#doesn't tickle my brain the same way

[taigarrryen]

You know these tropes in stories where if you lose your soulmate you're left forever yearning for something just out of your reach, forever searching for something you can never find? That's me, JRWI Riptide is my soulmate. Send post

[gremland]

watching the lemon drop mv and its not my fave though its enjoyable enough BUT i absolutely did a double take when mingi bent the fuck over on the hood of the car???

sir???????

[sunshine-and-her-ikevil-stuff]

Ikemen Villains, but I may be biased because I've only played Ikevil and Ikepri, and I've played ikevil for longer. And because it's my current adhd hyperfixation.

It just tickles my brain and makes me happy. I tend to love darker things. I love the vibes, the stories, and I'm really attached to the characters.

Also feel free to tell me why in the comments!!

[ilhoonftw]

show your love was the last time btob title made me truly excited im sorry that's the truth

[chubsonthemoon]

It is done! This is The Death of Translation, originally written in English by @landwriter, translated into Mandarin by @thirrith. Binding is dos-à-dos, with English version on one side and Mandarin on the other. Bookcloth was handwoven by me, on my rigid heddle loom :3

More under the cut!

Typeset: Fanbinders are Liars

Full stop, this typeset would not have been possible without Eth and all their patience, enthusiasm, and willingness to do even more translating! I reached out to them *checks watch* nearly a year ago in July 2023 (lololol), asking if I could use their translation of TDOT in a surprise bind I wanted to send along with Gloam's author copy of Flower King. They were kind enough to say yes, and even kinder to answer my questions when I reached out six months later in January, when I was finally able to start work on the typeset.

We talked about the many delicious things that are bound to come up when discussing translating not just from English to Mandarin, but also from digital space to meatspace. Some topics I had anticipated, like font questions, translating the colophon, etc. But even with the topics I thought I'd prepared for, there were still things that came up that both surprised and delighted: for example, while AO3's website allows for italics in Mandarin--

--my publishing program doesn't (or at least, it doesn't without needing to manually tilt every character by about 10 degrees). So as a workaround, Eth suggested changing these cases of italics to the font 华文楷体:

Through no one's fault but my own, this ended up being only slightly less work than manually tilting every instance of italics--I wanted to be sure that I got all of them, so I ended up doing a lot of double-checking manually anyway, instead of relying solely on the Search function. There was a lot of cross-referencing with the Word document that Eth was kind enough to provide, as well as squinting and general swearing. I also did the same for the uses of Latin script, manually styling each instance as Garamond to keep it consistent with the English edition:

The only other time I've had to do font surgery this intensive is probably for my typeset for Tell Me About the Big Bang, which I had to port over from a PDF. Folks, hell on earth. Do not recommend XD I remember squinting at my monitor as I had to visually confirm every instance of italics, thinking I will never do this again. Welp, four years later, here were are: fanbinders are liars, LMAO. At the very least, using Eth's Word document at least allowed me to search by styles, so it was a little easier on my eyes. 🙏

Is there a script that I might've been able to use if I was more code-savvy? Probably. But I figured going at it sledgehammer style would be the least hair-pulling way to get the job done, weirdly enough. Still, despite my best efforts, there are a few instances of PMingLiU to Garamond and PMingLiU to 华文楷体 that I know I missed, and I know I missed them because I caught them after I'd printed/cut/folded/sewn/glued (cue more swearing), so Gloam and Eth, my apologies >.< please consider them artifacts of a uniquely handmade object ajslkdjfs

In addition to the fonts, there were also some other fun things Eth and I discussed, like how to translate the notes I usually provide on the colophons! In addition to information on fonts, I also usually include some variation of:

This private, limited edition published by chubsthehamster (Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing) in 2024. This is chubsthehamster's personal copy. Out of three existing copies, this is the first.

The thing that came up with this, which still tickles my brain to this day, was how Eth chose how to translate "Moonham Press, imprint of Renegade Publishing." To get a better sense of what word to use for "imprint," they asked what the relationship was between Moonham Press and Renegade Publishing, which got me thinking about the relationship between my lil imprint and the wonderful @renegadeguild:

What's all very funny about all of this is that we are now, in fact, going by the name "Renegade Bookbinding Guild," per our most recently updated Code of Conduct. While this renders the wording I asked for out of date (and thus, the wording that made it into the book out of date :'D), I think it's also a testament to how cool the work @renegadeguild is doing--like any artform, fanbinding is alive, with its own evolving language, communities, and ideas about the craft. And I love it, I love it so much. (Was this also a plug for our new-ish website? Perhaps).

There's more I could say here, but this post is already going to be long enough, so I'll move on for now! If you get anything from this section, it's that @thirrith is amazing and very patient and kind, and I'm so grateful that we got to talk shop together. Thank you so much for all your invaluable help with this, Eth! I hope the typeset, though undoubtedly flawed, does your hard work justice!

Binding: Or, SO Much Math. Like, So Much, Guys. (It was worth it, though!)

Whoo, boy! So math was never my strong suit in school, but when I set out to do this bind last year, that wasn't an issue. At first. The dos-à-dos binding, if anything, just requires a little bit of finagling on the usual case-bound format--a bit more math if you want to do an all-cloth cover, like I planned on doing, but nothing I couldn't work out with some trial and error. (My prototype below!)

Then came February, when I took a weaving class with my friend, and then everything kinda exploded.

My original idea was to use some green Duo bookcloth I had on hand (this color, actually)--for those of you not initiated into the Duo cult, Duo is a Rayon bookcloth with a very devoted fan following in Renegade. It's very pretty; the Rayon weave is one color, and the paper backing is usually complementary color, so it has this cool two-toned effect. Duo is in high demand in Renegade circles because sadly, the company that manufactures it went out of business last year. (Although I've heard rumors recently that there's another company making something similar, but the cloth has a really high purchase requirement and is, like, for businesses only I think).

Anyway, I also wanted to have a gold line around the whole book as a kind of bellyband/obi to further connect the two versions of the story (another reason why I chose the dos-à-dos format to begin with heh), as you can see from my scribbled notes here--

But alas! I knew going in that adhering things to Duo is often Problematic, thanks to one very painful experience trying to get some iron-on foil on another bind (the textured surface of Duo just makes it kinda hard to stick or paint stuff on it). So if I wanted a clean, continuous line, the remaining options were to either paint it on a strip of paper that I'd somehow...adhere to the cloth? Or maybe cut different slices of bookcloth and glue them on. I wasn't satisfied with either of those options, though.

Then--the weaving class. I made a scarf, and I love it and I loved making it. But the whole time, I'll not lie, my thoughts were elsewhere.

In short, my decision to weave my own bookcloth kinda came from a few different factors:

The desire to attempt to recreate Duo, that elusive beauty, the one that got away, etc. (I have several yards in my stash, but still). Others have also attempted to recreate it, and I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring.

My current spiral into the deep hole that is fiber arts (it started with crochet, then knitting, then sewing, then weaving, then spinning, and now I'm eyeing quilting! Please help me).

The gold line. It kept bugging me. And when I found weaving, I just thought there was something very neat about the process of actually making the cloth for a dos-à-dos binding from scratch, and especially for this binding. I wanted to bind a story about translation (or rather, the death of it, and yet still the necessity of it--how we must try to communicate, despite of, or perhaps precisely because of, everything that gets lost in the spaces between people, and the tragedy of that loss, and the beauty of what makes it through, and the love always present in the effort regardless), and also, the translation of that story. Weaving is a very meditative process, and with every pass of the shuttle, back and forth, building slowly but surely the fabric that would hold the story that Gloam had written and that Eth had translated, I thought a lot about translation, and the gaps between people, and how we choose our words not just when translating, but when we speak at all. From a design perspective, I used the same colors I would've used had I chosen the Duo bookcloth--green and gold--so the design wasn't too altered in terms of color scheme. But I think the choice to weave the bookcloth--the thing that bound it all together--made the project take on a completely new meaning for me, both in process and in scope, one that hadn't been there when I started. I saw the warp, perhaps, as the original story, laying the groundwork for the weft, the translation; or maybe it was the other way around, with the translation providing the scaffolding for its own, new meaning, choices that Eth had to make with this word or phrase or another building something new, something translated, and the original a live, moving thing that wove over and under each word turned phrase turned story; or maybe it was both. Maybe it didn't matter which was which, in the end. And as I wove, the thing that connected them, that gold line that had started all of this, slowly formed.

All that to say: Good God, was there a lot of math. So much math. That prototype pictured above was actually made specifically so I could calculate exactly how much I needed to weave, lol, because while I certainly had enough thread, I didn't want to have to warp more than once. I'd learned the basics in my class, but the training wheels came off here. I wanted to make my own custom fabric, which meant calculating things like ends per inch, picks per inch, loom waste, shrinkage after washing, the width of that damn gold line, how much I'd need for the hinge, the turn-ins, the boards--the whole nine yards (I didn't actually weave nine yards tho heh). It was all absolutely worth it in the end--so challenging and so, so rewarding!

(And my final reason for weaving the bookcloth? Not gonna lie, It was because I just wanted to see if I could do it LOL. I love trying at least one new thing with each of my binds, and this was it for this project. While I've been bookbinding for a few years now, I'm still very much a beginner weaver, and I'm so excited to continue to learn and experiment! Also, here's a video of me unwinding the cloth from the loom, heh. I used 10/2 Perle cotton in gold and green colors :3)

Also, turns out, you can back handmade cloth the same way you can any other cloth! I backed it using my usual heat-n-bond method, and with some Unryu Tissue in the color Forest. Since the cloth itself is a bit transparent, there are a bunch of really fun fibers you can see when it's held up to the light, but which aren't visible when the cloth is glued down to the boards. Still, knowing they're there still makes me happy :D

Finally, capping all this off, is one final, small detail I really liked: ginkgo leaf endpapers :3 this one's for me and Eth and Gloam specifically <3

Aaaand that's all from me for today, folks! Thus ends (several months late XD) my last Binderary project for the year. This was probably my most ambitious bind to date, and gosh it was so, so much fun.

And, of course, thank you so much to Gloam for sharing your story, and Eth for translating it. I can't wait for y'all to receive your copies soon!

All my love! <3

[woso-dreamzzz]

Miracle III

Aitana Bonmatí x Baby!Reader

Summary: An early morning with Mama

The sunlight filtering into the room has Aitana blinking awake, squinting as the soft rays of sun glow directly in her eyes.

She yawns, glancing away from the gap in the curtains to look directly at the baby monitor on her bedside table.

The image shows you clearly, wide awake and standing. One hand grips your pegasus plushie while the other stretches up to play with one of the hanging stars on your mobile.

You're probably getting too big for it now, developing quickly from baby to that weird baby-toddler in between that Aitana can remember happened to Skatt and before Skatt, Conejita.

She wishes that she'd studied them more carefully so she'd be prepared for this.

You seem to realise she's watching you though with the same weird sixth sense you have when you're playmates are ready to climb in the playpen with you at training.

You babble a bit, interspersing nonsense with real words as you blow spit bubbles.

"Mama Ta-Ta! Ta-Ta!"

Aitana finds a fond smile appearing on her face as she rolls over in bed, slipping her feet into a pair of fluffy slippers and pulling on a bathrobe to keep the early morning chill out.

You make a little noise of happiness when your bedroom door opens and Aitana plucks you into her arms without anymore nagging.

"Good morning, estrella," She coos, dropping a soft kiss to the end of your nose which makes you go cross-eyed.

"Mor'ing Mama Ta-Ta."

You reach out a hand to grab at Aitana's face, scraping weak little fingers against her cheek before finally getting a grip on her ear.

She laughs, gently pulling your grabby little hand away as she checks the funny little cuckoo clock Mapi had gotten you as a joke.

It's still early.

Too early to be up on a day off.

"Let's go to my bed."

You seem fascinated with the soft blanket covers as Aitana lays you in the middle of her bed as she strips back down to just her pjs, running your fingers over the patterns again and again as you gnaw on pegasus' wing.

Aitana drags you towards her in just the way you like, pulling out your fuzzy onesie legs until you're right next to her.

You kick out happily as she gently manoeuvres you into a sitting position.

There's no hope in getting you to sleep again, not when you're wide awake like this but that doesn't mean the two of you can't stay in bed for a little while longer.

Aitana is easily amused by the funny little sounds you make and the way that you try to sound out words you've heard her say before.

You're startlingly intelligent for your age, far advanced than what Aitana can remember baby Skatt and baby Conejita to be like. She isn't quite sure whether it's a genetic thing or just how much time she dedicates to your education, young as you are.

Tv time is spent only watching educational kid's shows or some documentaries. Time is set aside to watch a bit of football together of course but even then, Aitana waffles on about tactics and formations and everything else under the sun she can think of.

She's read all the baby books about raising children bilingual and how to foster a love for reading in them. She'd taken you to her parents once and returned to find her mother reading a university grade textbook to you before bedtime.

She doesn't know if it's just a Bonmatí thing or if it's how she's raising you.

Either way, she's glad because even now you're working your brain and you've barely gotten up.

"Mer-ry," You say and Aitana smiles.

"Mercury," She corrects.

"Mer-cry."

"Mer-cury."

"Mercury!"

"Good job, estrella!"

You giggle as Aitana tickles your tummy, hand coming out to imitate her movements but Aitana captures it easily, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

The rest of the early morning goes the same way, with you struggling to say all the planet names until Aitana helps to correct you.

At some point, you migrate to her lap, head tilted all the way back on her shoulder so you can see her clearly.

Something about the way you look at her, your soft baby features, the smile on your face, the sparkle in your eyes, has Aitana's chest bursting with warmth.

"I..." She says, feeling slightly choked up as your hands gently explore her fingers," I love you, estrella."

"Lub you," You say back," Lub Mama."

The warmth turns to ice instantly, like a lance cracking her chest open and finding a home in her heart.

"No," Aitana says gently," No Mama. Mama Ta-Ta, remember? You've already got a Mama."

You shake your head. "Mama."

"I...Estrella...Estrella, no. I'm not Mama. I'm Mama Ta-Ta."

It feels disrespectful to take that role.

This was never the life Aitana was meant to have. You were hers biologically. That had been the plan.

She was meant to donate her egg, the least she could do for her two best friends who desperately wanted a child but couldn't have any of their own. She was meant to be Tia Aitana, Tia Ta-Ta who would swoop you up occasionally and show you the joys of life. The one that you could come to when you were a moody teenager and in that stage where you 'hated' your parents.

Maybe if you had called her 'Mami' it would be different but Mama was the name that Aitana's friend referred to herself as. She was meant to be your Mama, not Aitana.

Not Aitana who is already pushing invisible boundaries by allowing herself to be called Mama Ta-Ta.

You shake your head stubbornly. "Mama!"

It seems you've inherited the Bonmatí stubbornness too as your smiling face sets into a little frown just like Aitana's.

She doesn't know how to explain it to you, doesn't know how to explain that she can't be your Mama. No matter how much she wants to.

"Mama..." You whine, frown morphing into a chin wobble and a chin wobble morphing into big fat tears rolling down your face.

"No, no, estrella! It's okay! Don't cry! I'm sorry!"

Aitana desperately tries to bounce you, to soothe your tears but you're inconsolable until you're tucked into her chest, hand reaching up to tug at the collar of her sleep shirt.

"Mama," You babble through your tears, trying to shuffle even closer," Mama, please."

Aitana's own bottom lip wobbles as tears prick in her eyes.

She rests her cheek on the top of your head, breathing in the soft baby smell that never quite left, lingering on the edges of her senses like it had the first time she'd met you.

It feels disrespectful to take her friend's name but at the same time, it feels right.

To be your Mama.

To take the name that you've so happily bestowed upon her.

The name you've chosen for her.

No longer Ta-Ta or Mama Ta-Ta.

Just Mama.

You whimper a little, wiping your runny nose all over the front of her shirt. "Mama?"

"Yes, estrella," Aitana says," I'm your Mama."

[i-like-loserz]

breedable

pairing: husband!san x reader

cw: explicit (18+), raging breeding-kink, unprotected sex (no condom, yes other contraceptives), cuteness/sexiness aggression (^^look AT THOSE ADORABLE PICS), not dub-con because you're not actually forcing san to have a child - its just a fantasy and san respects the responsible day dreaming -- oh, and this is NOT beta-read.

wc: 1.6k

note: reverse breeding kink turns my mind into a slushie

masterlist

---

you have a special type of aggression when it comes to your husband.

while there's the usual cuteness aggression that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tickle him until he's a giggling mess -- or the alternative "awe-infused-aggression," that makes you want to crawl all over him and worship his body (because he's built like a god) -- but this special aggression is a mix of the two.

you call it the "i-need-to-pass-on-his-genes-with-mine" or the breeding-aggression. you see his perfect, docile face -- the cute way his brows scrunch together whenever he's feeling too much, the way his chiseled abs clench as he holds himself back -- and it sets a fire in your horny soul.

typically, when one describes a breeding kink, it involves someone wanting to impregnate the other person in an act of love and possession. of course, the other person is wholeheartedly egging them on because they, too, want to carry their baby.

in this case, however, you work hard to fuck him to get you pregnant.

you may wonder, "is that not exactly the same thing as a normal breeding kink?," which will be responded with a, "no, because san is a smart boy and he doesn't want a child at the moment -- that is, not until you're both done achieving your dreams and settled into a family-friendly environment."

san is the sensible one in the relationship, while you play the role of a feral cat in heat. he always insists on a condom or some birth control while you immediately embrace your inner horny demon and cannot go a week without begging him to fill you up like a boston cream donut.

you often think he's just playing the role of the timid damsel, begging for mercy before getting thoroughly ravished because he always ends up giving in.

at first, this obsession started with an accidental and harmless mistake.

you forgot to get condoms.

neither of you realized it until you stuck your hand into the bedside drawer, only to come up empty handed.

san, the sweetheart he is, offered to run to the store to get some. but before he could leave, you pulled him back and convinced him that one time without it wouldn't hurt. you can always take the morning after pill. right?

and you thought that was that.

but once you saw the way his cute lashes fluttered as he entered you, eyes shiny from how lost he was in the pleasure -- maybe something clicked for you. maybe.

and maybe, when you felt how his body shivered, finally feeling your warmth without any barriers, and how his cock throbbed within you, you knew this would turn into an addiction.

a dangerous one.

then when he came inside, painting your walls in his warmth before pulling out to reveal his sloppy mess, your brain chemistry became altered in a way that would change the course of desires for the rest of your life.

and then, pushing his love back in so affectionately with his fingers, eyes glazed over in awe and hunger, you knew something changed within him as well -- as much as he'd deny it. he already started to get hard again from seeing how he dripped from your perfect cunt.

and so, after that fateful night, you tried to hold back, knowing that taking the morning-after pill often wasn't healthy (and, of course, you and san weren't ready for kids yet).

this didn't stop you from imagining how his cum would feel if there wasn't a barrier between you every time you fucked. or how pretty he'd be as your baby daddy, claiming you as his own as he gives you the perfect little family.

ok, and fine, maybe you 'forgot' to buy condoms a few more times after that. and maybe you made it a habit to make him cum a few times before fucking him so he'd be a little less attentive to the missing condoms just so you can feel him gushing out of you once more.

but that's neither here nor there.

...

ok, so, maybe it was here.

and there.

here, in the house -- on the couch during movie night, on the bed in the morning, on the kitchen counter when you saw him in that cute little frilly apron he borrowed from you, in the shower when he got back from the gym.

and there, outside the house -- messily in the car(s), in a tight dressing room, spontaneously in a lake, in a utility closet at his work (don't ask) -- so you had to find a sustainable solution quickly.

it finally got to the point where you made a doctor's appointment to get on birth control because you knew you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back anymore. the pull-out method wasn't going to work for long, and you knew san was struggling to deny your whiny begs to be filled.

now, you can say whatever you want and he'll be the obedient husband that he is.

---

"cum in me, sannie..." you whisper in his ear, rolling your hips and perfectly arching your back so you can press your hot body against his. "don't you want to make me a mommy?"

you admire how his cute face scrunches up as you speed up on top of him. he's flushed a pretty scarlet, from his chiseled chest to his cheeks -- a product of your merciless teasing and edging from earlier in the evening.

"b-baby," he meets your motions smoothly, eyes squeezed shut as his body struggles to bear with the sensations of your soft heat wrapped around him. "fuck, i-i'm..."

"...you're...?" you ask, mockingly. you lightly rake your nails against the back of his neck. the action never fails to make him shiver and buck against you. you let out a short gasp as the feeling of him suddenly fully thrusting into you nearly knocks the air out of you. he's hitting that sweet sweet spot inside of you now -- and it's making you almost as delirious as the man under you.

"p-please..."

"c'mon, hubby, i wanna feel it dripping out of me," you sigh dreamily. your lips barely brush over his neck as you speak, "then you can shove it back in and make sure it keeps, right~"

"yes, yes, anything--" he mumbles, head tilted back in ecstasy. his large hands grip around your waist, guiding your body like a glorified cock sleeve, up and down his cock just right. you swear you're starting to see white spots in your vision as he continues to use your body.

you love it when he's like this. tunnel visioned and desperate to reach that explosive feeling of stuffing you full of his cum. your eyes roll back as he continues to nudge against that soft spot inside of you.

"u-uh, san..." a familiar and addictive exhilarating heat blooms from your core and proliferates through every nerve in your body before you even realize it. you bite your lip to keep you from drooling as your body starts to shake in his hold.

the shockwave of pleasure makes you clench around him, making you impossibly tight around him as he continues to thrust into you.

"fuck," he groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him. he struggles to keep up his pace as he gives into his pleasure. you can feel his abs clench against you as his hips begin to stutter to meet yours. "take it, baby. i need you to t-take it all for me."

"give it to me. i need it."

he pulls your body down and gives one last punishing snap of his hips to press himself deep inside of you as he finishes with a broken moan.

as he cums inside of you, his body trembles, overwhelmed by his orgasm, the press of your perfect body against his, the heated air surrounding the two of you, and the panted breath leaving your precious lips.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close, as he nuzzles his face against your neck, pressing soft and sweet kisses to your sticky skin.

as you both start to calm down, san lifts his face from the crook of your neck to look up at you.

"baby?" he gently brushes some hair from your face so he can get a good look at your flushed expression, "i think i'm ready." he has such a cute little smile on his face as he stares up at you with adoring eyes.

"ready?" you ask, still trying to come down from the pleasure infused fog that has settled over your mind.

"i think we should start baby-making, for real."

a silence sits in between you as you stare at him in disbelief. you weren't expecting your sensible and responsible husband to suddenly propose such a life altering idea to you.

you're suddenly pulled out from your warm post-orgasm deliriousness.

"...san. are you sure?"

he looks down at your connected bodies, at your baby-less stomach and the sticky mess that's now dripping onto his thighs. and then you feel him twitch inside of you.

oh.

"i-- yeah."

not convincing.

(at least not in the state you're in)

"yeah, no." you shake your head, fully aware of his wandering thoughts. "let's talk about this when we're fully clothed, okay."

who knew you'd be promoted to be the sensible one?

[bookskeepers]

third time's the charm ♡ chapter seven

content warnings: MDNI, bad jokes, reader rambles about neuroscience, sexism mentioned, dirty talk af, reader tries to hold a conversation during sex tho, oral (male receiving), fingering, peepee in veevee, protected, nipple play (m + f receiving), overstimulation, TICKLISH COOTER, i probably use every possible word for 'penis', not proofread

word count: can't measure on mobile so... ~3.2k? idk tbh

a/n: note to self: never write on mobile again. wtf. also the 'ticklish down there' is a self story bc when my ob gyn disinfected my hoo ha for iud insertion i told her it tickled (bc i was giggling) and she said I'm her first ticklish patient (and yes, i have also gotten ticklish during receiving oral </3)

taglist: @wakashudou @maddyb-rapps

previous ♡ masterlist ♡ next

"Guess we're starting off with a bang, huh?"

The line catches you off-guard. After all, it's not actually related to the activities you two will be partaking in; your door did slam into the wall with how much force you used to fling it open.

After taking way too much time to process what he said, you finally break out into a fit of giggles. "Because," you begin, "we're going to have sex, but the door also whammed into the wall..."

There's a look of amusement in Tsukishima Kei's honey brown eyes as he takes a step into your dorm, closer to you. "Sure. We can say it was intentional."

You take a step back unconsciously, making room for him to pass by you into your room. Unlike last time, you forgot to clean up -- there are clothes scattered on the bed and three different textbooks opened haphazardly on the floor. Your rug is crumpled up in the corner of the room, a victim of an outrage earlier in the week at getting an annoying text from a groupmate about a project.

The minimal mess doesn't seem to bother him, though. You watch as he sets his own bag on the ground, noting to yourself that he actually brought a bag with him this time. He steps over the opened textbooks, taking care not to accidentally damage them, before he arrives at your bed. He's facing away from you, so you can't see his face, but you can hear the smirk in his voice as he picks up a particularly lacy bra that would leave nothing to the imagination if someone saw you wearing it. "Weren't gonna wear this one for tonight, huh?"

Your face begins to heat up as you rush over to his side, snatching the garment out of his hands and kicking it under the bed. "Uh, don't worry about that." Mai had decided it'd be funny to gift you the world's most revealing lingerie set (which was impressive, given the nature of lingerie) yesterday as a 'congratulations for hooking up with the same person twice' gift. You had opened the box and thrown it at her in shock. She had thrown it back, and it stayed on your bed where Tsukishima found it.

He watches you with a bemused expression before leaning back on your bed as if this were his dorm room, not yours. "So... what can you teach me about sex, from a neuroscience standpoint?" he asks, reaching one hand out to take your arm and pull you closer.

You stumble in the process, finding yourself flat against him with both your palms pressed firmly on his chest. "Oh!" you exclaim, face turning even redder. "Well, actually, all I really know is that women produce oxytocin when they... y'know, release, and men release dopamine, I think?" You begin to ramble, talking about the effects of these two hormones on the brain while Tsukishima watches, clearly listening to your every word.

As what was supposed to be a hook-up starts nearing closer and closer to a lecture, the blonde male holds your wrist up to his mouth, planting soft kisses on it as you continue to talk. "...so some really sexist people think that, because women release oxytocin when they orgasm and oxytocin is linked to pairbonding, promiscuous women are incapable of forming lasting relatio-- what are you doing?"

His tactic of slowly and gently placing kisses up your arm to distract you worked, as now your focus is solely on him instead of whatever neuroscience-related lectures were replaying in your head.

"Performing an experiment," he says between pecks, his voice low and sultry.

You raise a brow at him, biting the edge of your bottom lip. "Oh? And what experiment might that be?"

His other hand, the one not holding your wrist up, trails up your spine, applying a gentle pressure to get you to lean in. "Something, something, oxytocin. Can I kiss you? For experimental purposes, of course."

You close the gap between the two of you in response, contentment flooding your nervous system as your lips move against his. They're softer than you remember, smooth with the addition of chapstick. When you part for air, you feel the faint taste of vanilla.

"Sweet," you remark before he can go in for another kiss.

He pauses halfway, leaving the barest of space between you two, a slight smile on his features. Fishing through a pocket with one hand, he procures a tube of balm after a few seconds. "You like the vanilla flavor?"

You put on an expression of deep thought before shrugging. "I'm going to need a few more taste tests before I'm sure," you state, pulling him in for another kiss.

It doesn't take long for you to melt into him once more, that awkward tension usually involved with kissing a stranger long gone, since you've already, y'know, had sex with him.

Gone is the shaky, hesitant individual from last time. You're more confident in your movements with him, wasting no time in running your hands under the edge of his tee, the hem riding up as your hands go higher and higher. As your fingertips reach his pecs, you take a second to pinch and squeeze lightly at his nipples and you relish the groan he releases into your mouth as a result.

"God, I forgot how good that feels," he whispers, acting as if it hadn't been more than a week since the original hookup. "Do it again," he says as he lifts you up and places you on the bed before taking his shirt off, exposing his nipples to the cold air.

You don't respond verbally, instead opting to take one of the peaks into your mouth. You give it a good suck before gently nipping at it, causing Tsukishima to entangle his fingers in your hair and let out a small noise. Heat begins pooling between your legs in earnest as you continue to lavish his chest with attention, eventually switching from one nip to the other, one of your hands pulling and tweaking at the one that isn't in your mouth.

After a few more moments of this, he places his arms on your shoulders and you stop. His face is bright red and he's panting, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "Is that what it feels like when I do the same to you?" he asks in a husky tone, moving his hands from your shoulders to the hem of your shirt. "Because I'm about to do that to you. I missed them."

There's an edge of playfulness in his voice hiding the twinge of sincerity as he pulls your shirt over your head, once again taking the time to visually appreciate the way your chest looks in your bra. "I like this color on you," he says before he pushes you back rather harshly.

You lay flat on the mattress with a squeak as he hovers above you, one knee on the bed and the other leg straight. "Like this sight, too," he adds as he lowers his head to your chest, his tongue flicking over a clothed nipple. The wet feeling combined with the friction of the bra material against your sensitive flesh makes your back arch ever so slightly into him, and you can feel his grin against your skin. Tingles of electricity bloom around where his mouth and hands meet your breasts, and tiny gasps and pants leave your own mouth as he continues sucking and nipping at the flesh.

He pauses briefly. "Feeling that oxytocin rush yet, baby?"

"Definitely," you breathe out as your back arches up against him when his fingers press against your clothed core. "You could probably make it really rush, if you tried hard enough."

"Don't worry." He sits up, hands leaving your chest to start working on your bottoms. "I fully intend to."

You lift your hips into the air to help in his quest, watching the lust practically cloud his gaze when he succeeds in removing both your pants and undies in one fell swoop. "Shit," he murmurs, running his thumb through your folds. You shiver at the contact. "Good thing I didn't get a chance to eat dinner."

You lift your head off the mattress to stare him down, a look of shock on your face. "What?"

He laughs, now using his middle and ring finger to slide up and down between your southern lips. "Now I get to fully enjoy this feast."

Without giving you time to retort, he prods his fingers at your entrance and presses his tongue flat against your clit, causing you to cry out and arch your back. He wastes no time in attaching his lips to the sensitive bud as his fingers begin pistoning in and out of you at a relentless pace. He's far more ruthless this time, seeming to have figured out what you like from the previous hookup alone.

The sounds of your moans and his slurps fill the air, until he abruptly pulls away from your vag. "No conversation this time?" he asks, his tone almost pouty.

"Oh, I can talk if you want," you offer. He nods before delving back in, and your body shudders at the contact. "So... did you... you know that the clitoris is -- ohmygod, right there, pleasepleaseplease -- a bundle of really sensitive ner-- haaa -- nerves? And when you s-- just like that, you're doing it so good, don't stop -- when you suck on it, it feels fucking phenomenal?"

He hums against your cunt, sending vibrations straight to your brain. You continue to babble, occasionally interruptimg yourself to praise him. Your fingers find their way to his hair again, scritching at the scalp gently.

Unlike last time, where he managed to tear an orgasm out of you, you find the stimulation to start to be overwhelming. Your thighs are spasming and trying to clench shut around his head. A brief glance downwards reveals that one of his hands are unaccounted for, and suddenly you can hear the faint thwapthwapthwap of skin against skin underneath the cacophony of your moans -- is he jacking off?

Your body struggles against him and you find tears forming in your eyes from how the situation has suddenly become too much. He shifts his mouth against you and the pleasurable feeling vanishes; it's replaced by the sensation of being tickled. You push his head away, breaking out into giggles. "Stop, please stop," you manage to choke out.

And just like that, he stops. "Everything okay?" he asks, lifting his head from between your legs. His ears are red from where your thighs applied unnecessary pressure, and the lower half of his face is shiny with your fluids.

"Yeah, it was..." you start, chest heaving. "Just getting to be too much..." You sit up, scooting away from the edge and patting the bed next to you. "Besides, don't you think it's your turn to feel good?"

He raises an eyebrow at you before settling on the bed next to you. "Giving you attention is all I need to feel good," he murmurs, cupping your cheek with one hand and placing his thumb on your lower lip.

You press a soft kiss to the pad of his finger, before noticing that his pants are just gone. His cock rests against his lower stomach, the tip angrily red and leaking. "When did you take your pants off?"

"When I was eating you out," he responds in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm pretty nifty with one hand."

You adjust your position so you're straddling Tsukishima, smiling devilihsly at him. "Oh, I've definitely been on the receiving end of nifty," you confirm.

"You sure you're good to continue?" he asks, concern evident in his tone. Both his hands come to rest on your waist. "I'm okay with stopping, you know. Don't push yourself if you don't want to."

Those sparks that flew when you had kissed him a week ago are flying again and wreaking havoc in your stomach. The tender concern in his tone, despite the two of you barely knowing each other beyond the confines of your dorm, has you blushing bright pink. Oh God, is that what the bare minimum does to you now? "Yeah, I'm fine," you insist, leaning in closer. "I just get ticklish down there sometimes."

He's leaning in closer too, but he stops when you say that. "...Your cooch is ticklish?" he asks, flabbergasted.

"Uh, yeah? Sometimes?"

"That's a first, I think. That, and trying to hold a conversation while receiving oral."

"Hey, you told me to talk!"

"Guilty," he says, laughing before he finally closes the distance between you two. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you melt against him.

You don't get carried away, however, and before long you gently push him until his back is against the mattress and he has a look of curiosity in his eyes. You plant soft kisses trailing down his body, taking the time to nip at each of his nipples again, before you go past his navel, past his happy trail.

The curious look in his eyes is replaced with excitement as you place a soft kiss on the tip of his dick, licking your lips to remove the precum that had landed on them. It's salty and bitter, not that you expected otherwise.

"Normally I eat pineapple before a hookup," he states, "but you said you're allergic last time, so I didn't wanna risk it... in case... the pineapple got into my sperm, or something."

You gaze at him from beneath your lashes, ass in the air as you press your face to the base of his penis. "How considerate," you say right before licking a long stripe up.

His hips jerk upwards, throwing you temporarily off balance before you fix your stance. You take the mushroom-esque head in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and revelling in his quiet gasps as you take more of him in your mouth.

His hands find your hair, entangling themselves in your locks, but he doesn't push down. Once again, you are blown away by Tsukishima Kei doing the bare minimum (not forcing you to deepthroat his dong). You can feel the appendage hardening even more in your mouth as you bob up and down, and opening your eyes reveals Tsukishima's thighs shaking with constraint -- perhaps restraining himself from thrusting. His head is thrown back against the pillows, and the quiet noises emanating from him are almost drowned out by the wet noises from your throat. You hope your brain is recording those noises of his, because they are divine.

You gag as you accidentally take too much of him at once, and he instantly lifts your head off his penis. "Don't choke, baby," he says in a mock-scolding tone.

"I'm fine, I can keep going," you retort, removing his hands from your hair with your own and beginning to reassume your position.

He shifts so he's sitting on his knees, pulling his lower half away from you. "As much as I loved you giving me head, that's not what I meant when I say 'I wanna be inside you.'"

"When did you say--" you begin, but he cuts you off by manhandling your position until you're laying on your back, legs spread, with him between them.

"Just now, I think," he says as he leans over the edge of the bed, gripping one of your thighs for support as he rustles through something on the floor. Within a few seconds, he straightens up and reveals the purplish-black packaging of a condom. He tears it with ease and slides it onto his leaking shaft.

"You're a Skyn guy?" you ask as he lines his dick up with your entrance.

He makes eye contact with you, a question in his gaze. You nod and gasp as he begins to push in. "Skyn's great. I feel everything."

"R-really?" you manage, "I feel like everyone prefers... prefers... Durex?"

"Nah, they haven't tried Skyn then." He, yet again, doesn't give you a chance to respond before pushing the rest of himself in. "God, I forgot how fucking tight you are."

You can't bring yourself to babble anything out, too lost in the delicious stretch and pleasure he's dragging in and out of your walls. His pace is fast, but not ruthless -- his tip kisses your cervix each time, but doesn't smash into it. He leans over you as he thrusts, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder so he can get in deeper. You raise your head so your lips can meet.

The kiss is fiery and full of passion and groans as he speeds up his pace, his hips snapping against yours. "Fuck," he moans into your mouth, breaking the contact to rest his forehead against yours.

"You must... be in peak physical condition," you manage to say between gasps.

"I play volleyball," he responds as he wastes no time in flipping you over so he's railing into you from behind.

"Y-you do!?" you exclaim.

He lets out a breathy laugh. "Baby, I'm on the Sendai Frogs."

"What's that?"

His next thrust is a little harsher than before, ripping a moan from your throat and causing your head to fall into the pillows. "Shit, sorry." He places a hand on your back and draws soothing circles with his fingertips, a complete opposite to the fucking he's giving you. "It's a volleyball team."

"I got that, but... Oh my fucking God, Tsukishima," you pant out. "I can't... can't fucking talk when you're railing me so good."

Your words of praise seem to spur him on because the soothing circles stop, instead replaced by the feeling of his chest pressing to your back. "Yeah? I'm fucking you good?" he asks in a low, sultry tone.

"So... so good, please don't stop."

He keeps his pace up until it begins to grow jerky and erratic. "Shit, I'm gonna cum," he whispers against the back of your neck.

"For me? Cum for me?" you ask in an innocent tone, despite the act you're engaging in.

He groans against your skin, and you feel his fingers dig into the soft skin just above your hips. "Fuck, yeah, baby, I'll cum for you."

His pace slows as he spills into the condom, and you wonder if he thanks whoever invented contraceptives whenever he finishes inside. Soon, it stops completely and he flops onto you, flattening you against the bed. "That was phenomenal."

You squeak from beneath him, his weight simultaneously comforting and a little bit suffocating. "Tsukishima... can't move!"

He laughs and gets off you, once again sorting through your stuff to find proper aftercare tools. "Sorry."

You feel the soft towel against your inner thighs as he cleans you up, before the material of your underwear slides up your legs. "I don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow," you groan, feeling that familiar soreness begin to sprout between your legs.

"My fault," he replies drily. You watch as he procures fresh underwear from his backpack -- an overnight bag? -- and puts it on. He walks over to the bed after doing so. "Scoot."

"Telling me to scoot in my own room should be criminal," you grumble before scooting over. He gets in the bed beside you, laying on his back. It doesn't take him much effort to move you around so your head is on his chest and your body is draped over his. He traces shapes on your skin again, and you listen to his heartbeat. "Wanna stay the night?" you offer after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

"That'd be awesome," is what you hear as your eyes begin to flutter shut, despite the lamp next to your bed still being on. The room plunges into darkness as Tsukishima turns it off, however, and the last thing you note is him saying, "Goodnight princess."

[ifortom]

WINTER AHEAD (1/2) T.H.

Summary: An unexpected pregnancy at 21 completely changes the lives of two young people. Over time, their paths diverge, and their hearts bear the pain of separation. Yet, the life born from their love keeps them unbreakably connected, showing that some bonds transcend time and differences. Also, it’s Christmas time!

A/N: I wrote this suddenly and couldn’t stop, but it will be divided into two parts because it took a different turn than I expected. Oh, and I know Christmas is already over, but my brain only started working after the festivities ended. I brought up some topics in this text that might be sensitive and cause some discomfort, but in the next chapter, some things will be explained.

The sound of the door opening, along with soft footsteps on the carpet, woke you up on yet another winter morning. Shortly after, you could feel the new weight on the blanket covering you, preventing the cold from reaching you.

"Mummy, are you awake?" The sleepy, drowsy voice reached your ears, and small fingers gently touched your face.

Delicate fingers gently trace imaginary lines on your face, attempting to wake you up.

"Mummy, come on. Daddy will be here soon."

It’s possible to detect the faint hint of desperation beginning to emerge in the little one's voice, as he spares no tactic to wake you up.

Stretching your arms without opening your eyes, you wrap Ethan in the blanket, eliciting a loud laugh from him.

"Oh no, help!" he shouts amid his laughter.

"This is an attack from the blanket monster!" you say, deepening your voice as you join in the game Ethan invented a few years ago.

As he tries to escape from the blanket you’ve wrapped him in, you attack with tickles, making him squirm uncontrollably on the bed.

"Mummy, please!" he says, laughing.

"Mummy? There’s no Mummy here, only the blanket monster."

"But I need my mum."

"Then do you surrender?"

"Yes, yes, please!" he says, and you release him, throwing your own body onto the bed and closing your eyes. When you feel Ethan stretch out over you, you open your eyes and smile at him.

"Oh, good morning, E."

"Good morning, Mummy! I was attacked by the blanket monster."

"Really? And did you defeat him?"

"Hm, not this time."

"Ah, that's okay. I bet the blanket monster had all his meals today, that's why he was so strong this time," you say, sitting up and pulling his little body close to yours. Ethan sits on your lap, his legs wrapped around your waist and his head resting on your chest as you lean back against the headboard of the bed.

Your hand gently pats his back, soothing him even more. No matter how much he grows, his mother's lap will always be his favourite place.

You bring your face closer to the top of his head and inhale the scent of baby shampoo coming from his soft hair.

Ethan may be just a few months away from turning 6 and becoming more independent in his routine, but to you, little E will always be the baby who cried loudly the first time you held him in your arms at 21.

From the moment you discovered you were pregnant, you knew life would never be the same, but the feeling of holding a newborn in your arms just minutes after he took his first breath of air was almost like a cold shower.

Since that moment, life took a new direction. There was no longer just Y/N. Now it would be Y/N and Ethan.

And Tom.

And as always, life spins in unexpected ways, and suddenly everything changes. Some things no longer seem to be enough.

After a few minutes in the same position, Ethan starts to move, and you release him to look at him.

"Can we have hot chocolate today?" he asks.

"Wasn't that our breakfast yesterday?"

"I know, but..." He turns his face, staring at the window. "I'm going to miss it."

He doesn't specify, but you understand what he means. It's the weekend, which means Ethan will spend the next few days away from home. Your home.

"I'm sure Daddy can make hot chocolate for you if you ask him."

"He makes it, but it's not like yours," he says, pouting.

"Ah, boy, stop trying to convince me with that face, you know it just makes me want to squeeze you!" you say, excited, wrapping him in your arms and hugging him tightly, covering his cheeks with kisses. "Go put on a sweater and let's have our breakfast, okay? Daddy will be here soon."

He nods and wriggles out of your arms, jumping off the bed and running toward his room. You get up and head to the bathroom, tying your hair back and washing your face to shake off the sleepiness.

When you reach the kitchen of the small apartment, Ethan is already trying to climb onto one of the stools at the counter—a thing you've already scolded him for trying to do on his own.

"What have I told you about asking for help?" you ask, approaching him and helping him sit on the stool.

"Sorry," he mumbles, then starts watching your movements as you gather the ingredients needed.

"Are you excited?" you ask, distracted.

"I am! Daddy said we're going to see the snow and the big Christmas tree. And then we're going to see Grandpa and Grandma."

This is a tradition of Ethan's that has been kept since his first Christmas, even though he was too young to understand. The photo on the wall serves as a constant reminder. Every Christmas, you would take him to the city center, where the Christmas tree was set up and the decorations lit up everything around.

However, the tradition of strolling through the city center during the festive season began long before Ethan ever thought about being born.

At 16, Tom took you for the first time to see the Christmas lights. According to him, it was just a walk among friends, but both of you knew that day meant so much more than that. After all, it was the day of your first kiss.

"This isn't a date," he said, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"Tom, I believe what we're doing qualifies as a date," you laugh.

"No, you deserve something better and bigger. You can consider this a date, fine, but we'll do more things and I'll take you to other places. I promise. A more exclusive place, too! There are too many people here," he says, looking around, and you laugh, pulling him closer and wrapping one of your arms that wasn't holding his around his neck.

"Any place with you is exclusive."

It’s been two years since you and Tom decided to go separate ways. For some reason, the relationship began to fade. It wasn’t for lack of love or affection for each other. But the heavy workload and raising a baby while still so young interfered with the future you had envisioned at 20, before Ethan became a matter that needed to be discussed.

Ethan was never considered a burden by either of you, but everything had to be reconsidered the moment you held the positive pregnancy test in your hands. Studies had to be put on hold for a while, and Tom had to find a full-time job that paid more than the part-time one he had at the time. In addition, he still needed to make time for his college studies. You also helped as much as you could during the pregnancy, taking online design courses that provided you with some work during that time.

Your parents were shocked, as were his, but they never denied their help. They were the support both of you needed in those first years. They helped with the payment of the first rent for the small apartment you found, and Tom made sure to pay them back as soon as he was able.

But their shock was even greater when they received the news that you and Tom were separating, instead of the engagement they had hoped would happen. Your mother, who had been so in love with Tom back then, cursed him with every name possible for neglecting the family he was starting to build. She demanded that he take responsibility for the consequences of his actions.

As you cried from the pain reflected in her words, you explained that it was a mutual decision. There was nothing more to be done. Tom also made it clear that he wasn’t abandoning anyone, he was just going to move out, and you two would no longer be a couple. But Ethan would remain the main reason for your relationship after the breakup.

He kept his promise and never let anything be lacking for his son. He is present and raises Ethan as a father should. But Ethan is still a child, one who learns everything with increasing ease. This means he has already questioned why mommy and daddy don’t live together.

Despite him enjoying having two different homes.

After Ethan finishes breakfast, he asks for permission to watch a cartoon on the living room TV, and you take the opportunity to change clothes and freshen up. Then, you go to Ethan's room, select his outfit for going out, and check the bag he packed the night before. Although he has his own things at his father's house, Ethan still spends most of his time with you, so there are always more things at your place. You add a few jumpers and socks to his backpack and call him to change clothes.

"Let me smell your breath," you say after helping him put on his socks. Ethan opens his mouth, and you bring your face closer to his. "Oh my god!" you exaggerate, acting shocked. "What on earth do you have living in that mouth?" Ethan laughs. "Go brush your teeth now, young man."

He quickly gets up, runs to the bathroom, adjusts the little stool so he can reach the sink, and closes the door. Privacy. The doorbell rings, and Ethan lets out a little squeal.

"It's Daddy!" he says, opening the bathroom door, his mouth covered in toothpaste.

"Hey, finish brushing your teeth, little monster. I'll open the door." He nods and returns to the task, doing it even faster, eager to see his dad.

You take a deep breath and walk toward the door, already knowing what you'll find when you open it. Tom hasn't changed much. Despite the marks on his face being more visible, he still carries the same boyish expression. The same one you once fell hopelessly in love with.

"Hey, I know I arrived a bit too early, but everyone’s excited to see him," he says, one hand going behind his head, scratching his neck. He’s wearing a heavy coat, which shows just how cold it is outside the apartment and building.

"Hi, no problem. You know he's also dying of anticipation," you laugh awkwardly. "Come on in, he's just finishing getting ready."

Tom steps through the door, and nostalgia hits him hard. When he moved out, he thought you’d probably look for another place too—maybe somewhere a little bigger, with three bedrooms and an office so you could work from home. At least, that’s what you both had planned while you were still together. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to stay in a place filled with so many memories if it had been you moving out instead of him.

He notices some changes in the place—the photos that used to feature three people have been taken down from the walls and shelves. Most of them now only show Ethan, with just a few including you. He spots one photo, though, showing your family and his, probably from Ethan's birthday.

This isn’t the first time he’s been inside your home since the breakup. He’s picked up and dropped off Ethan numerous times, including a few occasions when Ethan had a stomach ache and wanted to sleep in your bed. But he had never taken the time to look around. The strange, awkward air between you both always prevented him from examining how you chose to change things after he left.

But he seized the opportunity when you turned your back after saying you’d quickly check something in the laundry area. Unsure of what to do, Tom sat down on the sofa, while you hid near the washing machine, taking deep breaths to prevent the tears from escaping without permission.

No matter how much time passes, Tom holds a piece of your heart that you still haven’t been able to fill. Not with anyone else, nor with yourself. When everything ended, you truly believed that having Ethan would be enough. And he is more than enough. But Tom is unforgettable. Having him so close and still sharing something so precious with him sends shivers down your spine.

Because he’s right there. Just a few steps away. And he’s no longer yours.

The sharp sound of Ethan’s excited voice pulls you back, and you take a deep breath about three times, trying to slow your heart. You swipe your thumb under your eyes, drying any trace of tears.

"E, did you change your shirt?” you ask as you return to the living room, seeing Ethan sitting on the floor, showing Tom a new puzzle he got.

“Yes, I accidentally spilled water while brushing my teeth, Mom,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no problem, my love.” You move closer, crouch down, and kiss the top of his head. “Well done for changing it all by yourself.” He smiles and shifts his attention back to his dad, who keeps his eyes fixed on him.

You let Ethan and Tom talk on their own for a while and take the opportunity to wash the breakfast dishes.

It’s clear that Ethan prefers having this moment at home, without the rush and hurry of needing to leave right away. That’s why Tom always tries to arrive a little earlier than planned, as if to ease the transition between locations for the coming days.

A few minutes later, Tom's voice catches your attention.

"Y/N, can you come here?" You dry your hands and walk into the living room.

Ethan is sitting with his back to Tom, leaning on the coffee table, playing with a plastic robot.

"What's wrong?" you ask. Tom stands up from the sofa and takes your hand, pulling you a little away from the scene.

"He doesn’t want to go."

"What do you mean, he doesn’t want to go? A few hours ago, he was all excited."

"I noticed, but it’s been almost an hour since I arrived, and when I mentioned that we needed to go, he just turned his back and said he didn’t want to go." Tom’s unfocused, disoriented look tightens your chest.

The duration of Ethan's stays with each of you was never decided. One of the things you both agreed on was that the courts wouldn’t be involved at this stage—you both believed you could communicate and decide how Ethan’s custody would work. Tom spends a lot of time at his father’s beverage company, which makes it harder for him to connect with Ethan during the week. Your job is more flexible, allowing you to work from home and have more free time. However, Tom still asks to spend time with Ethan during the week on occasion and also picks him up from school when needed.

This is a new moment, one that neither of you may know how to handle. It’s never happened before. You gently touch Tom’s arm and walk around him to approach Ethan, sitting down beside him on the floor. The moment you do, he turns his head, resting it on the table.

"Bubba?" You use his favourite nickname. "Can you look at mommy?" Your hand strokes his back, but he stays in the same position, unresponsive. "Can we talk? Daddy said you were upset." With that, Tom moves closer and sits on the sofa behind you.

"Come on, bean. We’re here with you."

Ethan’s accumulated a series of nicknames throughout his life, even during pregnancy. Bean being one of them. And the fact that Tom used it now feels like a low blow, especially to you. After all, it was the way you both referred to him throughout the entire pregnancy.

"What’s bothering you?" No response. "Do you remember what you told me earlier? Daddy’s going to take you to see the snow and the Christmas tree. Grandma and Grandpa will be there too."

"Uncle Harry, Sam, and Paddy too. They’re all waiting for you," Tom adds.

Ethan's small shoulders begin to tremble, causing even more panic in both of you, who exchange a glance before turning your attention back to the little one. Slowly, Ethan starts to sob quietly, and your instinct is to pick him up and comfort him right away. But Tom places his hand on your arm, stopping you, and you look at him in disbelief.

"E, you need to tell us what’s going on."

"I don't want to go," he finally replies.

"Ethan, I need you to tell me why," Tom says.

"I don't want to go," he repeats.

"Right, we get it. But this was our agreement, remember? We have a lot to do at home."

"Mummy," Ethan says, sitting up and turning towards you.

"Bubba, why don’t you want to go with Daddy?" you ask gently. He moves closer to you and throws himself into your lap, wrapping his legs around your body and his arms around your neck, burying his face against you. Tom runs a hand over his face, unsure of what to do as the sound of Ethan’s crying grows louder, filling the room.

You look at Tom without knowing what to say, and he seems just as uneasy about the situation. Ethan has never refused to go out with him before. Could it be that the time he spends with Ethan isn’t enough? Tom looks like he’s ready to start an argument that won’t end anytime soon, judging by the expression on his face. You stand up, holding Ethan even closer to your body.

"I need to calm him down. Can you wait or come back later?" you ask.

"What? Y/N, no. You know I always come early just to avoid situations like this. Everyone is waiting for us at home. I need to go, and I need to take him with me." With that, Ethan clings even tighter to you. Tom notices, and rejection washes over his face.

"I'm sure everyone will understand. Do as you wish, but right now, my priority is him," you say, looking at him before turning away and walking to Ethan's little room. The bed, which he had tried to make himself, is cozy enough for you to lie down with him.

Ethan has always shown preferences and behaviours different from other children his age. This concerned you and led you to seek professional help. The paediatrician conducted some tests and recommended starting psychological treatment. A few sessions have already taken place, and Mia, the child psychologist, has had several conversations with you.

Throughout the entire separation period, what concerned you the most was Ethan's reaction and how all these changes would affect him.

Even though he was only three years old when it all happened, he witnessed small arguments between you and Tom, which, despite your best efforts to avoid, could not be entirely prevented. After that, the constant moving from one place to another undoubtedly made it difficult for him to identify with a single place.

Mum’s house, Dad’s house.

Where is Ethan’s home?

This was a question raised by the psychologist, and it has never left your mind since.

Ethan’s tiny fingers wrapped around your neck found the chain you rarely take off. He traced its path to the front, touching the small letter 'E' pendant. A gift from Tom when you both decided on the baby’s name. Some things are hard to leave behind.

You waited until his breathing steadied, making sure he had fallen asleep, before getting up.

The plan was to head to the living room and call Tom to let him know that Ethan had fallen asleep and it would probably be better to come back later. But as you stepped into the hallway, you found Tom sitting on the sofa, his head resting against the back, legs spread, shoulders slumped. Tired. That’s the word that best describes Tom Holland’s body language at that moment.

He slowly lifted his head as he heard you approach. You sat down next to him, your legs touching.

"He’s asleep."

"I figured that would happen."

"The psychologist said he might have issues related to this change in routine." Tom sighed.

Of course, he knows about the psychotherapy sessions Ethan has been attending. His consent is required, after all. But he has never attended a single parental guidance session, something that fills you with frustration.

"Do you think we’re doing something wrong?" you ask.

"I don’t know. Maybe?"

"He wasn’t supposed to be caught in the middle of all this mess."

"What do you want to do now, Y/N? We can’t change the past," he replies sharply.

"Hey, what’s going on with you? Where’s all this harshness coming from?" Tom takes a deep breath and leans his head back on the sofa again, staring at the ceiling.

"My son doesn’t want to go home with me. That’s all. He was fine, and then, out of nowhere, he turned his back on me. When I ask him something, he doesn’t respond." He looks at you now. "I didn’t tell you before because it was resolved, but two weeks ago, that Wednesday when you were stuck at work and asked me to pick him up from school… When he saw me—when he realised it wasn’t you—he didn’t want to leave. It was horrible for me because people were watching, and I’ve never seen Ethan cry as much as he did that day." He lets out a bitter laugh.

"Tom…"

"The teachers tried to talk to him, but it was like I was a stranger taking him away. In the end, he agreed to come with me when I said we were going home, but he misunderstood. When he realised we were going to my house, he started crying again." He looks down at the floor. "It took ages for him to stop. That’s why, when you came to pick him up, he was asleep—because he was exhausted from crying so much." Finally, he looks at you, tears in his eyes.

"Tommy."

"I did everything wrong. I tried to give my best, always, but it’s never enough. I wasn’t the best for you, and look what happened." He looks away. "And now my son doesn’t even want to stay with me."

"Hey, hey. Look at me." You gently place a hand on his arm. "Tom, this isn’t your fault. This is all new for both of us, just as it is for him."

"I should have fought harder for us," he murmured.

Gently, you place a hand on his face, pulling him closer. The two of you adjust on the sofa, settling into a position that feels both comfortable and familiar. Tom nestled in your arms, his head resting against your chest, just the way Ethan often does. One of his arms wraps tightly around your waist, holding you close, while your hand soothingly traces along his back.

As the two of you remain wrapped up in each other for an indeterminate amount of time, you try not to dwell on Tom’s words.

How different would things be if he hadn’t given up on trying? It’s not fair to place all the blame on him, but reflecting on past events, he was the first to show that he no longer had an interest in keeping the relationship alive.

During your time apart, you heard about Tom being involved with other women. But none of them were serious enough to be introduced to Ethan—or to you.

The sound of Tom’s phone ringing on the coffee table pulls you back to reality. When Tom doesn’t move to answer it, you lean forward, trying to see who’s calling. But as you do, Tom tightens his arms around you.

"It’s your mum."

"Let it ring."

"Aren’t they expecting you?" you ask, settling back into the sofa.

"I don’t think I have good news," he mutters.

Your hands find their way to his hair, gently massaging, offering comfort in the only way you know how at that moment.

The phone rings a few more times before the call drops, only to start again 20 seconds later.

"I think you should answer," you say, and he mutters something unintelligible. "I can talk to her if you want." Tom simply lets go of you, slumping back onto the sofa. You get up, pick up his phone, and walk into the kitchen before answering.

"Hi, Nikki."

"What? Who is this? Y/N?" she says, startled.

"Yes, it’s me."

"Did something happen, dear? Where’s Tom?"

"Um, we had a situation here, but don’t worry—it’s all fine now."

"Are you sure? How’s Ethan?" she asks nervously.

"He… well, he didn’t want to leave. We tried talking to him, but it didn’t help much. He eventually fell asleep."

"Oh, poor little thing," she says, sighing. "And you, my dear? How are you?"

"I…" Hearing the concern in her voice, your eyes well up with tears. "I don’t know what to do. Tom is heartbroken. Seeing them both like this hurts me so much, Nikki."

"Oh, sweetheart, I know it does. But you need to take care of yourself too, Y/N. Stop thinking you have to handle all of this on your own. I know what it’s like to raise a child, and I know Tom tries so hard to be part of it all, but after everything that happened… he’s distant."

"It’s been two years, Nikki. Why can’t we move past this?"

"Because there’s still love," she responds quickly. "I’ll never fully understand what happened between you two. Maybe the responsibility became too much, maybe you lost yourselves along the way. Focusing solely on the child became your priority, and you forgot to nurture that love. I don’t know."

"I don’t know either." "And you were so young when Ethan came along, Y/N. You both had to rewrite an entire life you had planned together, remember?" You sigh deeply at her words. "You wanted to graduate college together, start working, save enough to take a trip, just the two of you… there were so many plans, I can’t even list them all. If it wasn’t you telling me about them, it was Tom."

More tears streamed uncontrollably down your face, and you covered your mouth to stifle any sound, not wanting to alarm Tom in the living room. "I heard so much about you two…" She sighed as well. "And the truth is, you’re still young, learning something new every day. And now, you’re also teaching someone else—someone loving, intelligent, and full of so much heart. Ethan is made of both of you, my dear."

"I’m so afraid something will happen to him, Nikki. He’s so little, and I just… I can’t hurt him like this." "Y/N, you’re doing your best. Every time I see that boy, he shows me something new about his personality that surprises me so much. You’ve done an amazing job. But you also need to take care of yourself. And I’d be so happy if you allowed my son to help you in that process."

"Thank you, Nikki. That means a lot." "I’ll always be here for you. I’ll talk to everyone here about it and wait for Tom to let me know what we’re doing today, alright?"

"Alright. Thank you again."

"You’re welcome, dear." And with that, she hung up.

Without a second thought, you walk back into the living room. Tom is still in the same position, only lifting his head when he notices you standing in front of him. His gaze lands on your tear-streaked face and red eyes.

"What happened?" he asks, standing up and gently holding your face in his hands.

"Can you carry Ethan without waking him and take him to my room?" you ask, holding his wrists. He nods and lets his hands drop from your face before moving towards Ethan.

You make your way to your bedroom while Tom goes to fetch Ethan from his room. You pull down the blinds, dimming the light filtering into the space. Tom enters, carefully carrying Ethan, and places him in the centre of the bed.

Gently, you settle on the right side, straightening up before resting your head on the pillow. Tom stands there, unsure of what to do, watching you without reaction. Finally, you extend a hand toward him. He gets the message, takes off his shoes, and lies down on the side that used to be his when you shared this bed. You don’t let go of his hand for a second. Instead, you pull it closer, guiding it to wrap around Ethan’s small body nestled between you.

"I miss you so much," Tom whispered. A small smile appeared on your face.

"We’ll talk later, okay? For now, let’s just enjoy our little Bean."

[gatorbites-imagines]

Could you please do Boba Fett? With a male reader who wants kids. Or when reader and Boba have kids? I have baby fever right now and Boba is one of the biggest things that helps.

Boba Fett x Male reader 

Headcanons 

Lmao, this has been in my inbox a while... Star Wars has been tickling my brain again finally. 

Its a bit of a stereotype that Mandalorians love kids and hoard them like dragons hoard gold. 

But Boba isn't technically mandalorian, at least in his own eyes. Being mandalorian is more about culture than blood, and seeing as how his only ability to learn about said culture was cut short, well. He wears the armor and respects his father's memory though. 

Doesn't stop him from experiencing the baby fever. Especially if you are mandalorian and share the same baby fever. Boba will claim it's something he inherited from Jango. 

I could imagine Boba struggling in the beginning at the thought of you wanting kids, be they adopted or either of you carrying them if you are able. This also very much depends on when you guys are together. 

If its during his bounty hunting days, then Boba would want kids, somewhere deep inside, but he would not have them. Especially knowing how he lost Jango, there's no way he would want to put his own kids through that. 

After crawling out of the sarlacc and being taken in by the Tuskens, I think Boba starts turning the idea more in his head. Hes not gonna allow it until his status on Tatooine is solid, but, it would be easier to convince him. 

If either of you are able to carry your child, then Boba starts getting very broody. Doesn't matter if its you or him carrying the child honestly, he starts pacing, huffing and puffing. 

Call it protective nature, but the castle is getting suited up for war, just in case anyone tries coming for either of you. 

If its Boba that's pregnant, then he wont say it, but he appreciates massages and being cared for, a lot. Hes already older, covered in a lot of scars, so having to carry a pregnancy really wears him out. 

If it's you, then he gets even worse. Hes never leaving you alone, and there are times where you need to call for assistance from Fennec to get some privacy. Theres no need for Boba to be in the room when you bathe, but he will try it. 

Or, you guys can adopt. Even then, Boba acts like a broody hen, no matter the kids age. If they're a baby, then they are strapped to his chest. Or, inside his armor, which he's loosened enough to hold them. Only you get to hold the baby. 

If it's a kid he tries to be as approachable and fatherly as he can. Sadly, Boba doesn't have too much experience with a stable father figure. As much as Jango tried, being a famous bounty hunter didn't create the safest and most stable childhood. 

If its a teen, then Boba still tries his best to be a solid stable person they can lean on. But no matter what I can still see him struggling when it comes to being vulnerable. He tries though. 

Youll find your kid sat on his lap or the armrest of his throne on the regular when you can't find them. They always try to scowl like Boba, but it just looks adorable.  

Your kid will want to dress up as Boba, so you two end up getting them durasteel armor in a familiar mandalorian shape, like any mandalorian who hasnt become an adult yet. 

Here Din is a bigger help, since he knows the culture more thoroughly than Boba. Din becomes the kids uncle too, where Grogu will become their cousin. Fennec is involved too, of course. 

Being a dad would both stress Boba out more, but also calm him. Some part of him would settle at having your kid relying on him, someone to take him down a few notches. 

It means he doesn't always have to be on the defense, always ready for the worst. Obviously, he allows himself to open up with you, but only in private. 

With a kid, Boba starts being more vulnerable and finds his emotions easier. In the beginning its because he forces himself to do so, as he wouldn't want his kid to think he doesn't care. 

I have a feeling that your kid sleeps between you two at night for a good while. For safety, sure. But also for comfort. Doesn't matter if they are naturally born or adopted, this kid feels the safest between their two dads. 

Having a kid also means Boba actually sleeps more and cares more for himself, since he has to be worth looking up to.  

You catch the two of them taking naps together a lot, the kid draped across his middle. It's always easy to snuggle up beside them, Boba always wrapping an arm around you even when sleep. 

[ddejavvu]

It says requests are open so how about reader getting caught while watching spencer reid edits?

His footsteps are masked by the suggestive song playing from your phone's speakers, but you're aware of Spencer's presence as soon as he leans over your shoulder, his slightly frizzy hair tickling your cheek.

"What's that?" He asks curiously, at the same time that you smash your finger over the lock button of your phone, the music cutting out abruptly.

"Nothing!" You insist, heart pounding in your chest, "Jesus, Spencer, you scared me."

"Was that a video of me?" He presses, but there's no accusation in his tone. You're extremely thankful that his aversion to technology has steered him away from TikTok, because he doesn't seem to have caught that you were watching an edit of him.

"Uh- sort of," You admit, feeling too cornered and guilty to lie to your boyfriend who rounds the couch and sits beside you, "I didn't make it, though."

That's worse. You want to backpedal, you want to take the words out of his brain where they're turning like gears and smash them to bits on the ground. His brow furrows, and his nose wrinkles slightly, "What?"

"It's nothing," You shake your head, waving away his concern and wishing you could do the same thing for your embarrassment, "Just drop it, Spence."

He looks like he's going to. He doesn't look like he wants to, because his scrunched brow perpetuates and he gnaws at the inside of his cheek. After a moment of deliberation between respecting your wishes and satiating his own curiosity, he chooses your least favorite option.

"So- someone else made that video? Of me? Is it- like, online?"

"Spencer!" You gush, cheeks ablaze as you whine at him petulantly, "Please, I don't wanna talk about it."

"I do!" He insists with an incredulous laugh, "I don't understand, you found that online somewhere?"

"Yes," You groan, "On TikTok, Spencer."

"I don't have a TikTok," He informs you, like maybe you're confused, "Who posted it?"

"I don't know!" You cry, launching yourself forwards so that your face lands unceremoniously into his lap, "Spencer, it wasn't me, I don't know who posted it, I just saw it."

"I heard the sound repeat 5 times," He admits, a gentle hand on the back of your head stroking through your hair, "I came to see why you liked that part of the song so much."

"Oh my god," You groan, the fabric of his joggers doing very little to cool the heat from your burning cheeks, "I'm gonna throw my phone in the garbage disposal."

"Where was the footage from?" He kindly directs the conversation away from you, and you rise out of his lap to glare defeatedly at him.

"Press conferences," You mumble, "And news reports."

"Weird," He mumbles, reaching for your phone, "Can I see it?"

"No!" You shriek, but he's got a hold of the device before you can stop him, and one thing you've learned about him is that he has incredible grip strength. You think the only way you'll get it back is by beating him up, and you wouldn't even if you could.

He knows your password and bypasses it too easily. The video starts once more, and his lips curl into a faint smirk as he realizes just why the editor had chosen the sound that they had.

"You're watching porn of me," He discovers, and you let out a desperate wail at the term he chooses to use, "You really liked this enough to watch it five times?"

"Spencer turn it off- no, not the comments!" You watch as his thumb descends upon the button with no hesitation, any chance of your dignity surviving flying out the window.

"Until the room stinks," He reads with narrowed eyes, then glances at the red heart beside the comment, "You liked it?"

[acoazlove]

Spiralling Inside

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Spiralling into your head is damaging, and there’s only one person who can help you.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: a little bit of angst, fluff

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Loneliness isn’t a feeling the soul is supposed to feel, to experience.

It’s isolating, whether it's self-inflicted or out of one's control, it can break you. It feels like no one can save you from that feeling. How do you know that someone will help you out of the feeling, and stop you from spiralling all over again?

You don’t know. That’s the scary part, you’re supposed to have faith. Trust wholeheartedly in someone that they won't make you feel like that ever again.

The kind of trust you’re supposed to have with yourself. So what happens when you can’t even trust your own brain from thinking of all the worst scenarios? Make you think that everyone hates you. That you’re not worthy of loving friendships. You are not good enough. They are only around you because they pity you.

They hate me. A common thought for an overthinker, a hurt person. No one wants those words swirling around their head.

Even while talking one-on-one with someone, a friend, it feels as if your mind is making you feel like they are only interacting with you because they feel bad for you. Like they know how lonely you are.

A larger event is even worse because you are alone. Everyone has someone to talk to, to be with. Someone to call their own. You don’t.

The same people who call you family are the ones who seem to forget you’re standing beside them, because ‘you are so quiet.’ Why say something if it doesn't add to the current topic? So you keep quiet, keep to yourself.

Not one person notices when you spiral when you get so deep in your mind that you can’t claw your way out. Can’t silence those voices. Except for one person.

Azriel. Your person. Your other half. Your mate. And while standing in the middle of the Night Court’s ballroom, with your family, talking to each other, he notices.

You suppose that’s one of the upsides to him being the spymaster. He notices you. He sees you.

“Angel?” His soft voice reaches your ears before he appears in front of you. Blocking your view of the rest of the world. So it's just him.

A scarred but gentle hand reaches for yours, subtly pulling out of the crowded room. You only notice you have moved when a cooling breeze brushing your face. Azriel’s hands are on you next, cupping your face so gently that an on-looker might think he is holding the most precious jewels.

“My love?” You finally meet his gaze, his swirling jade and amber eyes. Holding his emotions out on a silver platter for you. Only for you.

He watches your brows pinching, silver lining your eyes, features twisting in guilt and sadness. “I’m sorry.” The defeat in your voice physically pains him. His features softening, thumbs swiping the tears that fall unwanted.

“No. You have nothing to be sorry for.” The conviction in his dulcet voice helps to slowly pull you from your self-deprecating shell. An arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace, his other hand moves to the back of your head, cradling you to the crook of his neck, smothering you in his scent. Your arms wrap around him quickly, so tight as if you’re worried he’d disappear. And based on where your thoughts are right now, your mind thinks he very well might.

The scent that helps ground you. A fact you had told him early on in your relationship, even before you mated. A fact he kept in the very forefront of his mind for moments exactly like these.

Deep breaths tickle his throat. Breathe in as much of him as you can. If only you could fuse with him. You wouldn’t ever have to be away from him.

A calloused hand runs through your hair soothingly. His other hand rubbed up and down your back, in the way he found helped calm you the most. Pressing featherlight kisses to your forehead and temple. Whispering sweet nothings into your skin.

“What happened, angel?” Feeling the rumble of his words as he speaks, vibrating into your own form. You shrug in response. “Just got in my head.” Words muffled against his neck.

You pull away from his neck, a huff leaving you at how much of your hair is in your face from the movement. A watery laugh leaves you as Azriel tries to push it out of your face. A loving smile tugs at his lips at the endearing sound.

Once it's out of the way, you look up at your mate through wet lashes. Your cheeks flushed and tear-stained. “There she is.” His voice is so adoring it makes your heart skip a beat. His hazel gaze searches your face, looking for what, you don’t know.

“I’m fine, Az. I just-“A heavy sigh leaves you as you try to verbalise your thoughts. “I just started thinking too much when they turned away from me, which I know sounds self-conceited and narcissistic but-“ your rambling gets cut off by Azriel’s mouth meeting yours. Releasing a contented sigh as you sink into the kiss. So full of love and feelings that can’t be put into words.

He pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hands cupping your face once again. “I know you, my love. You are the most selfless, intelligent, and kindhearted person I have ever met. And yes your brain works against you sometimes, but that does not make you self-conceited or narcissistic. You cannot beat yourself up over something you can’t control.” He presses a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose. “They all love you. Don’t let your mind tell you otherwise. They are around you because they want to be.”

You feel your bottom lip tremble under the weight of his words. “I love you. More than anything, more than what should be possible. You’re my mate.” A kiss to your forehead “My other half.” Another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you, my angel.” A lingering kiss to your lips.

Your hands slide up his arms to rest on top of his wrists. Only pulling away when air is needed. Turning your head to brush a kiss to the palm of his hand. Pulling his hand from your face to thread your own with them.

”I love you with my whole being Azriel. More than you’ll ever know.” Voice raspy from your tears, but so sincere a smile pulls at his lips. Pressing one more kiss to the crown of your head before taking a single step back to get a proper look at you.

”Do you want to go back in there, or go home?” Tone still gentle. A small shake of your head. “We should go back in.” He nods, moving to step back towards the ballroom. But a tug of his hand stops him, immediately looking for something wrong in your expression, but a smirk tugs at your lips. “How does my makeup look?”

A snort leaves him, and he brushes a thumb under your eye before leaning back dramatically to get a better view, a giggle leaving you at the movement, a boyish grin taking over his face at the sound. “Looks perfect. Just like you, my love.” Wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you towards where you left the rest of your family.

As they come back in view, smiles light up their faces, but your focus is pulled back up to the male at your side. He smiles down at you as Mor and Feyre start gossiping about something they had heard from one of the courtiers.

Leaning into your mate's warmth as you listen to their rambling. You know you’ll be just fine as long as you have Azriel by your side.

─────────────────────────

a/n: I know this isn't part five for a new place, but I've personally been over thinking quite a lot recently, and once i started writing this it just kept flowing. so this is dedicated to all my overthinkers. hoped you enjoyed <3

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Grim - Striped Ribbon Vignette

"The best time we can possibly have!"

[Ramshackle Dorm – Anniversary Party]

Grim: Wooooah. Ramshackle's all festive lookin' now! Take some pics with the ghost camera, [Yuu]!

Grim: When Ace and Deuce came over with the other first years this mornin', at first I was all, "What's goin' on!?"…

Grim: But looks like they were just puttin' up decorations for "Founding Day." What a bunch of kids, all super excited over somethin' like that.

You don't like Founding Day, Grim?

Grim: I-I didn't say that.

Grim: Night Raven College's a big-shot school that only lets chosen mages in. That means it's a huge deal to go to school here, right!?

Grim: There's no way any student here wouldn't be celebratin' Founding Day!

Well, so, it's great that they decorated everything so nicely for us, then.

Grim: …I guess.

Grim: But it was so crazy with how noisy everyone was. At least everything got done alright, thanks to my awesome leadership, though.

Grim: Didja see how Ace tried to skip doin' actual work, even though he's the one who came all on his own? He tried pullin' pranks on me again today, too!

What do you mean, "again"?

Grim: C'mon, you! Didn't you see him pickin' on me during flight class yesterday!?

Grim: When I was trying to fly on my broom, he tried to get in my way by using his wind magic to tickle me. He's so annoyin'!

Grim: He's obviously just jealous of my magical genius. I'm gonna show him who's the real boss one day!

Grim: Deuce was at least focusing on putting up the decorations, but he kept hanging the letters out of order… He's no better than Ace.

Grim: Oh yeah, that reminds me, the homework answer he gave me the other day was completely wrong and it got Crewel on our case, big time.

Grim: In the end, me 'n Deuce had to stay after for Crewel's special lessons. That guys should really do better on his studies.

I don't think you're one to talk.

Grim: Urgh… H-Hey, I've totally been taking my classes more seriously recently!

Grim: But in History of Magic, whenever Jack sits in front of me, I can't see the blackboard at all.

Grim: Plus, he's always sitting as straight up as he can despite him already being so huge, sayin' he needs to exercise his back muscles even in class.

Grim: If I say somethin' to him, he just says "Sit on [Yuu]'s shoulders" and doesn't budge one bit. He's such a muscle-brain.

Grim: Epel's gotta have the worst of it, seeing as he's in the same class as such a stubborn guy.

Grim: …Actually, Epel'd probably just snap back and pick a fight right away, huh.

Grim: He's a gutsy kid that hates to lose, after all.

Grim: We were sneakin' some food outta the cafeteria together the other day, too. We promised not to tell anyone, either… Boy, that sure was fun…

Grim: …Ah! Shoot, I just told you! That right now is a secret between us, okay!?

Grim: Speakin' of sneakin' food, Sebek's hard to deal with too! He's so stubborn, there's no use talkin' with him!

Grim: A little while ago, I tried just the tiiiiniest bit of some of his food, and he got super mad, yellin' and chasin' after me!

Grim: He just kept coming and he was shoutin' so loud my ears were starting to hurt real bad.

Grim: It was just one bite of his deluxe minced cutlet sandwich… Or was it five? Maybe ten bites?

I should probably apologize to him later…

[Ramshackle Dorm – Anniversary Party]

You look like you're really enjoying your time here at school, Grim.

Grim: Your little grin's creepin' me out, stop it. Well, what about you, then?

1. Every day is a blast, thanks to you.

Grim: Myahaha! Well, that goes without sayin'! Grim: And that's 'cause I'm here watchin' over and takin' care of you every day! Grim: …Good, good, you're enjoying yourself. Eheh.

2. I think I'm exhausted by all the trouble that happens every day…

Grim: My-Myaah!? Grim: What, does that mean you ain't havin' fun hangin' with me every day? I can't accept that! Grim: You'll see just how much I've been doin' for you! Just you wait!

Grim: …But hey, I guess I've gotten used to living in Ramshackle like this.

Grim: We're really doin' pretty good for ourselves in this run-down dorm.

Grim: That downpour the other day caused a huge mess the other day with all those leaks, though.

Grim: The bed and blankets were soakin' wet that I thought we'd have to sleep on the floor…

Grim: But luckily, one of the sofas made it through dry, so that was good. It was small and cramped, but way better than the floor.

Grim: We were able to patch things up with the help of the ghosts, but one day we definitely gotta get the school to cough up some dough to fix everything!

Definitely!

Grim: Yeah! We gotta make sure bein' here at this school's the best time we can possibly have!

[knock, knock]

Grim: Oh! Is that Ace 'n them?

Grim: We promised we'd all get together to celebrate Founding Day outside. I bet there's a feast planned, too!

Grim: Let's go, [Yuu]! Time for an outdoor party! Myaha!

Grim, let's keep at it together.

Grim: !

Grim: …Yeah! I'm definitely gonna keep lookin' after my little hench-human forever.

Grim: You just stick with me, [Yuu]!

Requested by @sweetdelightknight.

[kiwanopie]

SOSBSSS I NEED MOAR CRIME LORD AU SAKUSA 🙏🏽

Stomach Pains/The Start of it All

CW: Some descriptors like the reader having a long hair, but that could be a weave or natural hair, Mentions of gunshot wounds and blood, references to human experimentation, crimelord! Sakusa and reader might have a lot more in common than you think. (Also a little more lore about the reader cause I rarely go into it.) have fun with the rules of my au lmao fluff

WC: 3k

“G-God…!”

The pain emitting from the hole in his stomach is enough to make a punch in the gut feel like a tickle. — His whole body feels set off like a live wire, every nerve cut at the lid. Between gasps and welling tears he just barely sees a figure standing above him through the haze; and despite his honor he hopes - he begs they’ll be so merciful as to just put him out of his misery.

But as it would seem, and as he very clearly deserves, karma has long since lost its patience with him, and a surge of hot white mind numbing pain washes over him as something presses firmly against his stomach, so unabashed as it does that it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall into pieces.

Sakusa’s vision clears somewhat in that agony, somewhere between prayer and hellfire. “P-Please. Just fucking get it over with-“

It’s you.

You didn’t… leave. Even when his misjudgments put this whole operation at risk. —- You could’ve. You should’ve. Six million dollar contract withstanding, it’s not really something worth dying meaninglessly for. I mean, you can all but turn into smoke. Be gone in half a second once bullets start to fly and turn up a quarter way across town in the other, as they say. Plus, what an ass he’s been since meeting you. Questioning your credibility, your efficiency, your position as an elite. Commenting on your clothes and your cadencey. Basically called you a bimbo riding on the coattails of your affluent sister, only viable if it meant being eye candy. It goes without saying that he hasn���t earned such loyalty.

And yet, here you are. Perfume wafting gentle smells of honey and lily, pretty dress stained in cerise. ~ Unlike the neutral dispositions expected of most scouts in your line of business, you’ve broken your usual cool with movements that can only be described as dire and frantic, pushing on his stomach with the kind of urgency undeserving of a jackass like him. - Your pretty blow out swings over your shoulders as you panickedly swivel your masked faced between him and the wound on his stomach, and his eyes are amessed with tears again at that foreign feeling of guilt.

“S-Stop.” Sakusa grits. “There’s no helping it, just stop. I’m already gone.”

You turn your head for a long look at his face for a deliberate second.

You reach for your mask.

The endorphins in his brain must already be going off because a woman this pretty has no right to exist than in daydreams or final throws. Kind doey eyes cottonized by worry, and a general visage that could turn any good man into goo.

And yet somehow your voice blows that out the water. “You’re here with me, Sakusa-sama. As long as I’m here, you are.”

Like the taste of miso soup. That’s what you sound like. Warm blankets, and fond touches, and the glossy feel of Devore. All of that while being regarded with such genuine concern nearly reverts him to something infantine. He hopes that this new slue of tears doesn't look too telling. “How’s your mouth taste?”

“M-My…?” He clears the knot out of his throat. “The same…”

“How about smell? Rotten eggs or garlic?”

Sakusa’s eyes squeeze shut at the pain. “N-… No. I don’t smell anything.”

“Good. Means the shot missed your liver,” You pull a hand away again till a medical bag is seemingly forming in your hand. “O.K.-“

You pull a syringe pen out for him to see. “This is Benzedrine. — It’ll feel like a kick in the balls but it’ll keep you from going into shock.”

Like a kick-? He doesn’t even get a chance to brace himself before you’re pressing it against his thigh.

And then he’s gasping into the air.

“Jesus fucking-!” His tensed muscles smear the electric chines of such an unexpected surge of pain. He very nearly bites off his own tongue. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Yeah, sorry I lied. It’s actually so much worse than I described, wasn’t it? — But you got through it, yeah? We’re almost home free.”

Sakusa nods at the encouragement. Though when he swallows it goes down sticky. “How close is ‘almost?”

“If it’s a through-and-through we’re right at the finish line, if not-… Well, I might be insisting on a bonus.”

Your fingers pull away from where they’d been idlily pressing pressure points against his lower sides — Belatedly he realizes your testing the feeling in his legs. “Lift on my mark.”

Just the feeling of bending his legs feels like ripping into his stomach lining. The fact that he won’t be passing out from this is much less comforting than expected.

“Okay. Lift.”

This is gonna hurt like a bitch.

“F-…! Oh, fuck!” His voice is shrill enough to cut ridges in the floor under his chin. A pained wail of a groan that only increases as it tapers. Not even the sound of you gently shushing him makes this feel any less excruciating as it does. Every twitch knocks the breath out of him.

Sakusa hears you sigh. “Oh, thank god. It went clean through. No bigger than a few centimeters.”

“There you go,” You help him lay back flat again. “There you go. You did such a good job, Sakusa-sama. We’re almost finished.”

As fuzzy as the praise turns him, he breathes out through a pained quiver. “That bag. Do you have anything for pain?”

“Anything I have could counteract with the adrenaline and throw your heart out of rhythm,” You frown. “I’m really sorry, I-…”

And then you pause.

For so long he’s nearly compelled to lift his neck and check if you’re still in motion. “…I can stop the pain. But you’re gonna have to… trust me.”

Well, seeing as he’s quite literally at your mercy. In just the few minutes since this whole thing went tits up (totally his fault by the way) you’ve given him kindness unlike anything he’s ever felt in his life. Unwarranted. With such genuine earnesty he could almost forget you’re known as one of the most ruthless elites on the map. “Please, just make it stop.”

You nod.

It’s a moment of quiet anticipation till his vision is obscured by the softness in your cheeks. By straightened tresses and buttery skin, faint beauty marks and the pretty slope of your nose.

By the feeling on your lips on his.

And it’s… it’s too much and not enough all at once. Soft, pillowy, sugary - the feeling of his heart beating out of his chest. Aching pains that tie his muscles in knots - sweet mint laden on your tongue. You make a quiet noise in his mouth that covers him in a flurry of goosebumps. He only notices how cold he’s gotten when his ears turn ten degrees over the regular. And if he were a less restrained man he’d be leaning into the kiss, even a shot in the gut wouldn’t stop a man from fawning over his dream girl.

Especially when he realizes you’ve taken his pain away.

You’re licking his spit from your bottom lip when you pull back, the air is infinitely sweeter. “W-What…? How did you do that?”

Ah, it’s terribly cute the way your lips dip when you’re flustered. “Gethsemane experimentation. All their Elites are… “Enhanced,” upon qualification, so... I just displaced your pain receptors. I had to make direct contact to be sure I wasn’t disrupting anything vital.”

“Oh.” That hurts his heart so suddenly that he actually recoils. He knew by the way Gethsemane were so quickly moving up the ranks that they were doing something shady, but this? To her. But even so, his question isn’t exactly asked with purely sympathetic intentions in mind. “Have you ever done it that way before?”

“Not like that, no. But I figured it would work.” Oh man, he hopes he didn’t exhale too loudly.

It goes without saying that Sakusa’s sigh of relief is layered. “Well-… Thank you. Thank fuck, actually.”

Your breathless titter draws visible hearts in the air. “Don’t thank me just yet. Things are about to get a little weirder.”

He watches you reposition yourself on your knees. “There’s a hole in your stomach about as wide as a number two pencil, so I can’t see the damage done to your insides. — It’s a through-and-through with no sign of blow out, and your liver and spine still seem to be in working condition so your survival rate is high. But you’re down about twenty G’s, and given your height, you can’t afford twenty more,”

“I’m gonna stick my finger in your wound as deep as I can reach so I can use my mutation to create fictional stitches. It’s gonna feel.. unsettling.” You show him your hand, and a sizzle of vapor wipes it clean. “Are you ready?”

He nods.

In you go.

Wow, that is… a very unsettling feeling, alright. He can feel your finger moving around in his stomach, grazing against tendons that in no way should be making contact with a human hand. — Whatever base this is, he feels he should be allotted at least a plate of dinner.

He can feel his internal wounds pulling securely back together as you carefully retract from his stomach, the sigh of relief you let out once you’re finally free is expectedly mutual.

“Now, for the easy part,”

You cleans his blood away with another pinch of smoke as you bend for the medical bag again, medical tape and a thin tube emerging in one hand and a band and scalpel in the other. He watches a hilariously cutesy stress ball materialize between your fingers, and breathes in the smell of rubbing alcohol as you tear a packet over him.

You rub it over a small spot on his inner forearm. “I’m ‘O’ negative. My mutation burns through disease and most injuries so, even if I wasn’t already disturbingly careful a transfusion should be seamless,”

“Only problem,” You cut a slit in his arm that he doesn’t feel. “You’re nearly a foot taller than I am and in the hour it’ll take for rescue to come, I could be out like a light,”

You must see him getting ready to protest because you say surely. “It won’t kill me. But when I pass out, I need you to put this mask on me again before anyone sees. — This has to be our secret.”

Your mask reappears on his side. That signature clay and ink, stained in speckles of blood and impersonal as ever, it’s almost unnerving how stark the contrast is between you and this mantle that’s made you so infamous in the first place. Voidish fox like eyes and an empty space where the mouth should be, — the way your eyebrows sinch in concentration as you slip the little tube in your arm. — A woman like you, as beautiful as you are, as understanding; being the face behind the boogeyman that the Scout “Lovely,” has been rumored to be, it just doesn’t seem possible.

Though, that’s before noticing you’ve both been undisturbed this whole time in what was just essentially a red zone. “Where is everyone?”

You notice him glance at the blood soaked into your cocktail dress. “I took care of it. The files are with me as well.”

“By yourself?” Sakusa doesn’t bother masking the disbelief in his voice. “Even his scouts?”

“It was the only way I could get to you undisturbed.”

Talk about dispensing doubt. Not only does he feel like an ass but now he kind of looks like an idiot. Gethsemane does not take the term “elite,” lightly.

But now that terrible, awful, unfamiliar feeling of guilt is back. Especially with your blood now coursing through his veins. “Why did you come back for me? All of this is my fault, and it could’ve gotten you killed.”

“It would take a lot to kill me, Sakusa-sama,” You assure him. “You contracted me. Regardless of what happens it’s my job to follow the orders of my temporary director.”

He frowns. “But to this extent? After I said those awful things to you?”

You give him a look of thoughtful pause.

“Can I speak freely then, Sakusa-sama?”

“Just Sakusa is fine.” He nods. “Please speak however you like.”

The little smile you give him could make a slab of stone blush.

“…I know how it is, being made to be something because it’s… “your birthright,” or whatever. How resentment can build for the world around you because it feels like things just don’t move and everything’s underwhelming, and when things just feel the same all the time… You become a version of yourself that feels inevitable,”

And as doey as they already are, your eyes soften when they skirt over him. Butterflies brushing against his wounds. “Putting humanity into people is like the very opposite of what I should be doing while on the clock but, there’s not a lot of people like me that I see in this business, and when it’s your own family that puts a burden like this on you… Your ability to be so exceptional despite that betrayal is something I admire a lot.— And anyway, what you said earlier is just Tuesday for me. I’m not gonna be offended by things that aren’t true.”

Sakusa visibly blushes. Today’s been an onslaught of unfamiliar feelings and newer perspectives, he’s sure it isn’t just the blood loss that’s making him kinda want to put a ring on this girl. “Well, I… I owe you my life. And I’m sorry about what I said earlier, you didn’t deserve any of that.”

Another smile, his heart skips. “I really appreciate that. Thank you.”

There’s a moment of pregnant silence that he unfortunately has to break since it’s practically her job not to.

“Uh,” Sakusa starts. “You look… not as I expected under your mask.”

You tilt your head. “Like younger or ugly?”

“Don’t piss me off,” And even though he’s speaking coarsely, the absolute indignation in his voice invokes a little pretty giggle on your end. Nearly gives him shivers. “I just- I figured you were young. I didn’t think the name “Lovely,” Would be so on the nose.”

“There’s not that big of a gap between us, Director-domo. And the name,” Seeing you get a little flustered at the admission feels like winning a Nobel prize. “I don’t know if you know them but, the other two Elites at Gethsemane, Honey, Playful, and I - We came up with our pseudonyms when we were kids. Honey thought it would fit because I was a pageant girl at the time.”

Pageant girl? That makes sense. “Must be used to excelling in all walks of life then.”

“Eh. It wasn’t meant for me, actually. — Some of the worst stuff I’ve heard as a scout is nowhere near as mean as what those catty girls and their moms have said during those competitions. Didn’t even make winning worth it anymore honestly,”

“You look,” You pause to comb him over with a look that gives him chills. “W-Well, I know you're the boss for a reason and all but you look… Athletic. As tall as you are you could probably clear a court in seconds.”

“I played volleyball in highschool. Outside hitter.” He says. “Being 6’3 at sixteen made me a default for ace.”

“Oooh! I can’t even imagine what you’re serves must’ve sounded like…” You giggle again, somehow even more sugary than the last. “Were you popular?”

“No.” The way you laugh makes him humor a small chuckle. “I was awkward as hell. I couldn’t even stand in a crowd without getting overwhelmed. - Plus, I was also… somehow ten times meaner back then.”

“Oh so, you were tall, athletic, handsome, and mean. — Yeah, I would’ve definitely stalked you as a high schooler. I had a bad record with guys like that at one time.”

“You-“ Are you… ‘You flirting with him? He’s gonna start breaking out in a sweat. “You like mean guys?”

You hum. “I did, at one point. Having the kind of admirers I did in grade school, any guy who so much as sneered at me would have me trippin’ over myself. But… as I got older, assholes were just... Assholes. And working a job like this, I’d rather go home to someone who actually likes me than some dick too high off of having a pretty girlfriend.”

Sakusa dips his toes in. “Do you… Have something like that at home?”

“No,” You exhale. “Too busy being Lovely to be anything else. And lying to a civilian about where I am and what I do for a living just sounds exhausting. — Tools for hire don’t get lonely anyway.”

That puts a sour pang in his chest. He’s about to open his mouth to speak again when you smooth out breathily. “Spendin’ this time with you though… even if through dire circumstances… It's been a wonderful feeling through and through. I don’t even know how to thank you...”

He blushes, and for the first time in god knows how long he simpers unabashedly. “It goes without saying that the feeling’s mutual, Lovely,”

“If… I mean, I understand loneliness. And after this, if it’s something you’re comfortable with,” Sakusa finds the nerve to detach his eyes from the ceiling to look at you directly.

And then he’s immediately lifting himself off his back.

You’re barely there. Leaning forward slightly like you’re doing your best to keep yourself upright as your glazed over eyes try their best to center on him, but even still you’re almost out of here. It’s all he can do not to rip the gauge out of his arm when you’re reaching for him in obvious worry, probably wasting what little energy you have left to trill at the distress on his face. “Sakusa, please be careful!”

“I-I’m fine. I feel fine,” He grabs your forearm. “We gotta get this out of-“

“No, no! This isn’t- It’s not enough!” You protest weakly. “Sakusa,”

He lets your softly palm guide his off of your forearm-

And onto your cheek.

He knows you’re barely cognizant right now, but seeing your pretty face, sickly as it is, nuzzle into his hand like an obedient cat; makes him feel like his only purpose in the world is to keep you safe or die trying. “You’re here with me,”

Your skin is soft as it hisses against his palm, he’d give you the world if you asked for it. “As long as I’m here, you are.”

Sakusa breathes out a quiet breath as he nods.

As expected he doesn’t protest when you move to lay into his side for support, even as the blood on your dress further stains the blood in his suit jacket. He’s surprisingly forthright as he supports the little cuddle, free arm securing you to his side. And if you weren’t literally dying of blood loss you’d notice the way his heart is beating out of his chest.

You seriously have no idea what you just got yourself into.

[thegaysinmyhead]

PROLOGUE

Guys—I never ever ever write Yandere Fics but?? Dead on Main Mutual Yandere??? Ghost Obsessions or Ghost Biology taken to an extreme, leading to bloody and ectoplasmic messes??? DAMN

(Legit wrote this in 15 minutes on my phone lmao)

Jason smirked underneath his mask, a feral grin of all teeth as he dug his nails into the body underneath him. These white suited fucks had been crawling through Gotham for weeks and the Pit snarled everytime he caught sight of one in his territory. It had been months since he had gone into a green-tinted rage, but every time he saw one of the walking stain collectors he had to fight one down. The Pit snarled deep in his chest and begged for violence, begged to turn the eggshell colored tuxedos into a mess of carnage, everytime he came close to the 'agents'.

There was an ache in his gums and a burning underneath his nails, he dug them deeper into the light colored flesh. Blood pooled under the abuse, were his nails supposed to be that sharp?

Jason got tired of watching these guys shuffle through Crime Alley like they owned the streets he cleaned, and the people under his protection were constantly complaining about them too. He was just supposed to come in to question them, threaten them so they learned the rules, he didn't expect the RAGE-RAGE-RAGE that overtook him as soon as he was in range of the eyesores.

It was...different than his usual pit-induced madness. There was a purpose tickling in the back of his brain—a garbled voice he recognized but didn't that was screaming at him.

RAGE-PROTECT-KING

King?

Jason snarled before putting the rest of his strength into his grip, there was an audible snap underneath his palm. The last agent's body fell limp in his grasp.

KING-PROTECT-SAVE

The thing in his chest howled at him as it forced his legs to move, instinct carrying him as he put bullets (real ones, why did he have real ones? He barely used those anymore) into whatever fashion-freak tried to stop him with their Lazarus green guns. Their aim was shit, his was better.

KING-HERE-PROTECT

There was a paines scream on the other side of the wall that had Jason snapping back into awareness, and with strength he didn't know he had he ripped a thick metal door with his bare hands and threw it to the side. The Pit settled in his chest, a grumbling anxious thing instead of the all consuming it was moments ago. Jason absent-mindedly rubbed his hand where he felt the warmth of the green that stayed with him before he stepped into a sparsely lit room.

Glowing green Lazarus water and blood was spewed and mixed across the walls, a chaotic clash of neon and maroon that stunk of copper and acid. There was a figure wailing in the middle of the room as more green leaked from an open wound on its chest. No, not just an open wound, a vivisection. His vision tinted harshly once more as he slowly made his way to the restrained figure.

A man, most likely the same age or younger than him, with snow white hair, tanned skin that looked almost blue-tinted, glowing freckles in the shape of constellations, and green-green-green unseeing eyes as they spilled cold tears. Jason gently wiped the tears away as if pulled by instinct, and cooed softly with and audible echo in his chest. The Pit had never felt like this, not even in his most justified rages. It had never felt this soft either.

The man cried harder as he tilted his cheek further into Jason's bloody fingerless gloves, a pitiful whine escaping his throat as he begged without words. Jason doesn't know why it was so important for him to get this man his king out and to safety, to care for him, but he knew denying that instinct would only hurt him in the future. There was a warmth building under his fingertips before he pulled them slowly away from the freckled skin, the man gasping and blinking rapidly trying to find him again.

scared-help-afraid

There was a rumble deep in Jason's chest as if the soothe the man, and it seemed to work. The strained shoulders relaxed slightly and allowed Jason to move his (clawed?) fingers to the thick iron cuffs with strange electricity running through them. With a clenched jaw, he ripped the metal in half for each restraint, barely holding back the green before pulling needle and thread from somewhere in the room. The man didn't react to being stitched up, but whimpered when Jason's hands left his chest. A green and purple bruised hand shot out to bring his palm back, and Jason murmured softly while interlacing their fingers.

RAGE-PROTECT-HELP

grateful-safe-help?

HELP-RAGE-PROTECT

The being slumped into his arms as Jason pulled him close—the blue-tinted man weighed less than a bag of chips.

They deserved to suffer for the horrific acts they committed to his king the man in his arms. The Pit and him agreed on that.

With a gruff, Jason adjusted to pull off his jacket and cover the weeping wound of the man. He pulled him into a bridal-style carry before making his way out of the horror room, stepping over freshly dead and dying bodies. There was more blood in the previously white hallways than there was in the room he came from, and he wasn't gentle about stepping over still-alive scientists and agents. He ended up crushing skulls under his steel toed boots when the Pit snarled for their blood, but the rest wound bleed out and die slowly.

.

.

.

Masterpost, Pt 1

[gingerteaonthetardis]

If you want prompts for ninerose I'd love to read something about Nine speaking to/about Rose in Gallifreyan and her learning the language in secret to understand him

nonny, i cannot stress enough how much i loved this prompt. that said, i took it and kind of spun off a little. it's not precisely what you asked for, but i hope you enjoy it anyway! (and please forgive any mistakes. i was too excited to do much editing.)

—

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬

[read on AO3]

—

He only ever did it when he thought he was alone.

The first time, she thought he must have hit his head or something—after all, if the TARDIS wasn't translating, the Doctor was surely talking gibberish. Strange syllables that sounded musical and otherworldly, with long vowels stretched between, reminding her of wind chimes—they tickled her ears and the back of her brain in just the same way.

But when she’d come into the console room, calling out to him with a note of worry in her voice, the Doctor had turned and grinned at her. Wide and crooked and pleased—as pleased as he always was to see her, which made her grin back, sort of embarrassed and thrilled at once. “Rose,” he'd said. 

Perfectly clear, perfectly English. Northern-tinged as usual. Nothing odd about it.

And then some sensor or other had started going off, and she didn't have time to ask.

She caught him at it again, a few weeks later, down in the TARDIS storage cellar that he was in the process of “re-purposing” into a workshop. This mostly involved negotiating with the ship and moving precarious stacks of boxes around, grumbling to himself. But that day, the usual back-and-forth had turned to a full-blown argument loud enough to call her over from the media room: on one side, with flashing lights and hissing pipes, and on the other, with shouting in that same semi-melodic way. The ends of each… well, sentence, she supposed… were more clipped off, though. Irritated.

Rose was fascinated.

"What is that?" she asked, poking her head through the door.

The Doctor's shoulders, somewhere up near his ears, dropped suddenly. And rather than meeting her gaze, he looked with suspicious intensity at the crate he held.

"What's what?"

"You were shouting just now."

"I was making a point," he shot back.

"Yeah, in a different language."

"So?" He shrugged too forcefully, then wheeled on one foot and stalked off to put the crate down on the far end of the room. "I speak loads of languages. So does the TARDIS. She prefers Romance languages, or else Ancient Manussian, but there's no accounting for taste." It was such an obvious attempt to distract her that Rose almost took pity on him and allowed it. But she was too curious to let the subject drop.

"The TARDIS wasn't translating it, though," she went on, "the words you were saying. I've heard you doing it before and it's just, like… nonsense sounds."

The Doctor turned on her, looking indignant. "Excuse me, that's my native language you're talking about! And if any language is nonsensical, look to your own butchered tongue. So many diphthongs!"

She didn't know what to say to that for several seconds. She could only look at him, standing there in his jumper with his sleeves rolled up and a smudge of some kind of grease across his chin, his hands on his hips like he was about to launch into one of his lectures.

Native language. She couldn't believe it, but… didn't it make perfect sense? He wasn't human. He was alien—a Time Lord—no matter how often he made her forget it, looking how he did. Behaving how he did.

"But… if it's a real language," she tried slowly, carefully, "your language—how come the TARDIS doesn't translate it? She's from there, right? From…?"

For some reason, she couldn't say it.

"Gallifrey," the Doctor answered for her.

The syllables seemed to sparkle, even though he'd spoken them flat, without affect. And fast, like he was ripping off a bandage.

"So she understands it." She gestured all around her at the ship's recessed lights, which had gradually receded to their usual, steady glow. "But she doesn't… translate? Using the telepathic field thingy?"

The Doctor blinked at her. And didn't look away.

It wasn't his usual kind of stare; his there you go again, asking the right questions look, the one that made her feel so proud, was nowhere to be seen. Eyes not cold, but not warm either.

He was just… looking at her. Sort of through her.

After a little while, she prompted him. "Doctor?"

Then he jerked back into motion, walking back across the cellar to where his leather coat was draped over a tall metal bench, mixed in with scraps of machine parts. He shook the jacket off, and nuts and bolts went flying this way and that, prompting a fresh, irritable hiss of steam from one of the nearby pipes. The Doctor spoke as he moved, as sharp and sudden as a lightning strike.

"She doesn't need to," he clipped out. "Nobody really speaks it anymore, 'sides us two. For all intents and purposes, it's a dead language." And then he said, just as quickly, "Come on. Just remembered we're out of eggs," before striding out the door.

—

A dead language.

The phrase stuck in her head all the rest of that day, as they wandered around the Predoran market, the burble of automatically translated speech humming all around. Fishmongers and cargo haulers and sailors on shore leave. Thousands of people speaking a language she couldn't really hear, but nonetheless understood.

The thoughts lingered the next morning, when she stumbled back into the TARDIS, salt-crusted from their tip overboard a cargo ship, and all but collapsed into her silent bed.

She couldn't shake it, though the Doctor flew her back to London for her mum's birthday—though he made a production of taking her to the Centennial Carnival on Cortago—though he helped her "bump into" Jane Austen in an old friend's drawing room—though he dragged her halfway across the universe and back, narrowly averting disaster, saving lives, meeting new people, grinning wildly as he always had. Speaking in that elemental tongue they somehow shared: the one that spelled adventure.

But…

A dead language.

She couldn't stop remembering. And she was sure he couldn't either.

—

"Gallifrey."

The library terminal beeped. The golden text across the darkened screen said, Results: 0/0.

Rose puffed out a breath. "Okay. What about 'Gallifrey-ish'?"

Results: 0/0.

"Seriously? Nothing in Time Lord-ese?"

The terminal gave another sad-sounding beep.

Rose frowned, chewing on her thumbnail while her other hand hovered over the screen.

She'd never really bothered with the TARDIS library, except the visual media section and the few times she'd checked out the The Collected Works of Charles Dickens. The massive room had been included on her initial hasty welcome tour, but she'd been too intimidated to spend much time there.

There were so many dusty, fragile-looking old books—not to mention hundreds of thousands of hardbacks and paperbacks, scrolls and tablets and comics—all categorized in endless towering rows that made her head spin. The Doctor claimed this wasn't the largest library in the universe, but Rose thought that had to be a lie.

And it didn't seem possible that a room this big didn't contain a single volume with the name of the Doctor's home planet in the title.

Her eyes flicked up, and she bit her lip, feeling silly as she said, "Look, just give me something. Please," to the empty room. "It's for him. I'm trying to… help."

She winced.

Help was possibly not the right word. Maybe there was a reason for the zero results. Maybe the Doctor didn't want any reminders of his past, his people—the world that was now gone, with he the only living remnant. Maybe he'd purged the library or something.

But if he didn't want to be reminded of home, why did he still speak the language? Why had he looked like he'd swallowed a stone when she'd caught him at it?

Sighing, Rose realized that the TARDIS wasn't going to magically intervene, raining down Time Lord Culture for Dummies and English-to-alien dictionaries on her head. She turned from the search terminal, ready to give up the hunt.

But before she could fully turn her back, the computer gave another little beep. And then two together, like synthesized chirps. Then several more in rapid succession.

She looked back.

The screen had tabbed over from the default library results to a page with the header 'Local Audio Logs.' Beneath that was a subheading of 'Relative date: 5000 AD'.

Results: 1-9/77.

"Oh my god."

She immediately went back to the terminal, the base of which had opened, projecting out a narrow tray. Nestled in its foamy lining were a pair of thin, silvery-blue headphones, and she reached for them eagerly, sliding them onto her head without a second thought. She tapped one of the logs at random and an audio player sprung to life, crackly sound immediately filling her ears.

"—sense in giving the game away. Just a few short, simple commands, you know, could make all the difference next time. I'll try one now." And then she heard it: the fluid string of sounds, the chiming vowels, pronounced with much more theatricality than she was used to from the Doctor. She wondered who was speaking.

The voice was fuzzed with age, but was clear enough to make out it wasn't the Doctor; the accent, the tone were all different. It had to be someone he'd travelled with in the past. Someone who spoke his language.

"Well? That means, 'Watch out.' Did you get it?"

"Negative."

The second voice almost made her jump. It sounded mechanical, robotic.

"Listen, K9, just listen!" The man repeated the same sounds, and this time, Rose strained her ears the way she imagined the robot-thing called K9 might have. She tried to pick out the unique sounds, to make sense of them in her mind. "Yes? Got it?"

There was a brief pause. Then: "Affirmative, Master."

"Very good! Well done, K9." The man laughed, and it was a warm laugh. Almost impish at the same time, too, and Rose felt herself smiling confusedly before the audio log continued. Was that his name, like the Doctor was the Doctor? Was this man called 'Master'?

She scrambled to hit the pause button and dragged her finger back, so the audio could play again.

"Listen, K9, just listen!" And then the Gallifreyan words.

She played that bit back once, twice, first mouthing along with the sounds and then whispering them. They strained her voice in an odd way, like she had too many vocal cords and they were tripping over one another—or maybe like she didn't have enough. But after a dozen times or so, she peeled one of the headphones off to hear herself mumbling along.

It didn't sound like anything, really, certainly not like words. But it also didn't sound wrong. She grinned.

"Affirmative, Master."

"Very good! Well done, K9."

"Oh," she realized suddenly. "Like, K9. It's a robot dog." And then she burst into giggles.

—

Progress was, of course, very slow.

Rose figured out a way to get the audio logs onto her MP3 player, but even compressed the files were enormous, so she could only fit three or four of them at a time on there, even after giving up her whole Spice Girls collection.

It was probably better that way. All of the logs were just that same man, and he seemed to like talking as much as the Doctor did. He sped along at warp speed, tossing out the words and phrases he seemed to think a robot dog ought to know. Simple things, mostly.

Rose drank in every syllable.

She listened to the logs a few at a time, in the morning while she was putting on her makeup and after she'd crawled into bed. She turned the phrases over, whispering them into the silence like a great secret. She immersed herself, as much as she could.

Before long, those audios started to feel like a song she'd listened to over and over. They got stuck in her head. When she found herself racing down the shop floor of an abandoned textiles mill, the Gallifreyan word for faster shot through her mind. When a Quellian high noble kept interrupting the Doctor during peace negotiations, she had to stop herself from snapping out the phrase for be quiet.

Sometimes, though, she turned on some of the audios and just listened. Not because she wanted to practice, even, but because she liked the man who spoke in them. She liked how his voice had a smile in it. How affectionate he was toward K9. How quick and clever he seemed, as he came up with increasingly specific commands for his robot dog to learn.

Rose found herself wishing that the logs were in video format, so she could see the man's face.

She considered asking the Doctor about him, but quickly abandoned the idea. A friend of the Doctor's, most likely travelling with him, speaking the language—he had to be a Time Lord. Which meant he was gone.

The thought made her feel lonely… as if somehow, she had lost him, too.

—

Rose lay sprawled across the media room sofa, eyes closed with her MP3 player resting on her belly.

"Want to—earn—other one, K9?" the man in the audio log asked, his voice somewhat muffled. There was a clanking noise that kept interrupting, drowning out snatches of his speech. For some reason, she had a vision of the Doctor with his head under the TARDIS console, fiddling with some loose wire or bit of piping.

"Affir—tive, Master."

"I do—ish you'd give—this 'Master'—usiness. I have—name, you know."

Rose's eyebrows pinched in concentration, while her heart rate steadily climbed, thudding eagerly in her chest. She realized, all of a sudden, she'd been waiting for this moment. Was she finally going to learn the man's name?

"Here, I'll tell—you in—allifreyan."

Gallifreyan. That's what the language was actually called.

She barely had time to take the new information in before there was an extra loud clang and a shuffling scrape. The man's voice was clearer when he spoke.

Rose hadn't been sure she was piecing together anything very meaningful about the structure of the Doctor's native language, up 'til then—she knew nothing about what made it work, what the individual bits and pieces amounted to. The grammar of it evaded her, and she'd mostly felt like a baby mimicking the world around them, repeating noises without real comprehension.

But this particular jangle of sound lodged itself in her ear, and she felt like she understood it perfectly. Like it made absolute sense; the sound was the man, the man was the sound.

"Really rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?" the man joked. "But I guess it's better than Theta Sig—"

She raced to pause the audio log, to rewind. To play it from the start.

And again.

She realized she was hearing something in the name, something a shade off of one of K9's commands—a syllable that was like the word for 'find,' or maybe… 'help'? They were so similar, it was hard to tell. But it made her feel something, a lightness in her chest. This man had been a helper, a finder, a seeker of something. She'd heard it in his voice, and now she could hear it in his name.

She played the clip back again, and again, and again, lips moving in time. Then she paused, pulling off the headphones, saying the name aloud for her own ears. She was getting better at the ringing bell vowel sounds, and she smiled proudly as she said it again, a little more confidently.

"What are you doing?"

She snapped upright, looking over the back of the couch, at where the Doctor stood in the doorway.

He looked shell-shocked, his usually bright eyes curiously glossed over. And he had his coat on, his hands stuffed in his pockets, like he'd been coming to fetch her for another adventure and had instead stumbled upon a crime scene, or an alien artifact he could make no sense of.

"Doctor!" she began, too brightly. "Are we going somewhere?" She flung her legs off the couch, hurriedly pulling the headphones off her neck. They'd come disconnected from the MP3 player, which had clattered to the floor. "Let me just—get my—"

"Rose, what are you doing?"

His voice stopped her in her tracks, and she stared back, wide-eyed. His voice was raspy like he'd been yelling—or maybe as if he was about to cry. But his face was cold and remote as the snow-capped waves of Women Wept. Rose could barely stand to look at it.

She swallowed thickly and, for a flash of a second, really considered lying. And after she lied, she decided, she would go and delete the latest audio files; she would put away her MP3 player and never even look at it again without feeling furtive guilt.

But she couldn't do that. The Doctor didn't deserve that.

Her mouth ran ahead of her.

"I was learning Gallifreyan," she said.

The Doctor said nothing.

"I… stumbled across some old audio logs where this man—this really nice man—was teaching his robot dog some commands in your language, and I thought…" Weakly, she trailed off, trying to smile. "Well, if this robot dog could learn, so can I, right?"

"K9," he replied. "That's his name."

Her smile came a little easier now. "Yeah, I heard. And the man teaching K9, did he travel with you? I thought, since the TARDIS called it a log that it must have been recorded on the ship, but… Was he a friend of yours?"

His face remained impassive, but his hands dug further and more obviously into his pockets. "That word you said. Did he say what it was?"

"Oh, yeah," Rose nodded fervently. "He told K9 it was his name in Gallifreyan." Then she repeated the sounds as she remembered them, knowing her pronunciation was clumsy—there was none of that chiming rightness in her voice now, from nerves—but it must have been understandable. Because she watched the Doctor's expression contort, his eyes fluttering shut, jaw ticking.

She hesitated, then asked, "What does it mean, in English?"

"The Doctor," the Doctor said heavily.

She felt an odd, hysterical urge to giggle. "What? You had a friend called Doctor, too?"

"No."

"Then…" Her mind swam, torn between the sound of the word echoing off her grey matter and the information she was being presented with. "You're the… man in the audio log? That was you?"

Slowly, the Doctor nodded.

It didn't make sense. "But you sound so different!"

"'Cause I was different. My people were alive back then, and an endless source of bother. I wore a hat, and a scarf, and I had long hair. Corkscrews," he added, gesturing at his own close-cropped head. "And I was taller, I think." He spoke each word like doing so strained his muscles. "I've changed a lot, Rose. Many times."

"What d'you mean, changed?"

Her voice came out sharp, and the Doctor's eyes batted open.

"Why did you want to learn Gallifreyan?" he asked, as if she hadn't even spoken.

"So I could talk to you." It was an automatic answer, and her mouth screwed up with its inadequacy. "In your own language. And because… I didn't like what you said. About Gallifreyan being dead."

"Rose," he said.

"It seemed wrong. I mean, you're alive, aren't you? And as long as you can speak it, and someone else can answer, then it's like—the language is still alive, too. Or at least, there can be people who remember it." She realized her hands had balled into fists, and there was an unwelcome prickle in the corners of her eyes. She didn't want to cry; this wasn't about her. But she couldn't seem to help it. "Someone should remember," she said, pleading.

For a long moment, she thought he would simply turn around and leave again. He looked like he wanted to.

But then, after a little longer, he said. "Your pronunciation is off. You need to hold the 'o' a little longer, and not turn it into a 'u'." The Doctor scoffed to himself. "You Brits and your ridiculous diphthongs."

Rose tried again, said the name—his name, she marvelled—and his posture eased. The lines crowding his forehead smoothed out a bit, and she felt herself exhale, too, the relief heady. Blood rushed back to her uncurled fingers.

"Is that right?" she asked.

"It's better."

And that was good enough for her.

—

A few days later, they were back in the media room, talking on the sofa as they sometimes did after a particularly eventful day.

The Doctor hadn't been in the mood to read aloud—tired, for once, of his own voice, she assumed—and she was somehow too tired even to watch the telly, ten billion channel package or not. So they both rested their heads against the back of the couch and just sat, facing one another, talking now and then. Sometimes they tried to pepper in the bits of Gallifreyan Rose understood. She wanted to ask him, still, what he'd meant when he said he'd changed.

Mostly they were quiet.

But then:

"Doctor?"

"Hm?"

"What's my name? In, er, your language, I mean."

His smile was strangely soft, and his mouth made the syllables, and Rose heard them. She tried to listen for root words, to make meaning out of the musical jangle, but her name wasn't like the Doctor's. It was shorter, sweeter. Simpler. But he said it warmly, and the same warmth spread in her chest.

"I like that," whispered Rose.

"Yeah," said the Doctor. "Me too."