were COMPLETELY out. How could you be out?? And now you're stuck on the toilet with no phone?? This couldn't be happening right now.

You were becoming frustrated from the pain, the heaviness, and just emotional in general. You didn't know what to do at this point. Resting your head in your hands, elbows resting on your knees, you tried think of something. It would be too messy to try and get to the shower, but even after you would still need products.

That was until you heard a knock on the bathroom door, causing you to jump and almost scream. "Babe? Are you in here?" It was Chan. What was he doing here? Maybe this is a good thing, but then maybe not. It's embarrassing. You're literally stuck on the toilet. "Chan.. what are you doing here? You're supposed to stay away when I'm sick!" You shouted, scolding him. The door then opened slightly, a arm sticking inside with a box of products that you were in dire need of. Furrowing your eyebrows, you looked at the box. "H-how did you know?" You asked, your voice soft and your face and bright red. "Here, let's get you out of here and into bed." Hiding his eyes behind his hand, he walked into the bathroom slowly, handing you the box before stepping out to wait for you.

Quickly freshening yourself up, you exited the bathroom and refused to make eye contact with your boyfriend who sat on your bed. "Why are you here.." you mumbled as you walked back to the bed and sat down. "Well, I thought you could use some company. I knew you weren't sick since you always come up with an excuse to not be around me the same time every month." He replied, moving closer and laying in his normal spot. Chan grabbed your arm and gently pulled you down into his arms, your back to his chest as he began to rub your stomach.

"Well, how did you know I needed those?" You asked, your face still red from embarrassment. "I saw you were out yesterday before I left. And since you didn't go out yesterday, I knew you didn't buy any. I'm a pretty observant boyfriend." He replied with a chuckle, nuzzling his face into your neck. "But it's not your responsibility! It's too gross for you-" Chan immediately cut you off by pinching your hip gently. "It's not gross, and it is my responsibility to be their for my partner. You'll be having periods even when we are married. Our daughters will get them. It's normal and just a part of life.. You don't have to be scared or embarrassed." He reassured you as he kissed your neck softly. "It's my job to take care of you, and right now, I need to cuddle you and distract you from the pain." You smiled softly. Despite still being embarrassed, you relaxed into his hold, the pain in your abdomen calming from the massage Chan gave.

The next few days, Chan watched over you, tending to all your needs. He was making breakfast in the morning for you, dinner at night. He had medicine for the pain and sweets for the cravings. As much as you tried to tell him you were fine and he didn't need to stay, he just pressed his lips to yours to quiet you. He was happy being able to spend time with you.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Tag list: @tangerineastronaut

If you would like to be able to my tag list, comment or dm me. You could be tagged for certain groups/artist/shows or every fic i post!

[defiantinnies]

Emotional Support - Seth Milchick

chapter two

pairing: Seth Milchick x fem!reader

cw: afab reader, slowburn, there will be very minor plot changes, milchick is lowkey unprofessional and ooc as time goes on, eventual sexual content and violence, not proofread

summary: Days in the MDR office are long. The lovely thing about them is him. And your co-workers. Definitely also your co-workers.

The transition from outie to innie in the elevator is definitely… disorienting. In a blink, you exist again. Your shoulders are stiff. Your hands are folded behind your back, yet you weren’t the one who put them there. At some point, you’ll get used to it, you used to think. More than 150 awakenings later, and you still haven’t.

It’s impossible to describe what it feels like, the time when your outie takes over. Because it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s so odd, something you’ll never be able to wrap your head around—how you could be entering the elevator to leave one moment, and enter the severed floor to start a new day the next. But you’re not tired. You’re not hungry. Nothing like that.

You walk through the halls, towards the office, wondering what today will bring. Maybe today you can officially greet Helly R. and get on her good side. If they stick to tradition, she’ll have her welcome party today. Less work, more interaction. You can’t decide if you like that or not.

One thing you’re sure you hate is the ball game they have you play. Actual conversation would be better, certainly much more engaging than one new person finding out how long you’ve worked here. Why do people need to know your favorite thing about the job? How you are one of the quickest refiners in MDR? You are sure nobody cares about such things.

There is less work though, which is a plus. You must be behind on the quota, though, given all the distractions in the last two days. Maybe Milchick will come talk to you again. You have been reconsidering that wellness session.

The trek to the office comes to an end. The grass-green carpet lightens with every step closer to your cubicle. Dylan is already there, while Mark and Helly chat in the storage closet. Irving should be arriving soon.

“Morning,” Dylan greets, already working on a file. You offer a tight-lipped smile in return, pulling out your chair and sitting down.

You boot up your computer, tapping your fingers lightly against the desk while you wait. In the meantime, Mark and Helly emerge from the storage closet. You exhale, roll your shoulders back, and click into your file. On the screen, numbers appear, shifting all around in patterns you’ve come to recognize. A familiar pair of polished shoes enter your periphery before you hear him.

“Good morning,” Irving says.

Dylan nods. “Morning, Irv.”

You offer yet another tight-lipped smile and go back into your work. Soon enough, you focus your attention to the endeavors of your fellow refiners.

Across the cubicle, Mark has already settled himself under Helly’s desk, adjusting the wiring on her monitor. Dylan, meanwhile, has taken on the role of self-appointed guide. He gestures towards his workspace, already launched into his monologue that you have been tuning out as you work.

“My current file’s called ‘Tumwater’, which I started some weeks back. ‘Tumwater.’ All one word.”

Helly tilts her head, flipping through a guidebook. “Should I be taking notes?”

Mark, still under the desk, answers before Dylan can. “No.”

Dylan continues, gesturing at the trinkets lined on his desk and in his drawers. “I’ve got 96 percent sorted, which means I’ve earned four of the five tier incentives, including the erasers and the finger traps that you see displayed here.”

Helly squints at them, unimpressed.

“100 percent is tier five,” Dylan explains. “That gets you a caricature portrait. You’ll note I’ve accrued an embarrassment of wealth in that regard.”

“Wow,” Helly deadpans.

Dylan is satisfied. “Correct.”

You barely register the exchange, already immersed in the patterns on your screen. Woe, frolic, dread, malice. Your fingers twitch toward the keyboard, eliminating each new threat you notice. Then—

“Hello, Refiners.”

Mr. Milchick’s voice cuts through the room, smooth and practiced. Neatly arranged bowls and plates of variously colored melons sit in a cart he has pushed in alongside him.

Dylan perks up. “Ooh, sweet. Melon bar.”

You glance up to see Milchick standing near the entrance, hands clasped in front of him.

Irving stands. “Hi, Mr. Milchick,” he says. You admire his dedication.

Milchick smiles at him, and his gaze flickers to Helly. “Helly, welcome.” His smile widens. “I’m agog at how well I can tell you’re already fitting in. The office feels whole.”

“Now, let’s get this party started.” He continues.

The ball game begins as it always does. Milchick picks up the ball, tossing it lightly between his hands before rolling it towards Irving.

Irving catches it smoothly, sitting up straight with the ball in his lap. “Well, my name is Irving, as you all know. I’ve worked here for three years, and something about me is that… I know all nine core Lumon principals.”

“Awesome.” Milchick grins. “What's your favorite?”

Irving pauses, as if caught off guard by the question. “All nine,” he says, “but today… I think I'd say… cheer.”

He ends his sentence with a smile.

“Great.” Milchick replies with a nod.

Irving rises from his chair and steps to the center of the circle of chairs. He places his hands over his chest, holding the ball, and lets himself fall backwards. Milchick rises swiftly to catch him before he can fall any further.

“Uh-oh, no trust fall today, Irv,” he remarks.

“Oh. Right.” Irving sits back down. He shifts his body towards Helly, who silently begs him not to give it to her. But he does, with a stifled chuckle after it makes its way to her feet.

Helly looks at the ball, then up at the circle of faces around her, her eyes flicking from one person to the next. She exhales slowly, clearly still processing it all. “Hello, I’m… Helly,” she begins, her voice uncertain. “I’ve been at Lumon for... about ten hours total. And, uh... I’m sorry, I don’t really know much about myself.”

Milchick’s smile remains unchanged. He chuckles. “Oh, sure you do, Helly.” He passes the ball back to her.

She hesitates, then looks to Mark, then Dylan. “I really don’t. I guess I went home last night, but I don’t know if home is a house or an apartment, or if I live with a family…”

Dylan shrugs. “I like to think my outie lives on a riverboat. Seems... peaceful.”

Helly has visible confusion written on her face. "I'm sorry," she says slowly. "Outies are...?"

Mark nods. "They're us. On the outside."

Right. She had seen her own outie just yesterday, in the video that confirmed her consent for this job.

"Right," she says, exhaling. "I actually have a few things to say to her. Can I record something back?"

Irving chuckles, shaking his head. Helly just stares.

"What you'll find here is that communication between selves is pretty curtailed." Milchick says. Still smiling. Like always.

Helly sighs, her frustration growing. "So what if I write her a note?"

"Fortunately, the elevators are equipped with something called code detectors. So messages can't be passed through.”

"Yeah," Mark adds. "They're like metal detectors, but for written symbols. A Lumon original, apparently."

Milchick nods at his words. “That’s right, yeah.”

Helly sighed, her frustration growing. "Okay, well what if I—"

"I don't think you're quite getting the game here, Helly," Milchick interrupts gently. "May I?"

She hesitates, then nods, handing him the ball.

Milchick turns to the group. "Guys, this is Helly," he announces. "She's thirty years old, she's allergic to almonds, and has weak enamel. At five foot six, she's the fourth tallest person in your office, and her hair is what we call shoulder-length."

The others nod along, feigning interest. Helly’s jaw tightens.

"And seeing her here with all of you," Milchick continues, his eyes tracking against all of the refiners, voice softening just slightly, "I'd say she most definitely has a family."

Then, he passes the ball to you. You pick it up, resting it on your lap, then look at Milchick, who gives an encouraging nod.

“My name is Y/N. I’ve been working at Lumon for about seven months now… and one thing about me is that I was named fastest refiner last quarter.”

You quickly pass the ball to Mark.

“Never gonna stop gloating about that one, are you?” He teases. You shrug back. Mark clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he grips the ball. “Uh, so I'll just say that I'm Mark,” he begins. “Been with Lumon about two years, and I absolutely love this game.”

Milchick raises a eyebrow, a smirk forming on his face. “Uhh, nice try pal, but you said that last time.”

Mark groans playfully, pointing the ball at Milchick like he didn’t think he’d catch that. “Fair enough.” He exhales. “Well, I, um…” He hesitates, glancing at the floor before looking back up at the group. “I broke protocol this morning.”

You sit up slightly. You did notice something was missing from your desk this morning, but you couldn’t quite place what it was.

Mark shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I was dusting the old group photos, the ones with Petey,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “And it just… made me feel sad.” He pauses. “And, I guess, worried that I won't be able to run MDR like he did.”

Dylan nods. “That tracks. I have similar worries.”

Mark glances at him, exhaling through his nose. “So I… took 'em from the cubicles and put 'em in the storage closet,” he admits. “Which we're not supposed to do.”

Irving straightens in his seat. “I recall this. I objected.” You must have tuned out when he did, because you don't remember him doing so.

Milchick nods once. “Thank you for telling me, Mark.” His tone is nearly understanding. “I actually find your reaction sweet.” He tilts his head slightly. “Though, it is puzzling you have an outburst like this for Petey, and not for, say, Carol D.”

Mark shakes his head. “But we knew Carol D. was leaving beforehand. I mean, her outie filmed a thank-you. Petey was just… gone.” His voice wavers slightly. “And I mean, I... I don’t know if he's at some new job or drunk on a beach, or dead…”

“That’s enough, please,” Milchick interjects firmly. The room falls into a deafening silence. “I think this is a good time to remind ourselves that things like deaths happen outside of here. Not here.” His gaze sweeps across the group, his ever-present smile tempered with something sterner. “A life at Lumon is protected from such things.”

You can’t help but notice how effortlessly he steers the conversation back into Lumon’s carefully crafted narrative.

“And I think a great potential response to that from all of you is gratitude,” Milchick adds, his warm grin returning in full force. “I also think that melon isn't getting any tastier.”

And suddenly you’re up. But you don’t head towards the melon bar like the others. Milchick lingers near his seat as everyone walks away before heading over to the opposite corner of the room, where a camera already sits. Seriously, when did all this stuff start appearing? You need to pay attention more, you think. You take the opportunity to catch up to him, clearing your throat lightly.

"Mr. Milchick," you say, keeping your tone even. He turns, slowing his pace and letting you walk alongside him.

His eyebrows are raised in mild curiosity. "Yes?"

You gesture toward the table. "You’re not getting any melon?"

He chuckles lightly. "I’ve had my fill," he replies. "Besides, I think the team deserves their moment with it."

You smile. "Big of you."

He tilts his head slightly, amused. "I try."

There’s a brief pause, the hum of conversation from the group filling the space. He begins touching around at the camera, probably fixing the settings or something. "Are you feeling better today?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Ready to get back to work."

"Good," he says smoothly, leaning down to look into the camera. “I like a well-run floor."

Before the conversation can stretch any longer, he claps his hands together, turning back to the room.

"Okay, refiners! Let’s get this new group photo before the melon bloat sets in!”

Mark chuckles off in the distance. The five of you haul off a short distance in front of the camera. You settle yourself next to Irving, clasping your hands together and placing them in front of your crotch.

“All right. Great big smiles. Remember, you're gonna be looking at this every day.” Milchick’s voice rings out with practiced enthusiasm. “Say gratitude!”

“Gratitude!” all but Helly respond in unison.

“Say cheer!”

“Cheer!” all but Helly echo back. Suddenly, Helly disconnects herself from Mark's side and walks over to her desk.

Milchick’s expression shifts to one of confusion. “Helly? What are you doing?”

All attention is on her as she writes something on a sticky note. “Oh, I... I just think I’m not gonna work here anymore. Sorry.”

Mark follows her. “What do you mean?”

Helly shoves the sticky note in front of his face. “I quit.” She marches to the door.

“I don’t wanna do the file-sorting thing,” she continues, her voice steadier now. “Or the never-seeing-the-sun thing or the disappearing-friends thing. I just don’t want any of it.”

“We told you there’s code detectors.”

Helly scoffs. “Do you know that? Have you tried? Because frankly, it sounds made up.” She exits the office.

Milchick shoots Mark an expectant look, making him chase after her.

You, Dylan, and Irving all glance at each other.

“I was a little freaked my first week. Didn’t do all this though,” Dylan mutters.

“Maybe it’s different for ladies,” Irving says.

Then they look at you.

“I didn’t do anything like this either.” You respond.

“Alright. I want you all to get back to work. The melon bar will remain until lunch time, so eat up.” Milchick says. You can hear the disappointment in his voice—how things didn’t go how he expected them to.

You quickly get back to work, like he instructed. Your file waits for you. You cannot help but think about Milchick, however. He is such a dedicated worker. There’s a part of you that admires his commitment, just as you do Irving’s. Because, deep down, you resent what you are. What you all are. No matter how many times you try to suppress it, there is a quiet but persistent malice in your heart toward the company. You were made to serve, to work, to exist for the benefit of something greater than yourself, and you hate that.

And yet, alongside that malice, there is something else. Something lighter. Frolic, as the old Lumon handbook describes it. The two seem to coexist in you, entwined, inseparable. You can loathe this place and still find joy within it. There is love in your heart, too. A deep affection for your co-workers, for Milchick. Even if you aren’t exactly sure what his first name is.

There’s something else lurking in your thoughts when you’re with him. You cant quite seem to name it. It’s something between woe and frolic, between dread and malice, tangled up in a way that makes no sense. It is a sensation that creeps in like an error in a file, something misplaced, something that shouldn’t be there. It twists in your stomach, warming and gnawing at the same time, leaving you restless in your chair.

It’s not like the easy fondness you have for Dylan’s jokes or Irving’s lectures. No, this is different. Sharper. There’s an unease to it, like standing too close to something dangerous, something you should fear, but don’t. You think of the way Milchick moves, precise and controlled, his presence a constant, steady force. The way his voice commands the room, firm but never cruel. The way his eyes settle on you sometimes, just a second too long, and the way your pulse stutters when they do.

Whatever the feeling is, it doesn’t belong. Focus on something else. The weight of your breath, the sound of footsteps against the floor, the way the light shifts in the room. Anything but this. Keep typing, keep steady. If you don’t acknowledge it, maybe it’ll disappear.

[justallihere]

opened my document of sitq scrapped scenes for reasons i've now forgotten, but there's a couple things there i really liked that never fit in what i published, and it's been a while since i've shared any of these, so here you go! these are all entirely unedited and cut off in weird places, so don't take it too seriously. enjoy!

a deleted scene between vi, ridoc, and sawyer from the planning stages of the journal heist (also, proof that the idea of malek and his consort was in my head for a long time before i ever wrote it):

“He’s fucking useless,” Violet muttered to herself, channeling her restless energy into straightening the papers and books on her desk until everything sat in neat piles. 

“No, he’s terrified of your husband carving him up into tiny pieces,” Ridoc corrected. 

“I still can’t believe you broke into your mom’s office without me,” Sawyer said for the third time. He’d been understandably upset when he found out about the late-night adventure he’d missed out on the week prior, but Violet hadn’t apologized. 

Neither had Ridoc, who’d quickly grown bored with Sawyer’s complaints. He scoffed. “You would rather knock out infantry and sneak into the admin building because Violet got that look on her face than go down on your girlfriend?” 

Sawyer blushed. “Okay, look—“

“No one’s blaming you,” Violet said, flipping open the front cover of The Unabridged History of the First Six. Jesinia had found her this morning to pass the book off after her unproductive conversation with Cam yesterday. She’d skimmed most of it already and hadn’t found anything particularly useful. “Jesinia gave a glowing review. Good for you.” 

Despite the color in his cheeks, Sawyer persisted. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to pull off a fucking heist, you could warn me. Or at least not wait almost a week to tell me.” 

“I’m just saying,” Ridoc retorted, “that if you want to be included then you could try celibacy like the rest of us.“ 

“You spent the night with that third-year from First Wing two nights ago,” Sawyer pointed out. “And Rhiannon and Tara aren’t quiet. Violet’s the only celibate person in this squad.” 

“Let’s not talk about my sex life,” Violet interrupted. 

“You don’t have one,” Ridoc said with a charming grin. “But when you do, I expect to hear all about it.” 

She glared and changed the subject back to their initial discussion. “We’ll try to make our breaking and entering schedules align better next time.” Because there would almost certainly be a next time. 

“That’s all I ask,” Sawyer said with a pointed look at Ridoc. 

The three of them were alone in Violet’s room. Rhiannon was in a leadership meeting, and Liam was taking a shower and likely to join them at any moment. Violet hid the book on the First Six beneath another history text and tucked them both into the bottom drawer of her desk. It was where she kept Brennan’s journal and The Fables of the Barren. With the conversation from this past weekend and Brennan’s request still fresh on her mind, she pulled out the Fables and set the book on her desk. 

“There’s nothing useful in the book Jesinia gave you, Vi?” Ridoc asked. 

“It’s a very abridged version to be unabridged,” she said dryly, flipping open the worn leather cover. “I don’t know what to try next. Jesinia says there isn’t much else in the Archives, about the Six or the wards in general. Nothing useful, at least—it’s all about expanding, not creating.” 

“It’d be nice if we had their journals,” he said. “Maybe that’s one of the things your dad was after.” 

The first several fables were about the gods—the very first one was about Malek and his consort, and Violet had always liked that one best. She ran her hands over the illustrations of the god of the dead and the shadowy figure at his side. “Whose journals?” she said absently. 

“Warrick and Lyra.” 

Violet paused, let the words settle, and finally turned slowly to look at Ridoc after a beat too long. “Warrick and Lyra,” she echoed dumbly. 

“Two of the First Six riders,” he confirmed. 

“I know who Warrick and Lyra are,” Violet said, too sharply. “Why do you think they have personal journals?” 

“Because they’re in the Archives.” Ridoc was staring at her like she’d lost her head. Sawyer looked between the two of them, openly curious. Violet’s jaw dropped open. “When we broke into your mom’s office last year for Squad Battle, she had a ledger that listed them as being stored in a sublevel vault. I flipped through it while you were stealing the map.” 

It was an effort to close her mouth. “We don’t have sublevel vaults.” But even as she said it, it felt wrong. Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t the scribes store information in spaces even more secure than the general Archives, spaces that the average cadet or citizen had no idea about? 

History changes depending on who’s writing it, Cam had said. Did he know about the journals? Was that why he was here—looking for actual first-hand accounts of the history he seemed to be so interested in? 

Ridoc shrugged. “According to the paperwork in General Sorrengail’s office, we do,” was all he said. 

“Markham would have told me. My dad would have told me,” Violet whispered, pulling her desk chair out to sit down heavily. 

His expression slipped into something a bit more sympathetic. “You already know he was keeping secrets about his work before he died,” he reminded her gently. “I’m not saying he did it to hurt you, but it’s likely he was keeping a lot of things from you. If your mom knows, doesn’t it make sense that he would have known, too? He was the scribe, after all. He spent a lot of time in the Archives, didn’t he?” 

Violet only shook her head. Not in a real form of disagreement—she just didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want there to be even more secrets to uncover. 

“Maybe he didn’t know,” Sawyer offered gently. 

She shook her head again. “He probably did,” she said, and it hurt to admit, but it felt like the truth. She turned back to the book still open, the only piece of her father she had left. She flipped through the pages again, unseeing, and made herself shake off the crushing feeling of disappointment and hurt. “What are we missing?” she asked Sawyer and Ridoc. 

“Clearance,” Ridoc said dryly. 

She threw him a glare over her shoulder. “In terms of information.” 

“Clearance,” Sawyer said, and earned the same dark look. He held up his hands. “Look, Vi, I know you want to know everything, but whatever this is, we don’t have the rank to find out, and I don’t think this is something you can stubborn your way into if Riorson isn’t going to just tell you himself. How do you expect to get in a sublevel vault of the Archives? Your mom’s apartment where you grew up is one thing, but breaking into probably the most secure place in Basgiath that we didn’t even know existed five minutes ago? That’s extreme, even for you.” 

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, scrubbing her hands over her face. “If it’s something so bad that Navarre has hidden it or erased it from their history entirely—“ Then what? She didn’t know. She didn’t have a plan for that. But that was what Cam had implied inadvertently, and it seemed to be what they were doing with her father—erasing him and his work. What could he have possibly known that was so dangerous Navarre didn’t even want a reference to it existing after his death? 

“We might never figure it out,” Sawyer said. 

“No,” Violet said firmly. She didn’t believe that; she couldn’t.

“Even if it’s not written down, people know. We just have to find the right one to tell us the truth.” 

“If not Riorson, then who?” Ridoc asked. 

That was the part Violet was still deciding. Cam was the most obvious choice, and he seemed to want her to know whatever it was—unlike Xaden and Brennan and her mother, who were actively hiding things and not dropping so much as a cryptic hint. Liam was a possibility, but she was fairly certain his loyalty to Xaden and his desire to keep her safe would win out over any desire to tell Violet the truth. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. 

“Helpful,” Ridoc drawled. 

She rubbed her eyes again. “Xaden will be here tomorrow. Maybe I can—“ 

She cut herself off when a knock came on the door. Violet was closest, and when she opened it, Liam was waiting, damp-haired and holding a physics textbook. “Please help me,” he said, holding up a half finished assignment, and Violet waved him in. 

She nudged The Fables of the Barren out of the way as he took a seat at her desk, her perusal of it forgotten in favor of his homework.

***

a funny little moment between sloane and violet about dain:

“Enjoying the view?” 

Sloane jumped at Violet’s approach. “I’m not staring,” she said quickly. 

“What do you call it, then?” Violet asked, amused. 

“Watching for technique.” 

Violet laughed. Dain and Ridoc were sparring, both of them shirtless and sweaty. On the mat next to them, Rhiannon was working with Tessa, patiently walking her through several offensive moves. She was much better than she had been three months ago; she looked stronger, had better posture, moved more smoothly. 

“Which one are you watching?” Violet asked. 

“Both,” said Sloane imperiously, lifting her chin. 

“Well, they’re both trouble, so good luck.” 

“I thought Aetos was all straight-laced.” Sloane rolled her eyes. “That’s what Liam says, at least. Told me to avoid him.” 

“Dain has a strict sense of morals,” Violet said carefully. “But he’s a good man, or he wouldn’t be here.” 

Sloane turned a critical eye her way. “Were you two ever. . .” 

“No,” Violet said. Sloane raised an eyebrow, and Violet smiled indulgently. “He kissed me once. It was nothing.” 

Sloane’s mouth dropped open. “You’re lying,” she hissed. 

“I am not.” 

“Does Xaden know?” she whispered, like it was some sort of dirty secret. 

“I’m sure he’s guessed.” 

***

and finally, an alternate take on xaden and violet's first kiss, taking place at athebyne immediately after xaden woke up from his injuries during the fight:

“Violet—“

She lurched forward, cutting off whatever else he might be about to say by covering his mouth with her own. He caught her, his hands bracketing her waist, but he was otherwise still beneath her touch. She waited, pressing closer, and finally he responded, his mouth slackening as he parted his lips to kiss her back. 

“Violet.” It was a groan this time, and he pulled her closer, hungry, urgent, impatient. Wanting. She kissed him again, again, tasting blood on his tongue. He lifted a hand to cup her face, his thumb pressing into her chin beneath her lower lip, and he drew back. “Violet.” Now it was cautious. 

“Xaden.” She waited for the rest of the sentence. 

“You never answered my question earlier.” He paused, and the silence stretched for a beat too long. 

She brushed their lips together again. “You technically never asked me a question,” she pointed out. “But in case it wasn’t clear, this is my answer.” 

“I want you to say it,” Xaden whispered.

Violet tipped forward until their foreheads touched, and she stayed there for a moment, sharing air. “I love you.” 

He swore, low like he couldn’t quite believe it, and kissed her like he’d never get to do it again. His hands tightened on her, one hand sliding from her waist to her hip, the other tilting her face so he could kiss her deeper, nipping at her lower lip. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but she felt the sensation all over her body. She wound her hands into his hair and shuffled closer. His hands slid down from her hips, gripping her ass to pull her body flush against his. He broke the kiss, tugging her lip between his teeth as he drew back. “Say it again,” he ordered in a rough voice, and she shuddered. 

“I love you.” She found his mouth again, unsure how to be separate from him now that they’d started this. Between gasps for air, she murmured, “I love you. Tell me you love me.” 

He groaned. “I love you.” He gripped her thigh, pulling her knee up and over so it was braced on the bed against his hip, straddling his thighs. “More than anything.” She pushed forward until Xaden leaned back against the bed and she was half-kneeling above him, still trying to memorize the taste of him. “More than everything.” 

She licked into his mouth, shivering when he dug his fingers hard into her skin and pulled her up higher so she sat atop his stomach to reach his mouth easier. Her hands roamed, sliding from his hair, down across his neck and shoulders and broad chest. She reached the hem of his shirt and was sliding her hands beneath the material to touch his bare skin when the door opened. 

Violet jerked back, startled, but Xaden only followed her, levering himself upright to try to kiss her again—until he looked over her shoulder and glowered. 

“Go the fuck away,” he ordered, wrapping both arms around her waist to pull her close, like whoever had entered might try to steal her away from him. He kissed the curve of her jaw, and Violet tried again to squirm away, but he held her too tightly. 

The person at the door made a low sound of disgust. “I wanted to check on you, but I see you’re doing fine,” Brennan said. 

Violet jolted again. It would have been bad enough if it was Bodhi or Garrick, but for her big brother to see her plastered against Xaden like this—she’d never hear the end of it. 

Xaden didn’t seem to agree, or to care. “You’re going to see a lot more that you don’t want to see if you don’t leave now.” 

“Xaden,” Violet hissed. 

He only tipped her chin up and brushed his lips over hers. “You tell him to go away,” he murmured. 

“Brennan,” Violet said firmly. “Leave.” 

[daisynik7]

Iris

And I don't want the world to see me, ‘cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x f!reader

Rating: Mature – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~4.5k (I went way over than I was supposed to, lol)

cw: switching POVs (2nd person reader, 3rd person Eren), canon-universe, VERY canon-divergent, consider this a what-if scenario, major AOT spoilers up to season 4, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut – PIV sex (cowgirl position), fingering 

Summary: At the Battle of Fort Slava, Eren Jaeger, hell-bent on launching his ultimate attack on Marley, injures himself to pose as a wounded soldier, granting him admittance to the hospital to finalize his plans. You, an Eldian volunteer working at the hospital, start treating this new patient, nervous about his mysterious demeanor. Eventually, you learn that you have much more in common with each other than you think. 

Author’s Note: Thank you @ichinosejager13 for your second request for the y2k karaoke party! I did something totally different this time; I wrote a fic set in the canon universe. I thought it fit well with this song, so I hope you like it! While it’s set in the canon universe, it is very obviously canon divergent, so please remember I took a lot of liberties with this. I am in no way suggesting that any of this is what I wish happened in canon. I just think it was an interesting idea to write. Also, I understand that this will seem very out-of-character for Eren, but let’s just roll with it because it's all in good fun, lol. 

Like, reblogs, and/or comments are ALWAYS appreciated! Thank you for reading! MDNI banner by @/cafekitsune.

Fort Slava, huddled in the trenches. Blade through his leg, bullet in his eye. This is the last vivid memory Eren can recall as he stands in line outside the hospital, waiting to be admitted. Some asshole Marleyan imitates explosion sounds, causing all of those around him to fall to the ground, cowering in fear. They suffer trauma from the battlefield, and even Eren, with a clear conscious now, is affected by it. A kid, another Eldian dawning the same yellow armband as he is, steps towards them, kneeling down to help them up. He even assists Eren, correcting his armband to his left arm instead of the right. Luckily, it goes unnoticed by everyone else, which is exactly what he wants. 

It's all part of his plan; the attack on Marley. It’s been in the works for months now, starting with his infiltration of the army, fighting alongside Marleyans and Eldians alike. He thought he’d have better clarity of the situation, maybe get convinced to call the whole thing off after bonding with other solders through the tragedies of violence and war. Unfortunately, it’s only made him realize how much more he needs to follow through with it. Nothing will ever change in this cruel world unless he’s the one to do it. 

There are days when he gets cold feet. He’s tempted to re-evaluate, find a way back to his home of Paradis, reunite with his friends, devise a better plan and figure it out together. But in all the futures Eren can see, his current plan is the only one that will work. The only one that will grant him the freedom he’s been chasing his entire life.  

The process is slow to get a room in the hospital. Luck remains on Eren’s side when he’s assigned a private room. It’s barren; a single-bed, just long enough to accommodate his stature, withered sheets and rusted iron on the frame. There’s a small nightstand beside it with two drawers to hide his belongings, which is essentially nothing, and atop is a small lamp, illuminating the room in a dreary glow. It’s not luxurious, but it’s enough for the time-being. Because that’s all Eren needs right now: time. 

Eventually, Zeke will find him. They’ve been contacting each other for a while now, and Eren has a firm grasp on what his older brother is trying to convince him to do with the Founder’s power. While he doesn’t agree with his idea to euthanize the entire race of Eldians, Eren needs to entertain it long enough to manipulate Zeke into letting him use his royal blood. 

It's all convoluted and fucked up, he’s aware of that. Somedays, he wishes he could escape this curse without doing anything at all. That one day, he’d be gone from this world, liberated from his Titan power, saved from this burdened life. This isn’t what he imagined while reading all those books he and Armin would marvel at as kids. This isn’t the freedom he was hoping for. 

He rests in his pathetic, yet oddly comforting bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. His leg and eye are still wrapped in bandages, so a nurse should be coming soon to check on him. There’s a faint commotion out in the hallway, but Eren is too lazy and too uninterested to investigate. Soon, it subsides, and the door swings open, revealing a women around his age, wearing a nurses uniform and the yellow Eldian patch on her left arm. He recognizes the attire from battle; the army had a few nurses stationed at the fort for casualties. 

“Mr. Kruger?” she asks. 

It takes him a second to remember the alias he decided to use. He confirms it, nodding his head silently. 

She gives him a warm smile, introducing herself. “I’ll be helping you from now on.”

~~~

You started working at the hospital a few months ago. For Eldians, it’s nearly impossible to be accepted into higher education, so nursing school was never an option. With opportunities so scarce, your best bet was to apply for a volunteer position at the hospital in hopes of using that as a steppingstone for an actual paying job. You don’t expect a promotion any time soon, not even in the near future, but at least you’re spending your time helping others.

While it’s rewarding, it isn’t glamorous or pretty in the slightest bit. Because you lack the proper education, your tasks mostly include bathing, feeding, cleaning up any accidents or messes. Occasionally, if your patient is open to it, you spend time with them chatting, doing activities with them, listening to their stories. This is rare, though. Most that are admitted are Marleyans who refuse to speak to you because of your status. Some are even reluctant to have you help them in the first place. The Eldians, sadly, are usually too traumatized to open up, so you do your best to make them comfortable however you can. 

When you meet your newest patient, Eren Kruger, you don’t expect him to be any different from the rest. You are, however, surprised at how young he is; he can’t be any older than you, judging by his appearance. His records show nothing except for his name and his status as an Eldian, which isn’t unusual, so you don’t think much of it. “Mr. Kruger, I know you must be hungry,” you start. “Lunch will be arriving soon. If you need assistance, I’ll be here to help you.”

He acknowledges you with another curt nod, remaining silent. You can’t help but notice how brilliantly green his eyes are. Have you ever seen irises like his before? You let the inappropriate thought vanish quickly before you ask, “Would you like me to bathe you now or after you eat?”

At this, his brows tighten. “Bathe?” 

“Yes, Mr. Kruger. We can bathe you before or after lunch, it’s up to you – ”

“I don’t want to bathe,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You blink at him, unsure how to respond. “Surely you must want to be clean – ”

He interrupts you again, muttering, “How can I, when I’m like this?”

You understand his hesitation now, not needing further explanation. Sometimes, patients with missing limbs have expressed concern submerging themselves in a tub full of water, not wanting to get their bandages wet. Quickly, you clarify, “It would be a sponge bath. We can do that while you’re lying in bed, actually. And your bandages will stay intact.”

This seems to be the answer he’s looking for. His expression relaxes when he says, “After. I want to do it after I eat.”

You smile softly at him, noting it on your checkboard. “Understand. I’ll go check on your meal now. Is there anything else you need from me?”

A beat passes before he replies, “Pen and paper. For letters.”

You write it, reminding yourself to bring it when you return with his meal. “Got it.”

A few minutes later, you return with a tray of food along with a wad of paper and two pens. You set it on his nightstand beside him, waiting for him to move it. When he doesn’t, staying still, staring blankly at the foot of the bed, you clear your throat. “Mr. Kruger?”

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs. 

“But you haven’t eaten all day. You need nourishment if you’re going to get any better.”

“And who says I want to get better?” He glares at you, startled by the intensity in his gaze. 

You swallow hard, nervous, but still resilient. “You have to eat. You owe it to yourself after what you’ve been through.”

“And how would you know what I’ve been through?” His voice is steady, a hint of venom, barely enough to sting. But you’re determined. You sit at the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him. Reaching for the tray, you set it down on your lap, sighing. “I don’t know. I have no idea what war is like out there. All I know is that it’s not great for us here. At least out there, you’re fighting together as a unit. Marleyan, Eldian, it doesn’t matter. You’re working to defeat our enemy. And who knows? If we ever win the war, maybe life will be better for us here.” You shove the tray towards him, glaring back at him. “So the least you could do is try to see it through and survive, right?”

He studies you carefully, contemplating how to respond. Glancing at the tray in front of him, he smirks, scooping a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. You ease up, tension releasing from your shoulders. 

After a few more bites, he speaks. “Who do you think the enemy is?” 

Just when you thought you were in the clear, he asks you another question. “It was the Mid-East Allies. That’s who you fought at Fort Slava.” 

“But who do you think the real enemy is?” He’s finished with his potatoes, now moving on to his meatloaf. 

“Well, I suppose it’s whoever the government says it is.” You’re unsure what kind of answer he’s searching for.

“And if they say that we’re the enemy, then what?” He points between you, leaving you confused. 

“We…?”

“Eldians. Devils.”

“No, no. The Devils are on the island. We’re…we’re not like them.”

“Are you sure?” He stuffs the rest of the meat into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it all down. “What makes you think you’re any better here than you are there?”

Your face feels hot now, and you start to stammer. “Because…because that’s what we were told. We’re on the right side. They’re on the wrong.” 

His plate is nearly clean now. He slides his fingers on the remnants, licking it off before chugging half a glass of water. “What if I told you there’s a place for people like us? A place where you wouldn’t have to walk around with an armband. A place where you were treated fairly. Would you want to go to a place like that?” 

You feel yourself drawn in by his words. The idea of it sounds impossible. Ever since you were born, you were taught to know your place in this world. That place was here in Marley, destined to be a second-class citizen. You were told that the island across the sea was full of devils like you, but because you’re here, you’re better. You can’t deny that you’ve been curious what life is like out there. All this time, you thought it must be worst, secluded on an island, hated by the rest of the world. 

But is this life any better? Secluded in your own community and still hated by the rest of the world?

You pick the tray up from his lap, muttering, “I’ll go get your sponge bath ready.”

He doesn’t add anything else, watching you silently. You walk towards the door, ready to leave. Before you do, you say, “And to answer your question: I would.”

~~~

It was supposed to be innocent banter, that’s what Eren intended. He figured he could chalk it up to the trauma speaking for him, that she wouldn’t even be remotely interested in what he had to say. He thought she’d be like all the other naïve, brainwashed Eldians, ignorantly believing everything that was told to them. He realizes soon enough that he was wrong to underestimate her.

She comes to him every day, fulfilling her volunteer duties. Their daily routine begins with breakfast, then a morning stroll in his wheelchair out in the courtyard. Sometimes they’ll play chess at one of the tables, sometimes it’s checkers. Lunchtime comes, and then it’s time for a bath, one of Eren’s favorite parts of the day. Her hands are always gentle, gliding along his skin with a damp sponge. They’ll do another stroll outside, this time on his crutches, where he practices how to walk. Dinner arrives when it’s already dark out, and occasionally, he’ll ask her to read the latest news from the paper. 

While all this happens, they talk. They talk a lot. 

As expected, she figures out that Eren is from Paradis, though he bends the truth about his true intentions for being here. She doesn’t know about his Titan powers, thinking he’s a refugee seeking sanctuary here. Surprisingly, she isn’t offended about it; in fact, she’s curious. They spend most of their time together sharing stories of their childhood. Eren describes life in Paradis, she describes life in Marley. While there are stark differences between their upbringings, there are also blatant similarities. And together, they come to the gut-wrenching conclusion: Eldians are terrorized wherever they are, whether it’s here, or across the sea. 

Eren has only sent one letter in the past two weeks, and that was to his friends back home, informing them that he is in Marley, safe and sound. He doesn’t disclose his plan to them yet. In all honestly, he’s not sure what the plan is anymore. Zeke still hasn’t found him, nor has Eren gone out of his way to be found. What Eren does know is that he enjoys spending time with the woman who helps him. So much that he’s losing grip on what he’s supposed to be doing here. He has to do something soon.

It comes to a head one night, three weeks after he was admitted to the hospital. Eren requests for another sponge bath after dinner; it was a hot day and he worked up a sweat during their afternoon walk. She helps him strip his shirt off, starting with the wet, warm sponge at his chest, massaging small circles onto his sticky skin. He watches her carefully, noticing her eyes lingering on his body more so than usual. 

He speaks softly into her ear, leaning in close. “I have something to tell you.”

She continues above his waist, hands gently scrubbing, not bothering to look at him when she responds. “What is it, Eren?”

He’s thought about this all day. The plan. “Would you like to visit Paradis?”

This time, she does look at him, confused. “What?”

Louder now, and more confident, he says, “Come to Paradis with me. See what it’s like there.”

She scoffs. “I can’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is my home.”

“They treat you like nothing here,” he argues. “At Paradis, you’re somebody. We can be safe at Paradis.”

She stops, tossing the sponge into the bucket of water beside her, frustrated. “Safe? After everything you’ve told me? You said it yourself; you’ve been terrorized by Titans since you were a kid. Every nation in the world wants Paradis gone. How can it be safe?”

He swallows thickly, gripping her hand delicately in his. “I can’t explain everything right now, but I have a plan. We have a plan.” He recalls one of the last memories he has of Armin, his brilliant friend, suggesting a small-scale Rumbling, enough to scare the rest of the world from attacking Paradis for centuries. He dismissed it quickly then, but now, he considers it. Could this be their best option? Instead of the billions of casualties Eren had originally devised? “You just have to trust me for now. Once we’re there, I can explain everything.”

She stares at him, clearly in shock from his suggestion. He doesn’t blame her. Eren is asking her to give up everything she knows. 

“Eren,” she starts, squeezing his hand tighter. “I don’t know if I can do that.” 

He smiles at her, brushing his thumb across her knuckles delicately. “I understand. I know it’s a big ask, and I shouldn’t have expected you to say yes. I just…I just think I know what I can do for Paradis to make it safe for people like us. Somewhere we can be ourselves, where people will know us for who we are, and not for what they see on our armbands.”

“It sounds like paradise,” she says quietly.

“It does. And I think I could make it that way. I know I can.”

She sighs, retrieving the sponge again. “I want to believe you, Eren. But I don’t think I can throw away my life for something I’m unsure of.” She starts to slide his pants off, ready to wash below his waist.

“Please, just consider it. I plan to leave soon, within the next few days. I just have to send out a letter tomorrow, and I should be ready to go.”

“You’re leaving? Already?”

“I know what I have to do now. I can’t waste any more time when we can end this war now.”

She peers at him, tears welling in her eyes. “I…” 

“What is it?” He sits up, leaning in close to cup her cheek, brushing away her falling tears. 

“Will we ever see each other again?” Her voice is trembling, lips quivering. His heart sinks into his stomach, seeing her like this.

He presses his forehead to hers. “I’ll find you when this is all over. I promise you. Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere near the shore, okay?” The small-scale Rumbling should only affect the fleets, which will be in the middle of the ocean, far from the shore. Still, he can’t risk anything happening to her. Not when he isn’t there to protect her.

She nods, not asking for any further explanation. He presses a small kiss to her forehead. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring us peace.” 

~~~

Eren asks you to drop off a letter in the mailbox, addressed to someone named Azumabito. Apparently, she is an ally to Eldians who is stationed here in Marley, so she can arrange a ship for him to head back home. 

There are still so many questions left unanswered, though you decide not to ask them. Maybe it’s foolish to trust someone you’ve only known for a month. But Eren has given you more truth about this harsh world that anyone else the entire time you’ve been here. And he’s the only one who’s ever promised you a better life. 

Two days after you mailed the letters, you receive a response. It’s addressed to you, though you’re sure it’s meant for Eren. There’s a fancy insignia stamped to one corner of the envelope: a circle with a triangle in the center, formed by samurai swords. You keep it safe in your pocket as you head for the kitchen, ready to deliver Eren’s dinner. 

He reads it when he’s finished with his meal. You watch as he scans the letter carefully, mouthing a few words under his breath. When he reaches the end, he looks up at you, a small grin on his face. “She’s arranged a ship for tomorrow morning, before sunrise.”

You gasp, surprised at how soon his departure is. “Tomorrow?”

He nods, folding the letter and tucking it beneath his pillow. 

You let out a deep breath, unsure what else to say. Noticing your quiet demeanor, he reaches for your hand to hold it. “I know this is happening so fast. But I’ve never been more certain about what I need to do until now.” He interlocks his fingers with yours, smiling. “And you helped me with that.”

“Me? How?”

“By being you. By giving me a chance to explain myself. Even when you found out I was from Paradis, you didn’t judge me. You got to know me. It showed me that there are people, good people, on this side. That even in a ruthless place like this, there is beauty to be saved.” 

You don’t say anything, throat too heavy with emotion to respond. Blinking away your tears, you take his tray from his lap, walking quickly to the door. Before you can leave, he asks, “Can you please come back to help me shave?”

Without turning to face him, you nod, exiting his room, stifling your sobs on your way down the hallway. Your heart yearns for more time with him. For the past few weeks, being here has been an escape from your painful reality. You’re not seen as an Eldian, you aren’t considered a second-class citizen. With him, you’re just you. 

You know that you can’t keep him caged here forever. Like a bird, he’s ready to spread his wings. He’s ready to be free. While you’re heartbroken to see him leave, you’re thrilled for him to fulfill his destiny. All you can hope is that one day, you’ll be reunited in a better place than here. 

You return to his room a couple of minutes later with everything you need to give him a close shave. His facial hair has grown out quite a bit since he arrived. You lather his face with a small amount of soap, scrubbing the suds off with a warm, wet towel. He closes his eyes, indulging in your relaxing touch. After mindful preparation, you begin to shave his goatee with a straight razor, pulling his skin taut, gliding the blade carefully across his chin, cleaning it after every stroke. When you’re done with his beard, you focus your attention on his mustache, delicately moving the razor until his skin is smooth and shaven. You smile as you wipe off any remaining residue with the towel. 

With everything discarded into the bucket of water set on the nightstand, you take this time to admire his face, memorizing every detail. The flutter of his lashes, the bridge of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline, the plush of his lips. It’s only now that you realize how close to him you are. You’re kneeling beside him on the bed, noses almost touching, your fingers grazing his smooth skin. He opens his eyes to look at you, and his breath hitches at the intimacy, glancing at your mouth. 

Before you can move, he closes the short distance, kissing you on the lips. As quickly as it happens, he pulls away, blushing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have asked first. I’m sorry – ”

You cut him off with another kiss, hungry for more. It’s his last day; in mere hours from now, he’ll be gone, and you’re not sure when you’ll see him again, if ever. It’s crossed your mind many times by now, how it would feel to be with him like this. The feeling of his lips on yours, the slide of his tongue in your mouth, the taste of his spit. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you’ve never thought about it. In fact, it’s been on your mind every night as you fall asleep, wishing you were in his arms instead of alone in your bed. 

He doesn’t pull away this time, sinking in deeper, slipping inside your mouth to swirl his tongue with yours. He’s just as sweet as you fantasized he’d be, luscious and rich in your mouth. His skin is smooth against your fingertips, tracing his jawline. One hand slides around your waist, tugging you closer to him, the other wraps around the nape of your neck, holding your head steady. You swing one leg over him, straddling his lap, hoisting the hem of your dress past your hips, revealing your panties. He moans, shifting beneath you in the bed to slip his trousers down, displaying his erection bulging in his underwear.

“Is this okay?” he huffs, catching his breath. His voice wavers, his only visible eye half-lidded with arousal, unable to keep his cool.

“Yes,” you answer, grinding yourself on him, kissing him sloppily. His grip is on your hips, guiding you to rut against his cock faster. The friction between you is enough to make you wet, your slick soaking through the fabric. 

“You’re an angel,” he whispers, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to make you feel good.” His thumb teases the elastic of your waistband, hand slipping inside to rub your clit against his fingers. 

“Eren,” you moan, his sensual touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. He slowly slides two digits inside you, massaging your bud with his palm while he pumps his fingers into your sopping cunt. His cock is stiff beneath you, watching you ride his hand, cursing under his breath until you reach your climax, coating him in your arousal. 

You’re breathing heavily, in a daze from your orgasm. He removes his hand from you, slipping it past his underwear to jerk his cock. You reach for him, tugging his bottoms down his legs, replacing his fist with yours, stroking him eagerly. He whispers your name, bucking his hips in tandem with your movements. You’re aching for more, desperate to feel him inside you, feel him deeper. You position yourself correctly, pulling the crotch of your panties to the side to  tease the head of his cock up and down your folds. He sits up on his elbows, watching you with a nervous expression on his face. “Are you sure?” he asks.

You nod, smiling at him. “I’m sure. I want to be close to you, Eren.”

He swears, letting his head fall back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. You sink down on him, his dick stretching you out smoothly, still sleek from your previous orgasm. He moans, craning his neck to take in the lewd sight before him. “Oh my god,” he groans, thrusting his hips into you. 

You ride him slowly, his entire length filling you up to the brim. He plants his feet into the mattress to fuck you deeper, the metal frame creaking with every thrust. It doesn’t take long until you’re both coming together. He shoots his load inside you while you gush all over him, creating a wet mess between you that you couldn’t care less about in the euphoric state you’re in. You lift off him, rolling to his side, relaxing into the pillow with him beside you, cradling you in his arms. He gives you a smooch on the cheek, nuzzling his nose with yours. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“What?”

“You really are an angel,” he says, smiling at you.

~~~

Eren wakes up alone, and he’s almost convinced that it was all a dream until he spots the small note scribbled on paper laying his nightstand. 

It’s too hard to say goodbye, so I won’t. I trust you to keep your promise. We’ll see each other again soon.

With daybreak approaching, Eren leaves for the docks quickly with only the clothes on his back and letters in his pocket, including hers. With sunrise teasing the horizon, he makes it to the meeting place just in time. He recognizes Azumabito and greets her, explaining the situation as they board the ship. She informs him that they are waiting for several other passengers, so he makes himself comfortable by a window.  

A few minutes pass and one of the crew approaches him. “Mr. Jaeger, there is a woman trying to board, claiming they are with you. Do you know anything about this?”

He glances out the window towards the docks and to his shock, he sees an angel with a suitcase in hand, talking to Azumabito. His heart races, overjoyed as he jumps out of his seat, sprinting out of the ship to meet her. 

[freak-accident419]

Make Me

Joosh Futturman (J-Futz) x GN!Reader

Summary: You come by Joosh’s house a year since you’ve broken up with him, after realizing you left your box of important belongings there. Seeing each other again after a long time sparked not only bitterness and resumed arguments, but also unresolved tension.

WC: 3.7k

Content: 18+ Smut, MDNI, gender neutral reader, no specific genitals mentioned (vague penetration), more plot than porn (you can tell I do that a lot.. i’m a storyteller, what do you expect?), takes place during S01E12 “Prelude to an Apocalypse”—you may have to watch this episode especially to understand the ending, hate/angry/rough sex, sort of fluff by the end, a bit silly and unserious sometimes because Joosh/J-Futz is such an unserious concept :3

(A/n: I love bad boy Josh (Joosh). Anyways, I’d like to share something that maybe you might appreciate—I’d like to think that in Season 3, nut-face Josh also brings this timeline version of you to Haven, to save you from how shitty Joosh treated you, so yeah.)

-

“Fucking shit, where is it?” You muttered to yourself, digging out your closet, drawers, and under your bed. But you couldn’t find it anywhere.

You had a small, antique box full of things that meant a lot to you: polaroids, souvenirs, trinkets, and old letters. You only just remembered about it now, because while you were speaking to a lifelong friend, they brought up the matching friendship bracelet that you kept ever since grade school. And while it was old and would barely even fit you, it was treasure to you—it meant so much to you.

That led you to remember all the other important and nostalgic things you’ve kept in that memory box. But you couldn’t find the actual box itself.

Which then made you realize sourly…

That if it wasn’t at your place…

Then it was at your ex’s.

It was a messy break up. Terrible, rushed, and chaotic. So much so, that you forgot to even take the significant box with you as you finally moved out of his house.

You groaned in frustration. It wasn’t even that important or worth it to retrieve, right? If you forgot about it for a year, it shouldn’t be that important.

However, it was filled with memories… Ancient baby photos of yourself, your parents, friends, then friendship bracelets, rings, gifts, handwritten letters. And what if your ex finds it? Who knows what he would do with all your personal stuff?

So, you decided. You needed to get it back. Even if it meant seeing your ex-boyfriend again:

Joosh Futturman.

***

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here.” Joosh spat as you stood on his front porch.

“Oh, save it, Joosh,” you say dismissively. He looked just about the same as you left him; a cocky and pissed off expression on his face, the small gold earring on his right ear, and the shitty, pretentious fashion choices. “I just left something important here. I forgot all about it because I was in a rush to leave. I don’t know how I forgot it after all these months, just… fuck, let me go get it and this’ll be the last time you’ll ever see me again.”

He glared at you for a while, observing you. This was the first time he’s seen you ever since you (rightfully) broke up with him. And you haven’t changed one bit.

He hated how no matter how much he believed he despised you, he still thought you were beautiful.

He shook his head to avoid that thought. “For the last fucking time, it’s J-Futz,” he corrected bitterly, which you would roll your eyes at. When you were still together, you were his exception. He hated whenever people called him Joosh instead of J-Futz because it triggered bad memories within him, but the way you said it was always like pure honey, no matter how ridiculous of a name it was. You two were aware that this exception wouldn’t apply anymore now that you’re broken up, but you continue to call him his real name out of spite.

After a brief moment of silence, Joosh decided to accept your proposal. “Fine, just… make it quick.”

It was definitely the moment you walked in that you knew: it was on. You hoped this encounter wouldn’t end with a messy argument again, but you already felt the tension in the atmosphere.

You still knew the house pretty well. You waltzed in, walking up the staircase to Joosh’s room, and kneeled by the bed, finally rummaging under it for your missing box. It took a while, since he ended up having a lot of junk under his bed, yet he acted so blamelessly impatient. “What’s taking so long?” He finally asked in irritation.

You scoffed, continuing to push other objects away. “Oh, fuck off. You’re the one who made this harder by putting all of your goddamn junk just stuffed under your bed.”

“Oh, please. I could easily get this all organized and cleaned up in less than an hour by any one of those guys who work for me,” he brazenly claimed, with an arrogant hinge of pride.

“You think that’s something you should be proud of?” You sneer, continuing to look through the mess. “Yeah, right, well, if anything, it’s just proving to me more how much of a careless, incompetent, lazy, man child of an asshole you are.”

“‘Lazy’? ‘Careless’? ‘Incompetent’? Are you hearing yourself, Y/n?” He scowled. “I am one of the most successful people on the planet. There is a reason why I’m rich and famous and admired. I am an entrepreneur, a CEO, an e-gaming sensation. And on top of that, I have a net worth of over six million euros.” You scoffed. You weren’t impressed or intimidated by any of this. “Take that for incompetent.”

You were just about fed up with this absurdly egotistical, selfish bastard. You popped your head out from under the bed and stood up, walking towards him until you were right in front of him. You wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his stupid face. “You know what? No. You’re just a self-obsessed asshole. You think that everyone admires you, but actually, everyone hates you. You—Your old ‘friends’ work for you and are obligated to please you because at the end of the day, you control their pay checks. They don’t actually like you. No one would. You’re a pathetic man, Joosh. All you’ve ever done was use and hurt people.”

There was an aggravated expression on his face, insinuating that you got to him—that your words got to him.

“Do you really think that I care about any of that? None of that shit matters to me as long as I’m wealthy and successful. My life is fucking awesome, and it’s even better now that I don’t have a nagging bitch being all up on my ass all the time.”

What he said barely affected you, but you wanted to add on anyways. “You know, I cannot fucking believe I fell in love with you,” you said, trying to hide any underlying sadness with your anger. “You used to be so good. You know that? But then you got greedy because money and fame just blinded you, and now you became a fucking asshole. For—For fuck’s sake, you put your parents into a shitty senior home after declaring them mentally incompetent through a court order!”

“Goddammit, Y/n, you’re the one who broke up with me!” He snarled. “Do you know how much shit the press gave me for that?”

You roll your eyes. How could he only care about his status still? “Of course you only care about your public image—”

“Okay, fuck, it hurt me too, okay? You hurt me. When you broke up with me, I had the worst damn weeks of my life.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s real funny,” you scoff at his illogicality. “Are you that fucking dense? I broke up with you because you changed! You had a little breakthrough in e-gaming, and then the hangers-on rushed in, and then fame and money—including your Uncle Barry’s money—started to corrupt you. You’re—you’re seriously trying to be the victim here? Do you know how many times you fucked up in our relationship after that?” Your blood boiled as you continued. “I—You’re insufferable! I seriously don’t know how I spent—” You corrected yourself, “I wasted three years with you.”

“Yeah? You took years out of my life too, Y/n. You know what, actually, just go get your shit so you can leave, and shut the fuck up,” he replied sternly.

“Actually, no, I don’t think I will. In fact, I should just remind you how you are the most egotistical, selfish, most narcissistic asshole on the goddamn planet! You are fucking incorrigible!” You exclaim, your voice coarse.

“I said shut up,” he huffs, stepping towards you threateningly.

“And I hate how much you believe that your money and fame is everything—is your fucking shitty solution for everything.”

“Y/n, stop that before you might say something you’ll regret.”

“Well, you know what, Joosh? You can have all the money in the world, and all the goddamn sponsors and magazine covers and press conferences, and shit, mass productions of your shitty energy drink, but… You’re gonna die alone.”

“Fucking shut up!”

“Yeah? Why don’t you fucking make me!” You retort.

Joosh suddenly pressed his lips on yours roughly, grabbing at the back of your neck to bring you in closer. You gasped the second he did this in surprise, but immediately kissed him back, feeling his tongue run against yours.

While he proceeded to make out with you, he walked forward until he pushed you down on his bed, barely giving the two of you any time to breathe before he presses his lips to yours once more.

“You never know when to fucking shut up, do you?” He grumbles lowly in your lips, placing a firm hand on your hip.

You pant heavily. “Yeah, then how about you stop giving me more reasons to complain about you, asshole?” You retort, moving your lips with his roughly, tongues fiercely mashing against each other.

From the moment you appeared at his doorstep, there was a sort of aggravating tension, which you would then realize was sexual, fueled solely by anger and resentment. It’s been more than a year since you’ve last seen him, more than a year since you two even had sex. You didn’t know what drove you to reciprocate his actions once he kissed you, or rather, you didn’t want to admit it.

Joosh threw off his jacket, then lifted his shirt off of his body, reminding you of what used to be one of your favorite things about him: his left nipple piercing.

Coming out of your trance, you mimic his actions, slightly lifting your back off the mattress so that you could remove your own shirt. You two finally discarded all your clothing in a rush until you were both completely naked against each other.

Joosh’s hand went on your side, then trailed down to your ass, then to the back of your thigh as he began to leave harsh kisses and bites on your neck, making you breathe faster.

“I fucking hate you,” he said piercingly in between kisses.

You chuckle sarcastically. “See, that’s the worst part of it all: you don’t even mean that.”

You knew your ex-boyfriend well enough to know that it would take more than a breakup and a couple of insults to get him to fully hate you. Especially while he barely detested you, regardless of everything.

He moved his head from your neck to face you. “Fine, what, you wanna know the truth? I hate that I still fucking love you.” He scowled, which caught you off guard. He placed his thumb on your bottom lip. “Open.”

You sucked his fingers off once they penetrated your mouth, sensually running your tongue along his digits. You didn’t expect him to say that now, that he still loved you, but you weren’t surprised either. The two of you had a very complicated relationship. Knowing him before his fame impacted the connection you two had; simply put, you knew him well. And you knew him well enough to be able to tell if he still loved you, which he did. You two knew each other well enough to still love each other.

After a while, he finally took his fingers out of your mouth, essentially using your saliva as a lubricant as he rubbed at your entrance vigorously, getting a soft, pleasured gasp out of you.

“A-and what, you think I don’t as well?” You huffed in response. You couldn’t lie to yourself either—you still loved him too. “I loathe it.”

Joosh sneered as he spit in his hand, pumping his cock, letting out a few, quiet grunts. “I hate that you came here today.”

”And I hate that I had always been desperate for your sad, below-average co—“ You let out a sharp inhale as you felt his entire length slide into you resistlessly.

“Yeah, but you take it anyway, don’t you?” he replied arrogantly with utmost vulgarity, beginning to move lustfully inside you.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you say, however, immediately becoming distracted from all the sensational feelings. You gulped a moan, glaring into his dark eyes. “Fuck, don’t even think that this means anything. I’m practically using you,” you grumble.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied.

Joosh had his hands gripping your hips as he thrusted into you, already at a quick pace, practically jerking his hips into yours with low grunts and huffs of breath. His cock deliciously stretched and caressed your walls at an artful rhythm.

Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head in pleasure, making you look up at the wall decor behind you, in which big, light up letters spelt out ‘SIN’. You let out quiet moans each time he pounded deeply into you, instinctively wrapping your legs around him to bring him even closer. His grip moved onto your thighs to support your legs, getting at an even better angle as his fingers dug into your skin. “Fuck… I really hate how you’re the only person in this world that knows exactly w-where and how to make me feel good,” you mutter as you look back at him.

The lewd, wet sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, alongside heavy breaths and moans beginning to increase. “And I hate that even after everything, I still want you. That I could get anyone I want with my status, but they’ll never be as good as you…” He let out a dark chuckle. “Look at you, so fucking needy for me…”

He pulled out, resulting in a whine escaping your lips, until he aggressively flipped you over on your stomach, making you take it from the back. His head is beside yours on the pillow as he let out soft moans, moving quickly into you, hitting all the right spots. It was like he remembered every little thing that kept you pleasured. You actually wouldn’t be surprised if he genuinely did.

The thing is, Joosh had always been a sweetheart. He was kind, considerate, and generous, all traits taught to him by his sweet parents. It wasn’t until after the fame where he began to rot.

Hell, you two used to make love. Then after, it was all quickies and straight up fucking.

So you couldn’t understand how or why he still loved you, but you know he does.

You moaned louder, feeling his fingertips digging into the skin of your hips as he pulled you towards him with every rough thrust.

“I hate that no matter how much of an asshole and jerk you’ve been, I’m still willing to forgive you,” you mutter.

Joosh moved his head to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, and then attacked your neck with even rougher kisses as he continued to move inside you. He kept confusing you with his brief moments of tenderness. “And I hate that we both know that you deserve better.”

You panted heavily as half of your face was pressed against the pillow. “Yeah, but you don’t even fucking try to work on yourself, knowing this fact.”

His hips stuttered as he felt himself getting closer to the edge. “You know me. I can’t change.”

You let out a soft gasp as you felt a sharp, deep thrust from him. “You can’t or you won’t?”

You hear his moans become more desperate and high pitched, his pace becoming inconsistent. His cock slid seamlessly inside you, bringing the two of you to become more vocal. While he let one of his hands remain on your hip, he moved his other one to grip the bed frame tightly, fucking into you even deeper.

“O-oh, f-fuck!” You whimper intensely as he continues to mercilessly pound into you, spilling out all the anger he felt from seeing you today, in which your presence reminded him of how messy the breakup was. Your whines became louder as he ruthlessly gripped your hip and pulled onto the bed frame to easily push you against his dick with each thrust.

“You talk about me being selfish and self-seeking all the time, as if you aren’t taking all of my fucking dick for your own pleasure,” he grumbles. You didn’t have a witty comeback for that—you were far too focused on how good you felt. Which sort of implied he was right, in some way.

Joosh let out louder grunts and slight moans, which was unsynchronized with the obscene, raucous sounds of lewd plaps of his consistent penetration. Plap, plap, plap, it would turn the both of you on even more.

“You’re just as pathetic as I am, Y/n,” he said coldly.

You felt so close to your climax, and as his thrusts became more stuttered, you could tell Joosh was as well.

“Fuck you, Joosh.”

He violently pushed into you deeply as your lips parted for a loud, torrid moan to escape your mouth, fingernails digging into the thick sheets as you came hard around his cock. Not even another thrust after, your ex-boyfriend came, making sure his dick was deeply and fully into you once his semen precipitously spilled inside of your body through exuberant spurts. His voice was high pitched and desperate, and you could swear you heard your name leave his lips in a small whisper.

He pulled out of you afterwards, rolling off your body as he breathed heavily, resting on his side as he faced the edge of the bed.

You turned to lay on your side, only to see his back facing you.

The atmosphere wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t calm either. It was sort of awkward in a way. You two were still exes after all. An entire minute has passed, of silence and heavy panting, the two of you catching your breaths from all that energy you just released. Most of the words that were exchanged earlier weren’t exactly true. It was moreso getting out all your anger and bitterness of the past, so that you could have a civil, compassionate talk later about your feelings and the state of the relationship.

Soon enough, you scooted towards him, then placed a deliberate, gentle kiss on his shoulder. Your fingertips began to mindlessly trace his back tattoo, which spelled out ‘J Futz’. He seemed to appreciate it, your touch.

Your finger traced over the ‘F’ on his back. “I want to make this work,” you murmured.

“I know,” you heard him say shamefully as your fingertip caressed along the lines of ink.

“But I don’t want you to change for me. I want you to change for yourself.”

He turned around to face you, soft, brown eyes meeting yours. It was like a part of his old self was still in there.

“I’m sorry… For everything,” he finally says.

“Me too.”

***

Joosh was in the shower while you were in the kitchen, eating a small snack, back to being fully clothed. You stared at your keepsake box that you finally found, which was now sitting on the dining table in front of you—he even helped you find it actually, while even criticizing his own lack of organization.

You two agreed to take things slow, followed by you encouraging him to make some reparations, probably starting with his parents first. Ultimately, he was going to work on himself—not just for you and the people he loved, but for himself, as you said.

You took a bite out of your snack, and then slightly flinched as you saw Joosh in the corner of your eye.

“Oh, wow. That was fast,” you observed. When he said he was going to take a quick shower, you didn’t know he was that literal about it. Especially since he sort of sucked at keeping his word.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Joosh was still in the shower, as you initially expected. The man in front of you would be Josh, basically your ex, but from another timeline. Ever since he was recruited by soldiers Tiger and Wolf of 2162, they were consistently fucking with the past through time travel, and the trio’s interferences only just created new realities, such as yours.

When Josh came back to 2017 after the 80s, he discovered that he was popular, that he was a rich celebrity, loved amongst everyone. However, it nearly broke his heart once he heard from Tracy and Paul that you dumped him—or, well, Joosh—the past year. The thing was, that no matter how many times he tampered with the timeline (for example, Lamar Price’s Blapple and the disappearance of Ray), you still remained his partner when he would come back to the present. So now, knowing that he allegedly screwed things up with you in this reality, then on top of that, finding out his parents despise him, he began to become disappointed by what he thought was going to be a great life for him.

He was confused, seeing you eat at the kitchen table, clearly unbothered by him. “Y/n?” His voice was higher pitched, reminding you of your Joosh before he was corrupted.

“Um, yeah?” You asked. “Did you even take a shower? Now I’m confused.” You look at his ear. “And you took off your earring.”

“Oh, um, yeah, and no, not yet, I—” Josh was very much confused. Didn’t his friends tell him how the two of you broke up? Were they wrong?

“You don’t look too hot,” you say, grabbing your box and walking over to him. “Thank you, Joosh. For, um… for finally listening to and understanding me. I know we’re both not perfect, but… I just… I’m glad we were able to… to talk this out.”

You look down at your box and then at him, who had an absentminded look on his face that you didn’t recognize. “I have to go now. Let’s talk more tomorrow, okay?” You press a soft kiss to Josh’s cheek, then made your way out the door.

What in the hell just happened?

Josh was befuddled, but also sort of relieved. Maybe he would be able to patch things up with you. He wasn’t sure how he was going to fix things with his parents after that encounter with his dad. Actually, he was still stressed out about that. Your idea for him to take a shower didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

That is, until he was met with this reality’s version of himself in the bathroom.

[anextravagantliar]

a kiss after a devastating event ,  meant to comfort. // dozens to choose from, pick any 💛💛

sunday monday tuesday BIRTHDAY kisses // selectively accepting // this one also has @hoboblaidd in it

The end of it all is quieter than the start of it. It's not a flashbang, not a fizzle, but something in between - Krem warbles off into a song as the night continues.

For most, for most, all of them are here, but for two - maybe three - the keep is a little more barren. She should be mingling and glittering among her people, being the champion; yet she's not even tucked into the chair next to him, instead she's against his side as Bull takes the low part of what he can now place as an old sailor's song. There are announcements, people applauding, and she moves, seeking to appease her ambassador and commander in their political machinations. Yet, Dhavi always ends up next to him, humming along to whatever tune is drunkenly sung for the moment.

"You should be socialising."

"You should be playing cards."

Varric smiles at that retort. Dhavi is smart, needling him in a familiar way, a way she had seen all them - no, he corrects, she has seen only him lay cards down, he amends his words now, as he doesn't have all the answers. "Well, I'm missing a card." True or not, he doesn't feel like much for playing, he doesn't feel like much for anything, if his heart is tender, her's must be shattered. There is a lull, a lull where he should ask if she is alright, but that would be a moot point - there are changes over all of them, changes at the core and physically. He can't bring himself to ask; it's not his place or his story, but one day Varric hopes that Dhavi will be able to find the words for the rest of it.

Even if Varric is uncertain whether he will ever have the right words for any of it.

"Hey," Varric states poking Dhavi in the side, she sits a little straighter, "Knock it off, that's annoying."

"Huh?"

"Stop whatever you're doing, blaming yourself, circling the last six months, six days, six hours, stop."

Dhavi doesn't retort - she doesn't posit that his words are rich like someone else would, but her brow furrows at him all the same, and she elbows him in the ribs, goading him back, and he laughs. If there are words, Varric forces them down and wraps them away from the world, as they are not from the inquisitor to her companion, but somewhat between two friends, something like family, he falls on.

Family.

It's always been a cursed word, always leaving him with his back up against a wall and a knife against his chest, but now - now it's just something kind for a moment, even if it's in a shared and unknown grief.

Varric moves to stand, hunching for a moment to press a kiss to Dhavi's forehead - a hand on her shoulder, a kiss to remind that even in all of this, there is still something else. He needs a drink, and he's going to pick the lock on the desk in the rotunda and take that last bottle buried under paperwork and folios, sketchbooks and whatever else tossed aside. He lingers momentarily, his lips against her forehead, where he knows ink once touched and the story that is all hers will come in time. But that time isn't now, so he moves, his hand lingers for a moment longer, squeezing her shoulder.

"I don't think anyone is sleeping tonight, Songbird. If you need company, I'll be up by the rookery, with the door propped." With that, he moves; those words pang a place that aches in him, so he has to turn and pull himself away from the table, away from anyone that greets, so he dodges, he moves past more and realises his table has been pushed against the way, cleared far out of the way and the books once used to explain law and taxes, art and history have been pushed under them and against the stone wall, things already changing.

The rotunda is another piece of change; he makes way for that desk, but there's unfinished art, just like an unfinished book.

Bastard.

He kneels, his right hand on the drawer and his left on his kit, but the drawer pops free, with a glint of silver - a stolen flask tucked in there. Once again, bastard. It's pulled free and he leaves the rest of it for later - there are papers he'll comb through again and he can deal with everything in this room later if Dhavi deems it so, but for now he moves, moving up the stairs two at a time before pulling the door to the rookery open - Leliana had taken the birds with her anyway, so he leaves it open and sits among the stone, something cooling about the air, something nearly like home as he can hear a drunken song and there is a stolen flask in his hand.

So he takes a drink.

[sheawritesstuff]

Summertime Sleepover

[Teen!David and Asher]

[Fluff - 778 words]

“David,” Asher cracked his best friend's door open and whispered. “David, are you still awake?”

“Mhmm,” David replied, not even looking up from his book. “What's up?”

“I can't sleep. Can I come hang out with you?”

“What's wrong with the guest room? You sleep in there more than your own house these days.”

“Nothing's wrong with it, I just don't wanna be by myself right now.”

“Come on, then.” David patted the space next to him expectantly. He finally glanced up as his visitor crawled into bed with him. “Dude, are you still wearing skinny jeans?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Who the hell wears jeans to bed? Go change.”

“But I didn't bring any night clothes…”

“I see that, dumbass. Go grab a pair of my sweatpants or something.” He pointed toward the dresser against the wall. It was wholly unnecessary, seeing as Ash had been stealing his clothes since they were old enough to dress themselves, but he wanted to emphasize his point.

“But-”

“No buts! I'm not sleeping next to someone in denim.”

Asher groaned and climbed right back out of bed. He shuffled through the drawer, searching for a good pair to wear. After thoroughly studying all his options, he picked a thin pair of dark blue pajama pants. He aggressively tugged the pants off, desperately trying to escape the denim prison he trapped his lower half in. Slipping into the new pair was significantly easier.

Once dressed, he turned his back to David and glanced over his shoulder. “You like what you see, big boy?” He bent forward and ran his hands up his thighs slowly. He bit his lip dramatically and raised his eyebrows.

David stared at him blankly. “Are you done yet?”

“You're no fun.” Ash returned to the bed and climbed under the blanket. “Whatcha readin’ anyway?”

“This,” David motioned dramatically to the object in his hand. “Is what most people call a book. You should pick one up sometime, they're pretty cool.”

Ash glared at him and groaned. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“Yeah, but it was funny.”

“Daveyy,” Asher whined. “Just tell me! I'm nosy. ”

“David,” he corrected sternly. “Say my name right and maybe I'll think about it.”

“Fine! David.” He made a point of over annunciating the last syllable. “Now will you please tell me what book is keeping you up this late?”

“A Separate Peace. It's one of my favorites.” David closed the book around his finger, showing off the cover but keeping his spot. “It's also a classic.”

“You're so boring,” he sighed.

“Sorry I have taste.” David reopened the book and continued reading.

“You sound like Milo,” Ash giggled.

David ignored him, letting the quiet laughter fade out on its own. There was a long silence, broken only by the occasional page turn. Asher fidgeted with the drawstrings of his borrowed pants and looked around the bedroom that might as well be his own with feigned interest.

“It's getting really late. You should at least try to get some sleep,” he said finally.

“I'm not tired.”

“That's bull. You look exhausted, man.”

“I'll fall asleep when I'm ready. ‘Til then, I'm just fine where I am.”

“You need sleep, David. It's important so you can be the best possible alpha when you're older.”

“You're not my dad,” he retorted.

“Well, yea, but he'd say the same thing if I went and got him.”

“You wouldn't dare.” David shifted his attention to the other boy in his bed, almost offended by the audacity of his threat.

“Oh yes I would.”

David stared him dead in the eyes, challenging him to back down. Ash stared right back, a mischievous grin pulling at his lips.

“God, fine, I'll lay down.” David slid his bookmark between the pages and set the novel on his nightstand. “But I’m still not tired.”

“Come on, buddy. Once you get all comfy and cozy you'll be asleep in no time.” Asher cuddled up to his side and peered up at him with his signature puppy dog eyes. “Don't you wanna snuggle with me?”

David sneered. “No.” He flicked his bedside lamp off and turned back to his late night visitor. “This is purely for your benefit.”

David laid flat on his back, arms folded across his chest. Asher laid on his side, legs wrapped around one of David's and arm flung haphazardly across his middle. He squeezed gently and settled comfortably into his side of the bed.

“I love you, Davey,” Asher mumbled, barely conscious. He nestled his head against his best friend's shoulder and hummed contentedly.

David rolled his eyes and smiled. “Love you too, Ash. Good night.”

[notetaeker]

Hello!!! How did you become so dedicated to your studies? Do you have some advice?

I love your blog, btw✨️

Hi hi hi!! Thanks for the sweet message 💞💞

My BIG study tips (after 25 years of studying):

Accept your fate. This goes for anything but I used to procrastinate with studying a LOT and once you start it's actually not that bad. It's guaranteed. Automatically once you start, you have started, so you're already on your way, so it's already automatically not as bad anymore. Whining abt ur studies and avoiding them will not make them go away unfortunately. Just do it.

Make study time sacred. A few minutes of focused study is much more valuable than 5 hours spent at the library "studying" + scrolling + talking to friends + listening to music at the same time. Doing 5 hours like that is literally putting yourself thru hell because 1. you cant fully enjoy any of those non-studying activities and 2. you come out of that being like ugh I studied this page for 5 hours I'm tired of studying I need a break. Pomodoro method really changed my life pls try it out if u haven't already

That one tumblr post that says 'learning is basically being exposed to the same materials many times in multiple ways' is 100% correct. How many different ways can you expose yourself to the material. Memorizing facts- can you draw it? Can you organize the facts into lists? Can you attach a funny story to one of the facts? The more ways you interact with any material, the stronger it's saved in your memory. Find out if you're a visual learner- and then create visual tools, maybe color coding things helps you. Do a little digging and find out what works for you.

Diversify your life. Have some hobbies, spend time with friends/family, take a break. Let the computer of your brain sort out things in the background while you do other things. Once you go back to studying, you will feel refreshed (and not fatigued from 5 hrs in the library doing "studying") This also means that if you fail an exam, you won't be like 'oh no i spent my whole spring break studying for this exam and didn't even enjoy it and now I got a bad grade i must be horrible my life is nothing' and spiral. def not based on a true story :) Instead you'll be like yeah I failed but look at this scarf I crocheted look at mee i have mental health!

Sleep is magic- no matter what anyone else tries to tell you. 1. If you studied something during the day, just review those things right before bed and magically they will get set into your brain. Also 2. sleeping is when our brain sorts info so if you don't get any sleep at all it' the same as taking your study sheets and throwing them into the air, so when you ask your brain for the info during the test it's like lol it's around here somewhere. On the other hand, if you slept and gave ur brain time to sort it, when you ask for that info, it'll just open the right drawer and give u the info!

That's it for the big ones- if you want more specific advice feel free to ask! Also as a disclaimer, these 5 are all big life lessons that I had to learn thru trial and error, so consider these to be the advice I would give myself at a younger age. Pls don't be offended lol whenever I said 'you' I rlly was thinking abt myself.

[hehe-hoho-ohno]

Happy WIP Wednesday! Spoilers for chapter 7 of Misfits under the cut.

That was fine. Ingo could do what he wanted. Emmet skived off patrol all the time, it was fine.

----

Ingo hadn’t come to patrol. Emmet had waited for him. He’d waited for ages and then decided to start on his own. He’d ended up doing the entire thing by himself and Ingo never showed up.

It was just uncharacteristic of him, that was all.

(It wasn’t like Emmet had been looking forward to it or anything. It wasn’t like he’d waited for hours like an abandoned puppy. If he’d known Ingo wasn’t going to show up he wouldn’t have wasted his time.)

(It was his own fault for getting his hopes up.)

He returned to the barracks and froze in the open doorway.

It looked like a war zone.

A few of the lockers were blown open, doors swinging in their hinges. One of the benches was tipped over. The door to the office was open as well, the drawers were ransacked and all the papers that had been neatly piled on the desk were strewn on the floor. The garbage bin had also been knocked over. His spiders were agitated and crawling along the walls and ceiling.

“…Hello?” He called and it echoed back. “…Ingo?”

A few spiders chirped in response but there wasn’t a word from Ingo. A cold feeling settled like a stone in his stomach. He called again. If Ingo wasn’t here then…

He hesitantly stepped forwards into the ruined barracks.

Something crunched under his foot and he hastily stepped back. He’d crushed something into hard red and white shards. A candy cane? Only a small part of one, judging by how little there was on the floor.

How had this happened? Emmet always locked the entrance. He was even doing it right now, closing the door and locking it behind him out of sheer habit.

(Ingo had a key. Emmet had given it to him.)

Gear Barracks had always been a safe place for Emmet. The only safe place. When Emmet returned home it always felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, like he could finally relax. Here, he had been untouchable.

That feeling was gone now. He didn’t think he would be getting it back.

(Ingo hadn’t shown up for patrol.)

It was a shitty, barren, uniform place, but it had been Emmet’s. And someone had broken in and torn it up.

(Was it really breaking in if Emmet had invited him inside?)

No! Emmet shook himself. He shouldn’t make assumptions when he didn’t have all the facts. There was no proof that had happened. Ingo wouldn’t…

(Emmet was still an easily suckered fool who had learnt nothing. Ingo had betrayed him and Emmet had made it so easy.)

Ingo was his friend. He trusted Ingo. Ingo was shy, earnest, and sweet. He said things like, “lonely together” and he meant it, Emmet knew he did!

(Or maybe Emmet wasn’t as good at spotting liars as he thought he was.)

A clicking whistle snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. Emmet dropped to his knees and reached towards his fuzzy babies. “Is everyone alright? Is anyone hurt?”

Emmet was appalled by his own behaviour, getting wrapped up in his own doubts when his focus should have been on the creatures under his care. Poor little things, they had needed to endure whatever had happened without Emmet there to protect them.

They chirped and squeaked and scuttled away from him, towards a locker all the spiders were converging on. Dread crawled up this throat. He rose to his feet and followed them.

The door was cold when he laid a hand on it. “…Here?”

They squeaked and moved back, a fluffy multicoloured halo surrounding the locker. The dread only worsened.

It was locked.

He blinked. He never locked this one. He never locked any of the spider lockers out of fear he might trap them in there. Hesitantly, he filled in the default code and hoped that was correct. Emmet had never changed any of them, but he clearly wasn’t the only person who would have had the opportunity to do so.

He hesitantly tried the handle, and it swung open.

A body fell out.

[ledenews]

It’s not news to many older Americans (approximately 17.3% of the population is 65 years plus), that our bodies and brains change as we age.     We may have difficulty reading the fine print on EVERYTHING.  Our hearing diminishes, and this is worsened with prolonged exposure to loud noise.  Adaptive devices (glasses, hearing aids, closed-captioning) help correct some issues. Additionally, our brains change as we age.  It may take a little longer to retrieve or process information especially speech patterns. There is also dementia – memory loss that affects how well we do with daily activities.  With dementia (which affects approximately 6 million Americans), memory, problem-solving skills, and decision-making abilities decline, and activities become more challenging.  Because we don’t know what we don’t know, we need to check on our loved ones.  We think our loved ones are doing well.  Their conversation seems OK although they may repeat some things.  They don’t complain about bills or finances.  They seem to be getting groceries without any problems.  They don’t ask for help.  They must be managing their lives without any problems.  Or are they? Is there mail stuck in a drawer?  You may find utility shut-off notices, delinquent bills, or uncashed checks.  Perhaps there have been no taxes filed for years.  You may find food in the refrigerator that expired a LONG time ago.  You may find unopened packages or items with sales tags still attached. You can see how getting scammed is among the risks for those with dementia.  The person with dementia has impaired judgment, insight, and processing abilities.  Their memory is impaired and maybe their hearing is impaired.  They may be unaware that scams exist or that they could become a victim.  (One study even shows that “low scam awareness” may be related to future Alzheimer’s or dementia or mild cognitive impairment as alterations in judgment happen before more drastic changes.) The person with dementia is the “perfect candidate” for scammers.  What can you do? “Cognitive Decline Can Lead to Financial Struggles and Scams—Here's What to Look For” gives consumers some ideas on how to protect loved ones.  - Learn the signs of dementia and the signs of hearing loss. - Encourage your loved one to get a medical evaluation and a hearing exam.  By the way, hearing loss is a huge concern for everyone, and, can increase anyone’s vulnerability to getting scammed.   Hearing loss can affect us socially and can contribute to depression.  Hearing loss has been identified as a risk for dementia, according to The Hidden Risks of Hearing Loss.  - Talk to your loved one about their advance directives including their Durable Power of Attorney and Medical Power of Attorney.  The authority to act as an agent must be granted.  If the person lacks capacity, court intervention may be necessary. - Learn about their finances and arrangements. - Visit your loved ones.  Be engaged with them.  Be involved. Stay safe.  Help your loved ones stay safe. Read the full article