#had myself convinced there for a solid few days

[kate-apologist]

.

[solardrop]

beanstalk.

aaron hotchner x fem!bau!reader

summary: a loser at the local pub thinks spencer is your boyfriend. Aaron drags him. tags: fluff. creepy men being creepy. body shaming (of spencer I'm so sorry). spencer just catching strays in general. word count: ~1.7k a/n: based on an ask. I was gonna just write my thoughts or a short 500 word drabble or something but then ended up writing this until the point I forced myself to just end it lmao. I think it gets a bit convoluted and cringe at the end but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ it was fun! not proofread. divider cred @/cafekitsune

The pub was going to the rue the day they made half-off appetizers their weekly special.

The team squeezed in two pushed-together tables and binged on the greasy delights. you and Spencer had gotten into sharp back and forth about the apocalypse on the way there, which earned the both of you a quick banishing to a corner of the table where the rest of the team wouldn’t be subject to your bickering.

You rest your head against the cool concrete pillar you were sandwiched against. A table pressed against a half-wall facing outdoors was a hard sell to a bunch of field agents. However, Penelope’s animated declaration for the team to ‘live a little’ —specifically, to do so before Rossi got any greyer— landed you a wonderful view of the outdoors. You could watch all the homey, drunken people sway to the music flowing from the patio. The crisp night air flushes the overwhelming smell of burnt grease away from your nose. Maybe you could convince Hotch to grab a window seat for some date nights, you have to admit, the vibes were growing on you. While you enjoy poking the brain of your younger genius friend, you miss the solid warmth of Aaron beside you. Thankfully, he opted to sit in front of you instead. 

You took the opportunity to tease him. You kick him playfully under the table, stealing his attention away from the conversation he is having with Derek. He turns to squint at you for a moment, only to grab your food to sandwich it between the wall and his thigh in retaliation. His fingers drum a steady rhythm against your ankle, the ticklish tap tap tap making you squirm. You motion to ensnare his ankle with your other leg when Spencer turns to point his flimsy white plastic fork at you. 

“If emergency services were still in full effect during the zombie apocalypse, there would be a drastic increase in the number of people infected and a significant loss in—”

“A significant loss in medical supplies. Spoken like a true prepper Reid. What's next, gonna tell me about the importance of learning how to pickle your own food for rationing?”

“Actually, during the Great Depression housewives pickles things that lasted their families almost—”

His impending rant is cut short by the return of your server. Anticipating the bill, Rossi reached for his wallet before the woman shakes her head at him. Instead, sliding a drink and a folded up napkin on the table and nodding her head at you. 

“For the lovely young miss by the window.” She flashes a smile at you, “One of our lovely patons seems to fancy you.”

All eyes snap to you, all the color draining from your face as you stare down at the offending item. The drink was almost glowing at you, bright pink glitter swirling in the liquid with pink gummy hearts floating at the top and crystal sugar bedazzling the rim. There was no way this was actually something for the human body to consume. Even Penelope’s brows raised in shock at its extreme display. 

You glance at Hotch, his leg picking up a steady bounce next to yours after the waitresses revelation. His face is hardened, jaw rocking back and forth as he glares at the folded paper next to the drink. You clear your throat and face the woman again.

“Can you tell me who sent this?”

She juts her sharp chin over your head towards one of the outdoor tables. Hotch’s neck cranes around before your own, and you lock eyes with an older man sitting a few tables down. His face was unpleasantly square, the outdated sandy mullet crowning his head doing him no favors either. He raises his beer bottle towards you with a wink. You shiver, scooting closer to Spencer when the admirer hauls himself out of his stool to stride towards you. Aaron has turned almost fully towards outside now, his brow raised.

“Ohh this is gonna be good,” JJ whispers from the other side of Reid. The comment earns her a sharp glare from Hotch, a blush burning in her cheeks as she goes back to nursing her cheeto-crusted mozzarella sticks.

“I just don’t understand,” Spencer starts, “There are seven other people at this table including men at this table why would he be bold enough to-”

A sharp knock sounder off the ledge of the short wall. 

“Well, hello darlin’. I don’t mean to interrupt the dinner with your friends here, Hello friends, m’  names Miles!” He flashed his eyes around the table with a toothy, mustached smile. 

“But i couldn’t help but see your pretty little face in this window ‘ere and I had to buy ya’ a drink!” 

“Ah… Thank you but um-”

“Don’t even sweat it beautiful!” Small specs of saliva fly from his mouth, causing even Spencer to jump back pulling on the hem of your shirt. As if to use you as a human shield from the germs the man was spewing in his general direction. Hooray. Your hero. 

“I even wrote my number on that there lil’ napkin for ya’. My momma raised a gentleman, so I gotta buy you more than a lil liquor before I take you down.” His beady eyes shoot down to your cleavage before snapping back to your face, licking his lip. 

The fingers on your ankles pause at this. Aaron stares down the side of the mans face, lips pressd into a fine line spread across his face. You decide to jump in before your boyfriend takes it upon himself to tear the mystery man a new one.

“Listen, I appreciate the sentiment but, I’m here to have dinner with my friends and my boyfriend so… I could pay you back for the drink? No harm done-”

“Boyfriend!?” He steps back, eyes scanning the table once more before landing on Spencer and snorting. 

“This lil’ stringbean? You can’t possibly be serious” He smiles at Spencer before he continues “Jack and the beanstalk here could barely muscle steel so ya’ll stuck him with plastic,” He waves a crooked finger aimlessly around the table, “And you expect me to believe he’s wrangling a fine figure like yourself down every night?”

That seems to hit a sore spot for Reid, who finally peeps his head from around you. He takes the moment to ramble about the millions of germs and pathogens that could be found on community utensils even after a full wash cycle. Much to the dismay of the creep and team alike, so much so that Derek had to nudge him with his foot. With the conclusion of Spencer’s monologue the man continues

“Anyways, darlin’ for one night let me take you for a spin. Lil' boy like that won't do ya' any good. I promise you only a bigger, older man knows how to really take care of someone crafted as fine as you.” His eyes lower to your chest again and stay there. 

“I assure you she already knows that,” Aaron spits. 

Your eyes snap to his face. He seemd deceptively calm now, his expression almost bored. 

“Pardon?” Miles asks, half-heartedly turning his body towards him. 

“I’ll put it like this for you Miles. Stringbean over here isn’t her boyfriend,” Spencer begins to squeak out in opposition to his new pet name, but Hotch’s voice bellows out above his own, “I know you’re pathetic, that was apparent from the moment you walked up here puffing your chest after buying the cheapest drink on the menu as a gift. But I’m almost surprised you made your impotence so obvious too, considering you made eye contact with everyone you view as non threatening, the women, the man in his late years, the kid.”

Aaron lazily cocks his head towards Morgan, “But not me and my friend here in the corner. But I’m sure you thought you got away with that. Now, I’d suggest you move. The cologne you sprayed to mask the smell of Motel 8 is starting to wear off.”

Your ears warm at his words. Every sharp word honeyed by his calm, almost sweet tone. He spoke as if he was reading the well thought out profile of an elusive crimminal instead of just some ass in a sit down. God you wanted to kiss him. He’d have to let team politics go just this once right? Just a thank you peck. 

Before you can move to move ask him for one, Miles sputters out, “Talkin’ to me like I’m some dumbass— Who the hell d’ya think you are man!?”

Each syllable causes a spray of spit to launch out his mouth, forcing you to scoot even closer to spencer to evade the line of fire. His face shines with sweat and grease, red rising from his shirt collar as he barks at Hotch’s words. 

“I’m her man. Her bigger, older man. But I’m sure you already knew that, since you still refuse to look at me.” Aaron reaches down into his pockets, flipping out his credentials with deft fingers, “And I’m also an agent. As is everyone at the table including the woman you’ve spent the past several minutes sexually harassing.” He scowls, “Now, go sit down and shut the hell up.”

Miles' eyes finally rip away from you to meet his now. The angered flush erupts across his whole body now. He opens his mouth several times before closing it again, iced out by the cold stare Hotch gives him. He turns on his heel and marches back to his table without a fight. He sniffs his collar before jumping back in clear disgust.

A beat passes and the whole table erupts into laughter at the absurd happenings. Aaron’s face softens, still frowning in the general direction of the slimy man. Jolting when Derek claps him on the back and shakes him in praise. 

“Alright Hotch! Racing to defend your girl, I didn’t know you had it like that!”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” You stretch across the table to grasp his hand, kissing his knuckles before he could protest. He envelopes your hand in both of his and gives you a warm smile,  “my man is my hero in and out of the field.” He breathes out a laugh, knocking his knee against yours for your teasing. 

“Next time, you and String Bean get into it, we’re doing a different seating arrangement.”

[alwaysonthemend]

Author’s Note: I have nothing to say for myself. The Jummy has been making me feral for the last few days and I had to cleanse myself somehow… so I figured writing smut was the best method for that. (It makes sense to me, don’t worry about it) It starts out a little angsty with Jake being insecure, but don’t worry bc it heats up VERY quickly. As always, sorry for any typos. Also this is probably my most favorite thing that I've ever written so I hope you guys enjoy.

Content Warnings: Fem!reader, body insecurity, body worship, a little bit of cockwarming if you squint, unprotected sex, p in v sex, 18+ MINORS DNI 

Word Count: 3593

Preview: 

“You’re fucking solid, Jake. Powerful. You fuck me so hard. You think someone built like him could fuck me the way you do?” You shake your head. “Wouldn’t even come close. No one can fuck me the way I need it besides you.” 

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

Admittedly, it had taken you a little while to realize that something was off with Jake – far longer than it should have, given how long the two of you have been together. But, in your defense, Jake Kiszka is a master at hiding when something is wrong. 

The first warning sign had been a few weeks ago when Jake had declined going out to his favorite steak restaurant, claiming that he was too tired and that he’d had a late lunch anyway so he wasn’t super hungry. You’d been doubtful, but the two of you stayed in for the night and Jake had distracted you beyond the point of awareness of anything other than his tongue and fingers. He'd fucked you slow and deep that night and needless to say, you’d quickly forgotten about it.

The second came during a dinner with him and his brothers. You, Jake, Sam, Josh, and Josh’s partner had gone out to a local Thai place that all of you loved. You all frequented it regularly and got the exact same dishes every time – which is why you had been confused when Jake ordered something else. You’d looked at him in shock, as did everyone else at the table, but he’d simply shrugged and said that he wanted to try something new. When the food had arrived, you couldn’t help but notice that the dish was much smaller than the one he usually got, but he seemed to enjoy it so you didn’t say anything. Again, you’d allowed yourself to forget about it. 

The third warning (and arguably the most obvious one) happened just two weeks later on an impromptu lake house trip that you all went on. Deciding to enjoy the last bit of time that they had until tours started again, Danny had suggested that you all spend the weekend swimming and hiking at the lake, just like you all used to do when you were younger. It had been a wonderful weekend, and you almost didn’t notice that anything was wrong… almost. 

The first day there had been spent hiking and goofing around inside, but your second day was always reserved for swimming. That morning, as you were changing into your swimsuit, you watched as Jake pulled on his swim trunks; nothing out of the ordinary. But what was strange was that he then put on a swim shirt, hiding his gorgeous torso from view. 

“Why are you putting that on?” You asked, grabbing your towel from where you’d hung it on the bedroom door. 

“I don’t want to get sunburned.” He said, perching his signature sunglasses on his nose. 

You opened your mouth to tell him that he’s never cared about getting burned before (much to your annoyance and worry) but he swiftly left the room. You trailed behind him, staring at his shoulders through the swim shirt and worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. You couldn’t tell if he was actually being weird or if you were just overthinking. 

The rest of the trip had gone completely normal, with the boys acting like literal children in the water while you relaxed and sunbathed – occasionally joining them in the lake to participate in their craziness. But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself you were overthinking, you couldn’t help but worry as you watched Jake in that stupid swim shirt. 

The entire drive home you’d wanted so desperately to bring it up to him, but you weren’t even sure what you were bringing up. Distantly, all those other little warning signs tinkled like little bells in the back of your mind, but you didn’t pay them any mind. Jake was acting completely normal. So what he was too tired to go to dinner one night? And why was it such a big deal that he wanted to try a different dish at a Thai restaurant? And maybe he really did just want to avoid getting sunburnt. And sure, you and him hadn't been intimate since that night he declined going out... but a few weeks wasn't really all that long in the grand scheme of things. Besides, even though it was between tours, Jake was still almost constantly busy with something – photoshoots, interviews, spending time in the studio. He was tired from work (and so were you). Nothing to be worried about. You shook your head at yourself, willing the little ball of anxiety in your gut to go away. 

And it did. Until just two nights later, when Jake asked you to turn the light off before he fucked you. 

“What? Why?” He was looking down at you, palms planted on either side of you and his weight settled on the bed between your thighs. He had on nothing but a plain t-shirt and his boxers. 

“No reason.” He said, reaching over to turn the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. He sunk his weight back on his heels to pull his shirt over his head before diving back down to attach his mouth to your breasts, suckling and biting at the sensitive buds. His distraction almost worked. 

“Jake, no.” You said, sitting up to stare at him. “Why do you suddenly want to turn the light off while we fuck?” 

“More romantic?” His words came out as a question, but he didn’t give you time to respond as he leant back down, intent on carrying on without explanation. 

“More romantic for me to not be able to see you?” He didn’t answer, instead beginning to place hot kisses down your throat, teasing the spot that he knew you loved. But you weren’t backing down. Not this time. 

“Jake, stop. Just stop.” 

He sat back up and you stared at him, trying to read his face in the dark. 

“You and I both know you’ve been acting weird. I’m not doing anything with you tonight until you tell me what the fuck has been going on with you.” You told him, your tone leaving no space for debate. 

“How have I been weird?” He asked, his voice far too cool and smooth for it to be genuine. 

“For one, you didn’t want to go to the steakhouse the other night. You know, the one you never say no to?”

“Y/n, I was tired. And full from lunch. How is that weird?” 

“You got something different when we went and got Thai with the guys!” You said, voice raising in volume as he kept staring at you like you were crazy. 

“Okay…” He said slowly, like he was speaking to a child. “And is that a crime? Am I not allowed to order something different?” 

“No. But you love that Thai dish that you always get!” Your hands flew about madly as you spoke, all the worry that you had pushed down finally coming to the surface. “And the swim shirt, Jake. You’ve never cared about getting burnt. Like ever. Why did you start caring now? And now you want to turn the light off while we fuck!” You were yelling now but you didn’t care. You were tired of ignoring that something was wrong. You didn’t know what it was – the dots not connecting between all these events yet. But you knew in your heart that something was wrong. 

“Please, Jake. We haven't slept together in weeks... which isn't like us at all! Just tell me what’s wrong so I don’t have to start making assumptions!” You had the inkling of one already, and you were praying that it was wrong. 

He stayed silent for a long moment, and the tension in the room was so thick you could probably cut it with a knife. Finally, his shoulders fell and he dropped his head. His hair fell on either side of his cheeks, framing his pretty face. 

��I’ve just… put on a few extra pounds recently. That’s all. It’s no big deal.” 

You stared, mouth falling open as the horrible assumption that had been plaguing your mind since the lake was confirmed. 

“So?” You asked, genuinely at a loss over him making this such a big deal. 

“So, I need to lose them. And maybe a few more.” You hated how sure he sounded as he said the words, like he’d already given this so much thought –and he clearly has. “I should've done it years ago to be honest."

“Jake, I-” You stopped, overwhelmed and at a loss for what to say. You wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him; scream in his face how wrong he was for feeling so low about his body. 

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s the truth. I’ve let it get too far and I have to slim down before tour starts.”

“Why?” The question is all your brain can come up with. You want to slap yourself for that being what your brain decided to spew at him first. He sighed deeply and hung his head. 

“Because, y/n. The outfits they make for me are always open chested – and people have already made comments about my weight in the past. So I want to slim down before we start again.” 

“Jake, those people have no right to make comments about your appearance. You’ve said that yourself in the past. Why do you suddenly care now?”

“Because they’re right about this. I don’t understand why you don’t get it!” 

For a split second, his raised voice hurts you, slicing through you as he snaps at you. But you know that it’s coming from his own hurt – the hurt that he’s been keeping to himself. 

“Jake,” you say quietly, “I’m confused because I think you’re the sexiest person on the planet. I love the way you look. I don’t care if you feel like you’ve put on some weight. You’re still just as sexy as you were before.” You pause, sliding up in bed so you can see him more clearly in the dark. “If I’m being totally honest, I think you’re even hotter now.” 

His eyes widen at your confession and even in the dark you can see the blush that overtakes his face. 

“You do?”

“Fuck yeah, I do. C’mere.” You beckon him to come and lay against the headboard. He complies, crawling his way up next to you and laying back. You toss one leg over his waist and settle on top of him, straddling him as you place your palms on his chest. 

“Do you know what I mean when I say ‘I love you?’” You ask him quietly. 

He nods his head. 

“I don’t think you do.” You lean your head down to press your lips softly to his for a moment before pulling away. “It means that I love all of you. Ever fucking thing about you – on the inside and on the outside.”

“But it’s embarrassing.” He whispers, eyes pinned on yours. “I don’t like being the heavier twin.” 

The phrase sounds foreign on his tongue and you realize that it's because he's quoting something – no doubt a shitty comment from some asshole who claims to be a fan. You have half a mind to slap the shit out of him. His words fill you with so much anger you feel like you’re going to explode. 

“Jacob, do not EVER compare yourself to Josh. Ever.”

“But-” 

“But nothing.” You cut him off, pressing your pointer finger to his soft lips to silence him before cupping his cheek with your palm. 

“If I wanted to be with Josh or someone built like Josh, I would be. But I don’t. I want you, Jake. As you are." You shake your head at him. "You're not fat, Jake. Like at all. You literally have nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

He’s looking at you with shiny eyes and you wish your words would be enough to convince him. But he’s nothing if not hardheaded, so you know it’s going to take more than a few flowery words to get him to see the truth. 

“I’m going to turn the light back on.” You say gently. “And I’m going to show you how much I love you. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He whispers, and you can practically see it as his whole body tenses beneath you. 

You reach up and turn the lamp back on, washing the room in golden light. Jake is still looking at you, his eyes wide and nervous. You give him a little smile as you settle back down on him. Forgoing anymore words, you press a feverish kiss to his neck, licking and sucking down the hollow of his throat. His breath stutters in his chest as you slide your ass downwards. His cock is soft after your conversation but you know you can get him back to where he was at the start of the night.

“I love your body, Jake. These pretty nipples.” You swirl your tongue around them, drawing a breathy moan from him. 

You reach out your arms and find his hands, laying limply at his side. You lace your fingers with his and bring his left hand to your lips, kissing his calloused fingers. “I love your hands. I love how they look when you play guitar – fast and merciless and so fucking talented. And yet they’re still so gentle when they touch me.” You slide his index finger between your lips, swirling your tongue around the digit before releasing it. “And I love the way you make me cum on your fingers. You’re better at that than anyone I’ve ever been with before.”

“Really? Better than anyone?” He asks, the whispers of his usual cocky self shining through.

“Really.” You assure him, dropping his hands to focus your attention elsewhere. “Can I tell you a secret?” You ask him, looking up at his flushed face through your lashes. 

“Yeah. Tell me.” 

“Your stomach is probably my favorite part about you.” You say, delicately trailing your fingers down his sternum and over the curve of his belly. 

He scoffs. 

“You’re just saying that.” 

You shake your head. 

“I’m not. It’s the truth, Jake. I fucking love it. I love watching the sweat drip down it while you play on stage. It makes me so fucking wet, imagining licking it off you.” You bring your mouth downwards, biting at his soft sides as your hands knead into the flesh. You suck his skin between your teeth, creating a purple mark just to the left of his belly button. “Everything about you makes me wet, but your belly does it the most.” 

As if in answer, your pussy throbs at the sight of the hickey you left there. You can see on his face that he still isn’t convinced so you slide off your panties and kick them to the side – leaving you in nothing but your tank top. You rise slightly off the bed and swipe a finger through your folds, collecting the wetness that’s pooled there. 

“See?” You say, allowing him to see your juices drip from your fingers. Wordlessly, he grabs your wrist and pulls your hand to his mouth. He wraps his lips around your finger, swirling his tongue to lap up your wetness. He moans at the taste of you and you pull your hand free. 

“Believe me yet?” You ask him with a sly smile. 

“Getting there.” He gives you a cheeky grin and you can’t help the butterflies that erupt in your stomach at the sight. 

You give his belly one last lick before moving downwards, avoiding where his half-hard cock lies in his boxers. 

“And I fucking love your thighs.” You tell him, sliding your palms up and down them as you speak. “So thick and strong. Makes me so fucking horny.” 

You trail kisses up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and the muscles twitch as you get closer to where he wants you. 

“You’re fucking solid, Jake. Powerful. You fuck me so hard. You think someone built like Josh could fuck me the way you do?” You shake your head. “They couldn’t even come close. No one can fuck me the way I need it besides you.” 

“Y/n… fuck.” His pupils are blown wide and his breathing is heavy. Even his chest is flush with his arousal. His cock is rock hard in his boxers now, tenting the fabric – straining them so much it looks like they might burst at the seams.

“And this,” you say, finally pressing your palm to his dick. “I don’t even have the words.” He groans at the pressure and his hips shift upwards off the bed in search for more. You give it to him, sliding his underwear down and off him. His cock springs free, slapping his stomach. You spit into your hand and wrap it around him, stroking him slowly. “You have such a pretty cock, Jake. It makes me feel so fucking good. Reaches places inside me no one else can.”

He groans loudly as you pump him, and you watch in awe as his eyes screw shut in pleasure. Your mouth waters and your cunt throbs at the sight and sound of him. Deciding that neither of you should have to wait for it tonight, you rip your tank top off quickly before sinking down on him, taking in his thick cock inch by inch. You moan and whimper as he stretches you, the familiar burn feeling so good. 

“Oh fuck!” Jake groans, opening his eyes to look at you taking his cock. “You’re so fucking beautiful, y/n. Look at you.” 

You still as you sink all the way down on him. He’s watching you with dark eyes and sweat is beginning to bead on his temples. 

“Jake…” you whine, beginning to rock your hips into his. 

“Shit, you’re so fuckin’ tight.” He growls, gripping your hips with his strong hands, kneading his fingers roughly into your flesh. 

You rise off him almost completely, before plunging back down on him – causing the both of you to moan loudly. You set a brutal pace, slamming down on him as he thrusts his hips up to meet yours. You drop your gaze downward to stare as each thrust causes movement in his soft belly, and you wail in pleasure and shock as you cum so hard you see stars. It tears through you so quickly you aren’t expecting it at all, and your movements still as waves of pleasure wash over you. When you finally come back to the world of the living, you want to be embarrassed for falling apart like that – but you can’t with the way Jake is looking at you. 

His jaw is open and his eyes are so dilated they look black. He looks like he wants to eat you alive. You both sit there, neither of you moving, as he looks at you like you’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. 

“Fuckin' hell.” He says, voice husky and broken.

 “Haven’t cum that easy since I was a fucking teenager.” You say, still a little embarrassed, despite his reaction.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” Jake confesses, flipping you over quickly so that he’s on top. 

You know he saw where you were looking when you came – he’d been staring at your face the whole time. As embarrassing as that blatant display of lust had been, you can’t help but be thankful that he saw. There’s no way he can doubt your earlier words after seeing that. 

“Fuck me, Jake. Fuck me hard.” You plead, hooking your legs around his waist and pulling him in closer to you. “Fuck me the way only you can.” The last part comes out as a whisper and his cock twitches as you say them. He plants his forearms on either side of you, caging you in with his body. 

“I’ll fuck you every day until the day I die.” He says, before plunging into you again. 

There’s no delay now as he snaps his hips into yours – the force of each thrust causing your whole body to move upwards. His powerful thighs drive into you with fucking monster truck force and the sound of his skin hitting yours is loud and obscene. You rake your nails down his back, undoubtedly drawing blood as he hits that special spot inside of you that only he can. 

“Oh fuck, right fucking there. Jesus Christ!” You scream, digging your fingers into his sides and squeezing. 

“You’re so fucking tight, y/n. I’m gonna fucking cum.” Sweat drips down his neck and chest and you take the opportunity to lean upwards and lick it off him, moaning at the salty taste of him. 

“Dirty fucking girl. Jesus.” 

His thrusts are growing sloppy and erratic and you can feel his cock twitching inside you. You clench around him and the sound that falls from between his lips is practically a whine. 

“Do it, Jakey. Give it to me.” 

And that’s all it takes for him to spill inside you. 

“Fuck!” He growls, sinking his teeth into the skin of your shoulder as he cums. The sting brings you over the edge too, and you clench around him as you cum – milking him for all he’s got. 

When the two of you finally resurface, Jake pulls out of you and collapses on the bed next to you. You turn on your side to see his hilariously fucked out expression. You giggle. 

“What?” He asks, turning his head to face you, a sweet smile on his lips. 

“Do you know what I mean now when I say I love you?”

His smile widens – his beautiful white teeth on display as he scoots closer to you. 

“Yeah, I think so.” 

He kisses you – deliberate and passionate. 

"Jake," you say as he pulls away, "if you want to lose weight for you, then I don't care. But if you're only doing it because you feel like you have to..." You trail off, heart heavy at the thought that he had been feeling so down on himself without you realizing.

He smiles at you – the widest and most genuine one he's given you all night, and he slots his lips against yours in another kiss.

“Thank you.” He says as he pulls away from you. "But I think you've convinced me that I'm good with how I am right now." Seriousness overtakes his soft expression as he looks at you. "Thank you."

“It was literally my pleasure. I love getting to worship you.” You lean your head on his shoulder and he pulls the covers up over the two of you and turns off the lamp. “All of you.”

He chuckles, and the sound rumbles in his chest where you’re pressed against him. 

“I love you too, y/n. All of you.”

---------

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[crazyco0tz]

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Warnings: suggestive, insecurity, not proof read, cussing

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) (:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) (:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

*Seokmin

Another boy who is insecure about his looks sometimes, he has convinced himself that he looks funny especially his facial features. But you can’t have that so when you found him in the bathroom looking disgusted in the mirror you had to comfort him

He is currently poking around his face while staring intently at the mirror, he pushed up his nose then tried fixing his cheeks before he caught a glimpse of you in the mirror, he quickly withdrawal his hand from his face before a small hum left his throat; “hey y/n.” you were so gentle with your response you could make him cry. “What did we say about doing that to yourself?” He looks down from embarrassment “to not torture myself like that anymore..” he shyly responded

You nod your head in response “that’s right, you are as pretty as they come baby” you reach up to grab his cheek between your fingers. He looks away timidly. “You really this I’m pretty” he asked not making eye contact.

“Yes I do, cmon now you say it in the mirror” he turns around to face the mirror again before sighing. “I am as pretty as they come” he mumbled almost inaudible. He looks back at you wondering what he’s supposed to do now.

“Come on let’s go cuddle pretty boy~” you tease to get a smile on his face, which worked

*Mingyu

He is obsessed with your compliments, especially when you tease him with it, it drives him crazy. You’ll just drop a compliment or two then tease the fuck out of him for blushing

You and min were hanging out with a few other members, which you do often since you find them really dear friends, which also means your comfortable joking infront of them even at the expense of your lover

You were sitting next to your boyfriend while laughing at some silly joke one of the others made. After the laugh was over you turn to mingyu to admire his red cheeks and slightly teary eyes from laughing a little to hard. You reach over to pinch his cheek which caused him to freeze and let out a nervous laugh; “ah look at that pretty face” you tease causing the others to bust out laughing again while making his poor face even redder

He smacks your hand away before covering his face to silently cry (in a good way) he whispered “don’t do this now y/nnie…” ever so softly just enough for you to hear. “Oh why not?” You speak softly in his ear causing him to shiver in timidness.

He finally admitted defeat and releases his hands from his face with a goofy smile on his face trying to be a good sport about being teased by you.

“Ah come on y/n dont you think that’s a little bit meann?” Someone mentioned between their laughter causing you to smack your knee and comedically respond with “oh trust me I’ve done much worse at home~” which made mingyu basically launch out of the room with you shortly behind laughing so hard you thought you were going to faint. Leaving everyone else either confused or crying of laughter

*Minghao

He lovessss being called pretty especially in intimate moments. Like after you kiss him so hard he loses his train of thought just to call him pretty after kills him (in a good way)

He came home from a very boring day and all he wanted was you. The second he got home he begged for some long kisses while you pet his hair, it always relaxes him so you couldn’t say no

“Come here then~” you pur, patting the space next to you to coerce the boy over. He wasted no time jumping in the spot and immediately latched his lips onto your refusing to pull away. You swung your arm around his back to nudge him closer before softly guiding your hand up to his

hair. He whimpered lowly at your touch since it gave him so much comfort

No doubt this escalated to a small make out which you didn’t mind. After a solid 6 minutes of constant kisses you pull away while minghao leaves his mouth agap due to tiredness. You bring your hand that was previously on his hair to close his mouth and to softly graze over his swollen lips. You unintentionally let out a small “pretty” while leaning back in for one more kiss

The first thing he did when you pulled away for the last kiss was hug you; “thank you jagi” he mumbled into your shoulder before slowly drifting off to sleep in your arms.

Once he fell asleep you didn’t stop with your compliments.

“Pretty boy” “cutie” “perfect” “amazing” that kinda stuff. Little did you know a smile crept up onto his face ( he was never asleep )

*Seungwan

He prides himself in not letting your “silly compliments” get to him no matter what, but sometimes he just can’t hold it and flutters in flattery when he hear your sweet compliments. He will never admit it actually made him bothered since he’s not that “desperate”

“Why are you glaring at me pretty boy? I just want to show you how much I love you” he scoffs “by trying to get a rise out of me with silly compliments, it’s not gunna work baby.” He coos not wanting to sound actually mad. You aren’t going to give up on making him feel special so you slide your body right up against his while his arms cross in protest

You grab onto his arm for more leverage before whispering “why won’t you let me spoil you, pretty?” Right in his ear. He gasps releasing his cross arms to push on your body, attempting to fight it but it was too late. He avoided eye contact to not make it worse which you shot down quickly. You reach up your hand to force eye contact out of him which practically broke him, all he could do was hide away, which is what he did

He had no shame in hiding in your neck. Later ( like always ) he denies everything that that happened, “oh please I would never hide away in your neck you’re making things up” he gloats. He seriously acts like nothing ever happened.

*Vernon

He’s either very nonchalant about it or stops breathing, it all depends on how buttered up he is. Which honestly it isn’t hard to butter him up

You and Vernon were both chill on the couch, he was on his phone while you watched over his shoulder to see what he was doing. Obviously this got boring since all he’s doing is scrolling through photos. so you wanted to rile him up, one cuz you were bored, and two cuz you wanted some love.

You softly push yourself onto him more, you reach up to wrap your arm around his shoulders while your other hand drags up to his chest. He looks down as your arm and then you; “what’s up?” He asked cautiously just incase you were plotting something. The hand that was previously on his chest now risen up to his cheek to pull his face towards yours slowly. “I just wanted to admire my pretty boy” you whispered seductively.

He giggled softly before responding with a simple “ok”. He placed his phone down to focus fully on you, he pushed his head into the crook of your neck softly pecking at it causing you to laugh. You rest your head on the top of his head before gently petting his hair. Not long after he pulls always since he wanted a kiss but now you can really see why he was hiding in your neck, he was PINK. You bite your lip trying to stop yourself from laughing at the flushed boy.

He soon realized he’s red and starts to laugh himself, you both had a very cute moment just giggling over how red he got over your compliment, in the end he’s very appreciative that he has someone who can make him blush and feel special

Chan

He has no shame. He literally just asks for compliments whenever he wants one, and if you don’t comply he will have no hesitation getting bratty

“LOVE ME Y/NNN” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN CHANNIE?” “COMPLIMENT MEEE” he begs with the hardest puppy dog eyes ever “MAKE ME FEEL SPECIAL” he huffs out in annoyance since he has to beg. “Ok ok jeez” you comply quite fast since you love him to death

You pat your leg signaling him to lay his head down. Once he does you claw your fingers through his hair to make him as comfy as possible. “Now let’s see what could I compliment you on other than you being perfect for me~” you flirtatiously look down at him. “Oh I know” you pinch his nose “your pretty facee” he giggles at your tone before grabbing onto your hand; “say more!!” You chuckle at his eagerness “spoiled boy.”

You go on and onnn about how perfect he is for you. He absolutely loves compliments even if he has to beg. But let’s say you maybe aren’t in the mood for compliments? Oh then he turns into the brattiest boy. Huffing around saying you don’t love him anymore, basically just a little shit but don’t worry you always fix his attitude~ but mostly it’s just easier to give him whatever he wants since he is your pretty boy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I actually finish it yall!!!!!

I am in the Zone so more reactions coming soon🥰🥰

Byee sweetiesss

[thedroneranger]

A Little Time Alone

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Précis: Bradley and his wife have been busy with everything except each other.

Note: One of two entires for @roosterforme’s #love is in the air tgm love song playlist challenge. This fic is inspired by Luke Comb's The Kind of Love We Make.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut.

Word count: 3.7k

It had been weeks since we spent any time together. 

Between the new curriculum and latest batch of pilots, I was coming home late every night and leaving early every morning.

At first, she was doing her damnedest to stay up until I got home. Each night, before sliding into bed, I would slip her tablet from her clutches and remove her askew reading glasses, placing both on her nightstand. Once I settled into bed, unconsciously, she would snuggle into me, allowing me to fall asleep with a smile.

However, lately, it was clear she had been sleeping for hours. Tucked into bed, fast asleep with just her hair peeking between the bedding. I would slide into my side and do my best not to disturb her.

Each morning, I didn’t leave without giving her a goodbye kiss, but guilt always edged my decision to not wake her. Instead, I would press my lips to her forehead or cheek, whichever was exposed.

Things seemed to take a turn after her plan to surprise me with lunch on base was foiled. Normally, she would coordinate with Maverick, if he were around, or the security guard she had befriended to sneak into my office with sandwiches from our favorite deli.

Of course, she always wore a dress, which made it easy for me to bend her over my desk for a pleasurable finish. 

We had a text code so I knew to expect her. The last time she plotted a lunchtime date, I, unbeknownst, stood her up. Unable to check my texts all morning, I never saw her message and never went to my office. It wasn’t until later in the evening I saw several messages and a couple missed calls. 

I was devastated and wanted to apologize in person. However, she was always asleep when I got home. I even tried to call a few times during the day, but I never managed to catch her. After that, we exchanged fewer and fewer texts throughout each day. 

Even our weekends had been spent separately. I found myself on base more and more for special events and training. Hell, the last couple weekends, I even slept there.

She, on the other hand, has been a godsend, representing us both at family get-togethers and other personal events.

I can only imagine how she felt, likely making up excuses for my lack of presence.

The whole situation made me absolutely miserable.

“Bradley. Bradley. Bradley!” My head jerked to find Maverick intensely staring at me.

“Yeah, Mav?” I coughed to clear my throat and gave him my full attention.

He and I were alone in his office. Maverick and I were co-instructors for an upcoming class. We were going over the lesson plan when my thoughts drifted. “What’s on your mind, Bradley?” Mav put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and looked at me.

Shifting in my chair, I noticed the tension in my shoulders and that I’d been holding my breath. Subtly untensing, I spoke. “I can’t remember the last time I spent time with my wife, and she’s getting distant.”

Maverick leaned forward. He loved her like a daughter. Actually, I was convinced he liked her more than me. Mav was always reminding me not to let work ruin our relationship. 

Not that he had room to talk. 

Although, he and Penny have appeared rock solid since getting back together. Once Maverick proposed and they wed, Penny was the happiest I’ve ever seen her.

“Bradley—”

I cut off Mav. “I know, I know. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Go home,” he said.

“What?” My eyebrow cocked.

“Go home. Report back on Monday,” Mav said. We stared at each other for almost a full minute. “Go fix it.” The tone in Mav’s voice told me he was about to make it an order, so I nodded, gave a quick salute and dashed out.

Not having been home at a decent hour in nearly a month, I forgot what traffic was like. It had me doubting if I would be home any earlier than as of late. 

Her vehicle was in the driveway when I finally pulled up.

My feet were carrying me faster than my brain was processing. My mind was trying to get my hands under control so I could get the key in the door, when the door flung open.

A gasp left her lips as our gazes locked. “Hey, stranger.” She did her best to hide a smirk. Unfazed, I walked toward her, forcing her to back up and allow me into the house. Once far enough in, I closed the door. 

“Hey,” I replied. My eyes raked across her form. She was wearing a short red sundress and some strappy sandals. My cock twitched. I could not recall the last time I saw her in anything other than our fluffy duvet. 

“I should go—I don’t want to be late.” She walked toward me and got on her toes to kiss my cheek. However, I turned my head and captured her lips with mine. She hesitated for a second, but melted into me as I wrapped an arm around her waist and the other hugged her ribcage. Her hand slid from my bicep up to my neck. 

We separated just enough to look into each other’s eyes. “I hate that I forgot what you feel like,” she said. 

The comment made me hold her tighter. “We can’t have that,” I said as a matter of fact. Her eyebrow and lips quirked. I smiled at her. “I’ve been missing you more than you can imagine,” I confessed.

She was still looking at me with a tight smile. “I may have an idea.” She pursed her lips and looked off the side. Then, she looked back at me and pressed her lips to mine. As we kissed, I uncoiled an arm from around her, so I could reach back to lock the door.

She heard the click. “I have to go,” she said with her lips still against mine. 

Again, we separated just enough to look at one another. “Cancel.” My voice was more demanding than either of us expected. She looked surprised but not offended. “We need a little time alone.” I sounded softer. “So tonight, I’m only gonna be your man,” I told her. She raised an eyebrow. “I’m off the entire weekend.”

“Bradley Alexander—” She was ready to scold me for messing with her. 

“Scout’s honor.” I held my fingers up in the Eagle Scout sign. We stared at each other. “There’s no way I’m leaving this house, especially when you look this good.” My hand dropped lower to squeeze her backside. She dropped her head trying to hide the blush in her cheeks as if I’d never seen it before.

“Go shower,” she said. My grip on her loosened so she could step away. “I’m not spending the evening huffing jet fuel.” She looked my attire up and down. I left in such a rush, I still had my flight suit on. 

Extra swagger in her hips, she sauntered to the kitchen. For a split second, I considered following her and bending her over the nearest surface. But tonight called for something slower, softer than a counter quickie.

Instead, I went to our ensuite bathroom and let the water pressure ease my muscles. Soothed by the water and steam, I lost track of time. When I realized, I hopped out, did a quick shave and dressed.

We were home, but she was wearing that sinful sundress, so I at least wanted to wear something I knew she’d love. I put on my favorite pair of worn jeans, a white tank and an Aloha shirt I knew was one of her favorites. 

I padded downstairs, noticing the lights were low and she’d lit candles. A smile turned my lips when I heard Led Zeppelin IV spinning on the record player—I thought about the countless times we made out to this soundtrack.

When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks. She was sitting on our small breakfast table, palm supporting her, head tilted back, wine glass to her lips. One leg ran the radius of the table while the other hung off at the knee. Her heel popping to the beat of the music.

She turned to look at me. “Wine?” She held out her glass. I shook my head as a coy smile pulled a corner of my mouth. She winked as she polished off the last sip in her glass.

As I approached the table, she shifted so she was facing me and placed the glass at her side. Stepping between her legs, I pushed the glass further back. A hand on either side of her, I leaned so we were at eye level. 

Her hand cupped the side of my jaw, and her thumb ran along my lips. Mindlessly, I pressed a kiss to it. The tiniest smile curled the corners of her mouth as she searched my face. I hummed as her fingers traversed the raised skin of my scars and came to rest on the dip of my chest just below my clavicles. “Do you have any idea how handsome you are?” she asked.

Surely she felt my chest rumble as I chuckled. “Only when you tell me.” My voice was raspier than usual. Leaning further into her, I dropped my head to place soft kisses on her neck. 

“Surely other women tell you.” I knew exactly what she was doing. 

“I can assure you, they keep their thoughts to themselves,” I replied. Between kisses I told her about my latest class catching sight of her on base. It was the last time we had lunch together before our drought. A couple of them commented about a hot civilian. Turning, I found her chatting with Maverick. 

I told them the easiest way to not return from a mission was ogling another pilot’s spouse. One of the women who had been doing her damnedest to flirt with me blurted, “That’s your wife?!” I nodded at her with a wink. She paled and never looked me in the eye again.

The earned laugh that quickly morphed into a moan had me considering unzipping my pants and unceremoniously fucking her. But I had to pace myself. She was flat against the table, my body covering her with my forearms holding me up as I kissed whatever exposed skin was available. The raggedness of her breathing kept me going. 

“Do you know how hard it is for me not to wake you up every night at some ungodly hour?” I told her, picking my head up to see her response. 

Her bottom lip was between her teeth as her eyes twinkled in the low light. “Why wouldn’t you wake me up?” she asked. Her thighs were squeezing my hips, the skirt of her dress covering almost nothing. 

“First, you sleep through absolutely everything.” She chuckled as my hands skimmed her bare thighs. “We could be having a magnitude 10 earthquake, and you’d sleep through it.” She nodded in agreement as one of my hands slid between us. 

I froze. “Where are your underwear?” She never went commando without a purpose. 

She propped herself up on her elbows. “Maybe I was hoping you would be home, in bed, when I returned. And I could wake you up.” She paused. “If you came home.” Her gaze was intense.

My smile faltered and my head dropped with my shoulders in a moment of guilt. Quickly, I looked back up at her. “I’m sorry.” Still gripping her thigh, my thumb drew circles on it. 

“Show me,” she said.

“Excuse me?” I had expected her to scold me or for us to get into a deep conversation about the past month.

She moved my hand from her thigh to between her legs. “Actions speak louder than words.” Expertly, she maneuvered my hand to guide two fingers into her. “Show me how sorry you are. How much you’ve missed me.”

For a minute, I froze. Tired of waiting for me, she wrapped her hand around my wrist to slide my fingers in and out of her. Finally, I got a hold of myself, my thumb pressing to her swollen bundle of nerves and the pads of my fingers stimulating that spongy spot inside. Her breath caught as I took over.

“That’s it, honey.” She melted against the table. “Let’s take it nice and slow.” She clenched around my fingers—I thought I might come right then. “Fuck,” I said under my breath. She smiled as she watched me squeeze my eyes shut. 

Back on her elbows, her fingers snuck into my hair and pulled me until our lips connected. My lips parted just enough to allow her tongue in. It toyed with mine, matching the rhythm of my fingers pumping in and out of her. Her lips left mine with a smack. “Bradley,” she moaned as I alternated between scissoring my fingers and curling them against her G spot.

“That’s it,” I cooed, keeping the same pace and pattern. I could feel her tightening around my fingers. “Fuck,” I breathed out, enjoying the feel of her. My lips fell to her neck, knowing the additional contact would send her over the edge. 

The stutter breath she let out matched her contractions around my fingers. “That’s it, honey.” I watched her face as she went through her high, my fingers keeping pace. As she untensed, I slowed to a stop. She looked at me as she steadied her breathing and a smile appeared. She continued to watch as I cleaned her from my fingers. Immediately, she pulled me down to taste herself.

She hummed as we separated. “Go pick another album. I wanted to make out with you on the couch.” My cock jumped from just the words leaving her mouth. Standing to my full height, I helped her off the table. 

She shooed me with her hands to the living room where my inherited record player was housed. I thumbed the sleeves until I found the perfect selection: The Velvet Underground’s Loaded.

As soon as the needle fell into the groove, she appeared with the bottle of wine. We both traipsed to the couch. She split the wine as I settled into the sofa. I accepted a glass and then beckoned her to sink into my side. Together, we sipped and listened to the opening song. 

As the next began to play, she placed our empty glasses on the coffee table and straddled my lap. My hands came to rest on the tops of her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher to expose more skin. She shimmied even closer to me, so she was at even more of a height advantage—my head was tipped almost completely back. 

Her fingers sifted through my locks, her nails massaging my scalp. A deep breath I didn’t even realize I was holding escaped my parted lips. She smiled as she watched me relax. My eyes were practically in the back of my head, her massage turning my mind to mush.

She tugged my hair, which earned a moan and caused me to shift under her. She ground against me, the stiff seams of my jeans caressing her most sensitive spot. I let her roll my head to the side so she had better access to pepper kisses along my neck. She continued to grind against my denim-clad crotch. Boy, did I wish there were less fabric between us. 

My fingers dug into her thighs as she sank her teeth into my neck. “Christ,” I said under my breath. She sat back and eyed me, proud of the reaction she got. Her thumb passed over the spot that would surely be purple later. “Maybe your students will have fewer questions come Monday.” Before I could say anything, she leaned in and sweetly pressed her lips to mine. 

“You’re such a sour patch kid,” I teased. She smiled at the nickname while she nipped my lips and swirled her tongue against mine. At the same time, her hands were busy unfastening my jeans. She climbed off my lap, and I lifted my hips to help her rid me of my garments. 

Climbing back into my lap, her knees bracketed my hips and the tops of her feet contoured the curve of my thighs. Her core rested against my length. I wanted nothing more than to guide myself into her.

“It’s really unfair you look this good in such a silly print.” Her fingers followed the shoulder seams of my shirt to the collar. Using the points, she pulled me back in for a kiss. As we separated, her hands dipped under my collar and over my shoulders to help shed the cloth. 

Once that was off, she took advantage of a tiny hole I hadn't noticed in my tank. Penetrating it with her finger, she pulled and the fabric easily gave way. I watched as the hole grew and she fisted the fabric to snap it at the hems. She untangled me from the ruined garment and dropped it to the floor. 

My arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer and hands palming her backside through her dress. Her hips lifted, and with one hand, she guided me into her. Slowly, she returned to her resting position. A sigh left my mouth as I felt her adjusting to me.

“Honey,” I trailed off as she squeezed me a couple times. We kept eye contact as she began to slowly lift and lower herself. The pace quickened just a bit as she fell into rhythm with the music.

As she kept going, my hands slipped under her dress and began to pull it up until it was over her head. Once it was off, my mouth immediately found one of her nipples. The moan that left her lips was euphoric. 

It made me bite her harder. She let out something between a moan and cry as her nails sank into my shoulders. I hissed, enjoying the burn as she scored my skin.

She was frustrated, and I wanted every bit of that energy. 

Not wanting to miss any of it, I coiled an arm back around her waist and easily flipped us so she was laying on the couch parallel with the cushions. 

Her doe eyes stared up at me, filled with surprise. My quirked lip grew to a smirk, as I anchored a hand on the cushion beside her head and the other on the couch back. My hips began to rock, setting a new pace for us. The lust came back to her gaze as her soft thighs met my hips and her heels found purchase in the dimples of my ass. 

I held it together as her nails gently ran from the top of my cock to just under my pecs and back. Her touch was soft but firm enough not to tickle. I flexed a little extra. 

Watching her breasts bounce with each thrust was enamoring. Her breathy gasps each time I bottomed out were the only noise I was hearing. My eyes sank as she stopped touching me and started touching herself. 

My pace stayed the same, but my gaze was trapped where we connected. I slid in and out while her digits swirled along her swollen nerves. My hips stuttered from the added pleasure as her index and forefingers made a V around the base of cock. “Fuck me,” I whined. 

She smiled. “No, you’re fucking me,” she corrected. We laughed together. 

“I missed this so, so much,” I confessed. Wanting to be closer to her, I sank to my elbows. I tucked my palm behind her head, letting my fingers sift through her hair. Her eyes were hooded as she looked at me through her lashes. 

We locked gazes as she took a deep breath and moved her hands to my waist, her nails sinking into the flesh just above my hips. At the same time, I felt her entire lower half contract, thighs hugging me and core convulsing. 

“Bradley.” My name was long and drawn out as it left her lips. It was enough to make me spill into her. I breathed her name into the crook of her neck as I curled my arm under her head, my elbow became her head rest, to hug her whole body as close as possible. Her hand ran up my side and hooked around my shoulder. 

I followed her name with a pleasurable hiss as her teeth sank into the meat of my shoulder. She punctuated the action with a tender kiss. The first of several she trailed into the crook of my neck as we rode out our orgasms.

Just as we came down from our high, the record ended. “Perfect timing.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead before pulling out and heading to the record player. She whined, but turned to enjoy the view as I walked away. Patiently, she waited as I flipped the vinyl and put it back on the player. I lined up the needle perfectly, and immediately the opening notes seeped out of the speakers. 

By the time I was headed back to the couch, she was standing beside it. “Should we change the dress code in the house to birthday suits only?” I pressed my body to hers, enjoying the full frontal contact and handful of her ass I grabbed. She squeaked and arched her back. My lips covered hers to distract from her attempt to escape. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled into her lips. 

We parted just far enough to look one another in the eyes. Her expression was playful. “Apology accepted.” I squeezed her around her ribcage and stuck my face in the crook of her neck. Although we were stark naked, our hug was earnest. 

As we separated, she held my biceps, keeping us close. “Let’s go upstairs so you can keep doing what you’re doing to me all night long.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Together, we blew out all the candles, and then walked upstairs hand-in-hand.

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[freedomfireflies]

Harry in Your Highlight Reel

Thought I'd try my hand at this trend (trope? style?)! No idea if I'm doing it right, but he's cute so...it doesn't matter

July 17, 2019

The day we thought we'd give the zoo a try. He was convinced the orangutan was staring at him.

It was not.

He was also convinced that it wanted to crawl through the bars and start combing through his hair to eat it.

He then spent the rest of the day asking me if his hair looked "edible," and I spent the rest of the day wishing the orangutan had eaten me instead.

August 03, 2021

"Let's go out to dinner!" he said. "It'll be fun!" he said.

Last time I let this beautiful, British bastard convince to do anything, I swear to God.

First of all, we got a flat tire on the way to the restaurant. And then realized very quickly that neither one of us actually knew how to change a tire.

So, we took an Uber (even though he has enough money to just...buy a brand new car, but whatever), and it smelled like pickles. So...you know, great start.

The restaurant was packed, and apparently it was bring your horny ass to dinner and stare at my boyfriend night. You know, just another great perk. I believe we got a solid five seconds where someone wasn't trying to sit on his lap.

The couple next to us was in the middle of breaking up, and honestly...it was kind of fun to listen to. We made bets, which was terrible of us, but long story short, Harry owes me 10 bucks.

They got our order wrong, which wasn't a big deal except for the fact that Harry has an "allergy" to tomatoes (he just doesn't like them, and always ends up shoving them onto my plate) (which he did) (and I loved them)

Then, we went to the bar to get a drink before we left and he choked on an olive.

So...overall, just an average date night for us.

10/10 will probably let him convince me to do it again and I hate myself for it.

September 29, 2022

Found this throwback in my camera roll the other day, and sent it to Harry while he was in a meeting. Made a joke about wanting to sit on his lap and bite all over his thighs (as one does, of course), and then asked what the fuck was up with his toes. Mostly just to make him squirm during his appointment.

Uh, turns out I didn't send it to Harry.

I sent it to Anne.

And because she's Anne, she completely ignored what I said and made some comment about how little he was, how precious, and how he's all grown up.

Anyway, long story short, I won't be going home for Christmas this year, and will immediately be throwing myself under a car (shoutout to my hero, Mr. Jason Sudeikis, love ya buddy)

Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.

June 04, 2020

He's gonna look so sexy in adult diapers 😍😍😍

March 11, 2023

Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Maybelline 🥰

No, but why was his hair so flowy? Fuck Prince Eric, this is Ariel. Or Ariel's daughter, from the second one. Oh, he'd crush that. Hold up, lemme call his agent

Edit: After showing this to Harry, he has demanded I retract my statement and amend it to clarify that he feels like more of a Belle type? And then suggested I play The Beast, so...he'll be sleeping on the couch for the next few weeks.

Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.

[bettsfic]

Hi, Betts! Apologies if you‘ve already answered something of the sort before, I tend to forget that tumblr exists for a few months every once in a while, so I‘m not super up to date with all the topics you‘ve previously discussed! But. I‘ve been writing fics for a couple of years now and, after getting medicated for my adhd, I‘ve also established a pretty reliable and enjoyable system to finish the (long) fic projects I start! However, every time I try to work on something original, I usually tap out after 5-10k words. The excitement, the itch, the brainrot, the daydreaming, it‘s all there but I just lose my motivation at a certain point. Part of it is that creating and writing original characters is incredibly challenging. I‘m using to having a solid base when I write fic characters so it makes sense that having to come up with that base all by myself is new and slightly overwhelming, but ok, I already have ideas to deal with that. However, there is also the fact that I *know* my original stories won’t see the light of day for a hot while — not like my fics that I get to share on ao3 — and that kills my ends up killing my motivation more often than not… I think! Some of my friends and mutuals have offered to beta/read my original stories, so that could help, but since I‘m here writing this, I still haven’t found that push to properly work on my original wips. (Also, I feel like my original writing style is just 10x worse than my fic style… but maybe that‘s just the normal new project bad kind of writing?) I was wondering if you have dealt with something similar and whether you have any tips and tricks to convince myself that my original wips are fun and worth the effort too? Love your advice and your fics :3

when you've written fanfic for a long time, there's one creative muscle that can atrophy, and that's building parameters. in fanfic, the most ridiculous, far fetched AU is still grounded in some way by the text it's responding to. you're playing a game that more or less already has rules. but in original fiction, you have to write the rules before you can play the game. a lot of times that means you write an entire book to figure out the book you're trying to write, and then you rewrite the book.

i almost always come to a grinding halt at about 10k of any original project because that's how long it takes me to find the parameters of the inciting incident. and once i have the parameters, i start over. usually there's one or two paragraphs i keep and which end up guiding the rest of the project. sometimes the parameters are never set and i have to set the whole thing down until a solution comes to me, which can take months or years.

as for external validation/motivation, if you can find a couple good cheerleaders who will read chapters as you finish them and who get invested in the story you're writing, i find that can offer a simulacrum of the immediate satisfaction of posting/updating a fic. i had to have cheerleaders through my first two original novels. i can motivate myself now and don't need them anymore, but lacking them does make writing original work a very lonely endeavor. but if you have good cheerleaders, do whatever you can to keep them. buy them little trinkets, send them birthday cards, kiss them on the mouth. because that kind of friendship and dedication can be such a rarity in the grand scheme of things.

and as always, writing is an endurance sport. it can take years to build up the patience, discipline, and drive to write a novel. even if it doesn't feel like it, getting down a bunch of false starts is still progress. like chess, it's good to know your opening moves, and that initial 5-10k of parameter-building goes waaaaay faster when you know you're going to scrap it anyway. all you're looking for in those early words is that one paragraph that turns the ignition. and once you're on the road and headed in a direction, there's no better feeling than seeing your word count go up and getting obsessed with your own world and characters.

[diazbuckleydreamer]

The Prize for Bad Behavior

Chapter 1: What are you going to do about it?

“I know why he’s acting like this. I just don’t know what to do about it.” Eddie sat across the glossed over wood bar table from Tommy. His pint glass hadn’t left his hand for more than a few seconds since the waitress set it down in front of him ten minutes ago and he looked more annoyed than Tommy had yet to see him. They’d just finished up the pick up game on the west side. A game they had easily dominated. They should be in a great mood. But their happiness over the game was being greatly overshadowed by the nasty attitude they’d both been on the receiving end of from Eddie’s best friend.

“You do?” Tommy questioned his eyebrow raising enough that he could feel the pull on his face. Still clearly irritated, Eddie gulped down more beer before coming up for air. His face twisted up into a scowl.

“Of course I do! I know Buck as well as I know myself.”

Tommy had no doubt about that. One of the very first things that Tommy had picked up on when Eddie and him began hanging out, was that he and Evan were attached at the hip. But Eddie’s own admission, the two were each other’s everything. And what Tommy didn’t understand, was how neither man had figured out that everything meant madly in love. He’d seen it a million times in his life. It was a common thing especially among gays. Two people who were best friends, trying so hard to convince themselves that’s all it was. But Tommy had a suspicion that in this case, the two men truly had no idea.

“He’s jealous!” Eddie’s words had Tommy pausing, glass halfway to his mouth as he looked over the table. For a moment, the words had made Tommy believe he’d been wrong, and that at least Eddie was aware of the feelings between them. But a quick assessment of the younger man’s face showed nothing more than surface level irritation.

“What could he have to be jealous of?” He asked, moving to drink his beer. Hoping that the move would hide his interest in the subject, which he was sure was obvious on his face.

Tommy wasn’t entirely sure where his interest lied at that point. There was a moment after the cruise ship rescue, where Evan had looked at Tommy with so much love and happiness and appreciation in his gorgeous blue eyes, that Tommy had sworn Evan was attracted to him. It was a thought that Tommy had felt was confirmed when Evan had gone to Hen to get his number before calling him up and asking him for a tour of the Air Support Hangar. But ever since that day, it had seemed like Tommy had been way off track. Evan hadn’t reached out at all. Not even bothering to reply when Tommy had sent him a text asking if he’d enjoyed his tour. What was more, the basketball game had been the first time Tommy had seen the adorable firefighter since that day, and he’d acted like both Eddie and Tommy were bugs on the bottom of his shoe.

And then, there was Eddie. Tommy couldn’t deny that the man was a knockout. He was hot, a ton of fun to be around, they shared a lot of interests and genuinely just enjoyed each other’s company. Tommy couldn’t deny he was excited every time he knew they were going to be hanging out. It felt just the same giddiness he had with past romantic partners. But despite the fact that Eddie had a tendency to flirt seemingly without realizing it, and a late night admission that he took the path in life he did solely because it had been what was expected of him, Tommy still hadn’t gotten solid indication that Eddie would be open to him making a move. So, he hadn’t.

Tommy watched the irritation melt off Eddie’s face at his question. It was replaced by a look of mourning. Eddie sighed. “He gets insecure.” He told him. It was the last thing Tommy had expected him to say.

“Insecure?” He parroted. “He’s good looking, sweet, from what I hear he’s a damn good firefighter. What is it he’s insecure about? I mean, clearly he knows he can’t be replaced. Especially not in your life.”

Eddie thought it over for a moment, the sad look on his face deepening. “He doesn’t know that.” His friend’s sexy brown eyes met his expectant gaze for a long moment, drilling in the overwhelming truth in what he’d just said, before flicking down to the table. “There’s a long and really messed up story behind it. But Buck doesn’t believe he’s enough…for anyone. I’ve tried so hard over the years to convince him otherwise. And he’s a lot better than he used to be, but-”

“Let me guess, but when it comes to you and your friendship, his jealousy is easily spiked.” Eddie’s attention snapped back up to him, disbelief clouding his eyes.

“Yeah. How’d you know that?” This was one of those moments, where Eddie spoke to him in a way as adoring as Buck’s gaze after the rescue. It made Tommy’s stomach drop a little. Like when the helicopter caught a slight down draft. Noticeable but not overwhelming.

“Because people are unreasonably protective over the things they love the most.” Tommy answered lightly. He knew that after only knowing these two men for a couple of weeks, that it wasn’t his place to interfere. Especially after Evan and Eddie had been tap dancing around the subject for years. But as a man who finally felt comfortable in himself and his sexuality, he couldn’t let two men who were clearly head over heels for each other, miss their opportunity because they refused to see it. If there was one thing that Tommy could do as Eddie’s friend, it’d be to lay this out for him.

Surprisingly, Eddie didn’t some much as a blink at Tommy’s words. A knowing expression pressed his features. “I know that better than anyone.” He muttered more to himself than his friend. “That’s why I’ve never told him that I want to be with him.”

When Eddie finally got the courage to meet Tommy’s eyes, it took a moment for him to actually see the smirk being offered his way.

“You knew?” He questioned. Tommy couldn’t help but laugh.

“Of course I knew. I mean, it’s pretty obvious-well, to everyone but you two apparently.” Eddie’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, giving Tommy the chance to compose himself. With a sigh of resignation, he threw caution and common sense to the wind. “Why do you think I didn’t ask you out on a real date?”

Eddie’s jaw snapped shut, his brows pressing together in confusion as he assessed the man across from him. Tommy knew he was questioning whether or not it was a joke, so Tommy met his gaze head on. “You wanted to ask me out?” Eddie finally asked. His tone not just level, but even holding the tiniest bit of teasing. Tommy’s stomach dipped again.

“Of course I did!” Tommy threw back playfully. “Come on Diaz, you’re a good looking dude. And a shit ton of fun to hang out with. Why wouldn’t I be attracted to you?”

Eddie let out an exhale that sounded a lot like a laugh from where Tommy was sitting. “Damn. And here I thought you kind of had a thing for Buck. I mean, I saw the way you were looking at him on the boat.”

Tommy’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. “I am.” He admitted before shaking his head. “Well, I was. But, you and I both saw how much he despises me.” His words took on a regretful tone that sobered both men a little.

Tommy wished he and Eddie would keep playing around and joking. In another world, Tommy would take this and run with it. He’d flirt, buy Eddie a drink or two. They’d hang out, hit it off, and maybe if Tommy were lucky, he’d be lucky enough to score a kiss before getting in his car and driving home.

But this wasn’t that world.

In this world, whether it was a stated thing or not, Eddie belonged to Evan. Tommy would respect that dynamic. Even though he’d admitted his feelings for Eddie, and Evan for that matter, he knew he wouldn’t act on it. Because he’d already gotten in between the two men more than he should have.

“He doesn’t despise you.” Eddie argued. “He just doesn’t know you. All he knows is that I keep hanging out with you instead of him.”

“Why do you?” The words flew out of Tommy’s mouth before he could stop them.

Eddie polished off his drink before responding. “Because I like you too.” He admitted. “And…the truth is it’s getting hard to be around Buck and ignore how I feel.”

Having the hot guy you're hanging out with pine over another man right after saying he likes you normally wouldn’t go over very well. But for some reason, Tommy actually felt honored that he’d been looped into the same statement as Eddie’s love for Evan. It somehow told him that Eddie was really into him.

“So, just tell him how you feel.” Tommy offered before downing the rest of his drink. “I know you think it’ll ruin things, but it won’t. I know it isn’t my place, but if the shit that went down on the court today says anything, it’s that he feels the same way.”

“You know, I was thinking the same thing. But I couldn’t bring myself to address it after his behavior. I don’t want him thinking that he can get his way by throwing a temper tantrum.” Timmy couldn’t help but laugh, loud and hearty at the statement.

“I can get behind that.” He said finally.

A look of pure astonishment lit Eddie’s face suddenly. “I’ve got it!” He told Tommy as he flagged down their waitress. Tommy did nothing to hide the curiosity and confusion on his face.

“What?”

Eddie handed the waitress a twenty to cover their drinks and told her to keep the change before pushing out of his chair. “Buck keeps forgetting, I’m a dad. I know how to handle a kid having a fit. I know how to give him what we both want while punishing him at the same time, but I need your help. You game?”

The mischief in Eddie’s eyes was something he hadn’t seen since the night of the rescue and it turned Tommy on to no end. Standing, he stepped around the table and up to Eddie. “I don’t know where you’re going with this. But I’m in.”

[alonetimelover]

Action! - Heartbreak Anniversary- 2023

Pairings: ex!Harry Styles x Director!Reader x Joseph Quinn

Summary: Harry has an emotional and heartfelt conversation with his mother and sister. If it wasn't heartbreaking enough - to be this vulnerable and open - they had some news for him. Something that would tip the scales at the breaking point.

Warnings: it's angst. harry's not very polite. some self-degrading talk. some swear words. pregnancy is mentioned.

Word count: ~3,4k

A/N: While writing the whole thingy I was listening to this beautiful song, Heartbreak Anniversary (hence the title) by Giveon. It inspired this piece of a story, so give it a listen.

series masterlist let's talk about action!universe

“How do you feel after today’s session, Harry?”

“Pretty good. It’s - it’s nice to talk about it with someone, someone unbiased,” Harry expressed, searching for the right words. Words that would sound convincing. He knew Doctor McCanister would catch him on his lies but he needed to at least try.

“You’re lucky this session is almost over. You’re capping over and over again. You trusted me with so much from your past and present, why do you think you can’t trust me with this?”

After a solid minute of silence Harry whispered, “I don’t know. She was - she is still important to me even though she’s no longer a part of my life. Knowing it all could be different if I hadn’t done what I did. It - it’s making me overthink, reminding myself of everything I did wrong.”

“Does it work for you?”

“What?”

“Keeping it all to yourself, slowly rotting in this feeling.” She noted something down in her brown notebook. “All that emotional build-up is going to explode sooner rather than later, Harry,” Dr McCanister warned him.

“I don’t think I’m ready. I have this thought in the back of my head that if I tell anybody all that is here,” he placed his pointing finger to his temple, “and here,” moving the finger to his heart, “I’m going to lose her forever. Those thoughts and feelings are the last thing I have of her. Emotional thing.”

From the look on Doctor’s face he knew he needed to justify his words.

“Umm, I have lots of photos or her, old clothes that she’d never taken from ou- my house in LA. But they don’t bring me any - I dunno - there’s no comfort. No warmth. And when I’m thinking of her, of us, it brings me that comfort.”

“And pain?”

“I deserve it. I am responsible for our relationship ending on that bad foot, I am responsible for everything bad that happened to her after the breakup. It’s all my fault. And if a minute of comfort from the memories of her, and feelings that I still have for her cost me hours and days and weeks of sorrow and pain, then so be it. I’ll do anything to feel somehow 1% as happy as I felt with her by my side.”

It was the first time Harry spoke honestly about YN and their past relationship. It was a taboo whenever he went, even therapy. He knew the importance of speaking up about his feelings, sharing his emotions so he wouldn’t be alone to deal with them. But after losing YN, it wasn’t present in his relations with other people.

He felt like he deserved the pain. He hurt her so now he was the one to be hurt.

When they broke up - when YN broke up with him - he didn’t understand the importance she as a person had in his life. The scant and ethereal feeling succumbed him away from YN. Something new, exciting, nonroutine. Someone new fascinated him. Before he knew it, he was already gone, letting himself fall for an unknown.

He regretted it greatly, but it was too late. She moved on.

Everyone thought he moved on too. While still being in a relationship with YN, he moved on. But it was wrong. To the last day of their relationship he was faithful, and at the same time he let himself be pulled away, forget momentarily.

After calming down a little and doing a few breathing exercises with Dr McCanister, Harry left the clinic, having paid for the session.

On his way home, the phone call disrupted his Rumours listening session.

“‘Ello? I’m driving so I hope it’s important.”

“Hello my darling. Put me on speaker,” Anne said, her voice breaking here and there.

Harry did as his mum told him to, “all done. How are you, mum?”

“Good. Good. The weather is finally nice, so-"

“You didn’t call me to talk about the weather, did you?” Harry interrupted his mother, making her very audibly swallow. “Something happened?”

“No, no. Do you have some time to spare for your mother’s visit?”

“And sister’s!” Harry heard Gemma's voice shouting over Anne’s.

“Of course. I’m just going back from my appointment with Dr McCanister. I’ll be home in about 15 minutes? That’s alright with you?”

“Oh sure, sweetie. I’ve got a key to your house. We’ll just let ourselves in.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

***

When Harry got home, Anne and Gemma were already there, making themselves comfortable. Anne was making tea in the kitchen and Gemma, like always, was snooping for some new vinyls or papers with song ideas. Harry was used to leaving them everywhere.

“Hello there. To what do I owe the pleasure of having you both here?” Harry asked while walking into the living room.

“Like we can’t visit your annoying ass, brother,” Gemma laughed, smirking at pouting Harry.

“Gemma, be nice,” Anne reprimanded, walking inside the room. “Cannot we visit once in a while? We haven’t seen each other since you started the break.” She turned to her youngest child.

“I know. It’s nice to see you, mum.” Harry swiftly came up to his mother and embraced her in a bone-crushing hug, swaying from left to right. “Missed you.”

“Oh, I missed you, too, honey.”

“Ekhem,” Gemma interrupted the heartfelt moment between mother and son. “I’m here, too. And I also missed you, H.”

Harry smiled at his mother, teasingly rolling his eyes at Gemma’s words, making Anne grin at him. She loved her children so much, that seeing them being so close to each other was the best thing a mother could ask for.

“Come here.”

After the warm and longed-for siblings’ hug, and the joint one with their mother, they all moved to the patio to have the tea. Harry, unprepared for any visit, found some cookies to go with the beverages.

The weather outside was beautiful, this year's July was surprisingly warm in London. Harry’s garden was blossoming, different flowers, bushes and trees waking up to life, beautifying the area. At the same time, it needed a gardener. Since YN, no one put a foot near the beds. Weeds were slowly overcoming parts of the place.

His garden was the living epitome of him. There wasn’t a gardener good enough, good like the last one, to help.

“How was the appointment with Dr McCanister?”

Harry tensed at the question. He wanted to forget about that meeting.

“Like always. Hard.”

This time Gemma tensed. It was hurting her to see how much Harry was struggling. Years after the break up, he couldn’t get up, couldn’t find peace. He loved her too much, if that was possible.

“Did you talk about her?”

“Yeah.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“It’s not therapy anymore, mum. I’ve had one already. Talked enough about feelings.” Harry sounded frustrated, was frustrated.

“And I’m not your therapist but a mother that worries about her son.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing. It’s - she - she’s gone. Not here anymore, she’s got her life with someone else, and I can’t stand it.” Harry hid his face in his hands, pulling at the locks of hair. The emotional build-up that Dr McCanister was talking about, making its presence known. “It’s been three years. Exactly three years. And - and I hate this day.”

Anne just sat down next to Harry, placing her hand on his back, stroking it slowly. Comforting him. He didn’t need anyone to ask questions, he needed someone to listen.

“I don’t deserve to think about her because I was the one to contribute to her leaving me. It was all my fault-”

“Harry, stop. It wasn’t-”

“No, mum. It was. It is. I didn’t cherish her. I let myself be captivated by the bliss of a relationship that I had with Olivia. I threw away three years with YN to follow the excitement of something new. It was my decision and it’s something I’m gonna regret forever. And now? Look at me? Look at her.” Harry scoffed.

“She’s happy,” said Gemma, earning an uneasy look from her mother. “And you need to accept that.”

“Easy to say not being in my shoes.”

“You’re not the only one that lost her, Harry,” Gemma said firmly.

“Gemma, not now.”

“Yes, now, mum. You,” she pointed at Harry. “You were everything to her. She got people promising her the moon, sending flowers. She didn’t bat an eye. She was in love with you. She was-”

“Don’t say that.”

“What? She was, Harry. She loved you so much. She cared about you, supported you, followed you everywhere. She was there for you any second. Any moment you needed her, she was there. And what did you do with that?”

She left the question to linger in the air. She bottled her feelings up for those three years.

YN was her best friend. Her sister. They understood each other without words. And with the break up happening, it wasn’t the same. YN didn’t feel comfortable with her or Anne as she did in the past. They still talked, met up, and had sleepovers. But it wasn’t the same.

Gemma understood that Harry losing the love of his life, by his own mistake, was hard for him. And it hurted her seeing him heartbroken. At the same time, she was angry. He hurted YN. Made her leave him. That’s at least how she understood the situation. YN didn’t talk much about the breakup with anyone.

“I screw up, alright? I know that, Gem. I know! Do you think I’m blaming her for that breakup? No! It was my fault. I drove to that. I thought I lost my feelings. I thought there was not much love between us anymore. I realised it too late. I know it! All of it. And it hurts.”

Harry before starting his monologue had stood up, and paced back and forth.

“It hurts so bad. I dream of her. I see her everywhere. Her - her things are still here, staring at me like souvenirs. I look at my phone every night, going through our pictures. Our texts, the latest that she didn’t answer. I play back the last time we were together each time before falling asleep. I remember everything that I said and didn’t say. I remember her face, the smile slowly fading. Tears strolling down her cheeks. Pain in her eyes. I remember everything.”

“Harry, that's enough. Please, sit down.” Anne tried to pull him off that self-degrading talk.

“You know what’s funny?” he asked rhetorically, sitting down on the grass. “That night at the venue, three years ago, when - when I proposed,” he sobbed softly. “I had the speech. How she made me happy and was my family, and - and how you guys treated her like a daughter and sister you’ve never had. How I appreciated her work and our relationship. And - umm - I praised her.”

Harry took a pause, breathing deeply, trying to calm down a bit. Unsuccessfully.

“I wasn’t looking at her till she stopped me. I - I couldn’t look into her eyes deep down knowing how I felt, really felt at that moment. She stopped me, asking one question.”

“Do you still love me?”

Her voice was shaky because of all the crying. He didn't look at her once today. From the moment he picked her, through the dinner they had at the restaurant and till the moment she stopped his proposals. Somewhere deep in herself she knew why he wasn’t able to look at her, but was hoping she wasn’t right. It all was going to be a nightmare. She was going to wake up next to him, sleeping soundly.

He looked at her.

And stayed silent.

YN learned that day how loud the silence could be. How definitive and thundering it could feel. Terminating.

“Do you?” she choked out.

There was no sound of the voice. Just the one of a heart breaking apart.

“She dropped my hand and left, saying she’d be out of my house in an hour. It was our house, our home. We were supposed to grow old here. To - to spend forever there.”

“Harry, honey. You need to let her go.”

“I can’t! Don’t you understand? Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to do that. It’s the last thing bringing me joy in life. She’s my antidote. Always has been, always will be.”

Gemma sat next to Harry and hugged him. He sobbed into her neck, shaking heavily. She felt his pain and regretted deeply her words that encouraged and strengthen that feeling of guilt Harry had.

Anne was sitting on the chair still, crying. It was the first time she heard the story about the engagement.

“Is she happy? Really happy?” Harry asked after calming down a little.

“She is,” answered Anne. “Joseph, he’s a good man. He treats her well.”

“Have you met?”

Gemma looked at Anne worried. They met Joseph. Went to dinner with him and YN a few times. Last time was just two days ago, when they came back from Italy.

YN wanted Anne and Gemma to know it before the pictures were uploaded. Joseph threatening paparazzi with charges bought her a few days to tell some important people in her and Joseph's lives about their secret.

“Why are you looking at each other like that? Is he really good?”

“He is,” Gemma answered immediately.

If Harry couldn’t be the one for YN, Joseph was perfect. There was something between them that no one understood. The way they looked at, understood or talked about each other was so unique, so genuine. It was heartwarming to see YN being that happy after what she had gone through with Harry.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Two days ago we met for dinner.”

“Gemma, it’s not a good time to be talkin’ about it. Please,” Anne begged, knowing the news would crush her son tremendously.

“It’s never going to be a good time, mum,” she said to her mother. It would be better if Harry learned that information from her and not the internet. “YN is taking a break from her career. For the next two or three years.”

“Why?”

“She’s pregnant,” Gemma whispered after a moment of silence.

If it was possible, they would hear Harry’s heart being ripped out of his chest and thrown to the ground. Laying there broken in a million pieces, not possible to glue back together. It was over. Now like ever, it felt real. He lost her. There was no possibility anymore, no prospect. The final curtain dropped.

“Do you want kids?” Harry asked, tracing shapes on YN’s naked back. Her head was lying on his chest, close to his heart.

“Someday, when I’m ready to be responsible for another human being. Do you?"

“I’ve always dreamt of a big family.”

“How big?”

“How big would you want?”

“Two for sure. So they would be able to take care of themselves when mum wants a quick break.”

“With dad?” He smirked.

“Stop it!” She slapped his chest playfully, looking up at him with a big smile on her face. “But maybe.”

Harry grinned at her and kissed her lips. Because of the smiling and laughing their teeth would clash, but they didn’t care. That moment they were so happy. Nothing else mattered.

“Is she - they - are they healthy? YN and the baby?” He asked finally.

“Yeah, healthy as a horse. Both of them. Pregnancy treats her well,” Anne said carefully, not knowing if Harry was going to lash out any minute.

“That’s good. That's good. It’s what matters the most, right?” It sounded like a programmed answer.

Harry gently made his mother loosen the grip she had on his shoulders. He needed to get up, to get away from people. He felt all of the emotions slowly entering his mind, his soul. Breathing started to get harder. More tears gathering in his eyes. Stabbing pain in his chest was getting more severe, but it couldn’t be his heart. He had lost it with that information.

“I - I’m tired,” he tried saying, but it sounded more like a whimper.

“Harry, my sweet boy.”

Anne walked up to him, trying to make him look at her, and failing. He dropped her hands, which had been briefly placed on his cheeks. There was no way to calm him down. No way to help him. How, if his heart wasn’t there? When the last drop of hope vanished, leaving his chest dry as a desert.

“I want to be alone.”

“You shouldn’t be. You don’t have to be alone. Please, let me - let us be here for you” his mum begged.

“I’ll call you, okay? I need to be alone, mum.”

And after more convincing from Anne, she and Gemma left. There wasn’t a chance for Harry to cave in.

The moment the front door closed, Harry sat on the floor hugging his knees to his chest. He swayed back and forth because of the sobs that were escaping his mouth. His eyes were like a river source, but a river was of tears. And it wasn’t slowing down, much less stopping. It was staining his cheeks, slowly moving to the red T-shirt he was wearing, decorating it with darker spots.

Deep down he was happy for her. After all, she always wanted to be a mother. She talked about dreaming of the family she could have, would love to have. Those times, she wanted it with him. However, they never came to the conclusion of what names were perfect. Maybe it was better for him.

He pulled out his phone from the jeans’ pocket and clicked the message icon. Was he going to text her? Yes. Was that a mistake? Yes. But he couldn’t stop typing.

Harry

Congratulations on your pregnancy, YN. Hoping the baby and you are healthy, H.

He didn’t count on the response. Considering that his previous messages to her were rather misplaced, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had blocked him. For a long time he was making decisions that he knew were wrong, that were probably hurting her current relationship. And, as bad as it sounded, and felt, it was giving him false hope. It was cruel of him. Desperation made him do things that were hurting her. And he would repeat them until the moment he realised that he was a bad guy. That when he told everybody he had never wanted to hurt her, he was still doing it.

Then the process would repeat itself.

yn🌻

Thank you, harry. We’re feeling great, baby’s healthy

And if he wasn’t surprised enough with one text, he got another.

yn🌻

Annie’s said you took a break, how is it going?

Unconsciously, he slipped into that process, hurting her again with his words.

Harry

You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I understand. Just wanted to congratulate you after mom told me about your pregnancy.

yn🌻

I think I'm mature enough to put the past in the past. Also anne is seemingly worried about you, Harry.

But if you don’t feel comfortable yet, then it’s okay. Thank you again for the message. Hope you are well.

Those two messages came in immediately after his. He wanted to write so much. Tell her how he was feeling. How lost and broken he was. Tell her how much he loved her. Missed her. Longed for her. How, every night, he dreamt of her. Happy dreams with them being content and together. And nightmares, much more frequent, where she wasn’t his. Nightmares that were blending into reality.

With his phone screen still showing those messages, he finally moved from the floor, slowly walking to the bedroom. He placed the phone on the bed and walked up to the wardrobe. From under colourful sweaters he pulled out the one he was looking for.

He laid down on the bed, and cuddled the soft material, inhaling its scent. It no longer was hers, but the fact she made it for him and wore it more frequently than him, could make up for that.

When the wind started to come through the open windows, he didn’t move. It was cold outside, like when she walked out of his life. It was cold like the day they had their first date. Like the day they met, when he thought about forever with her.

These days feel like you and me, Harry thought.

He put the sweater on, turning to the side of the bed where his phone was lying. Where she used to lay.

Harry

Do you ever think of me?

deleted

[palfriendpatine66]

Making of Monday

This week I offer up a deleted scene from Pining in Preschool chapter 30, where Obi-Wan and Anakin come back home again after reconciling at Qui-Gon’s after their big fight.

I had a major habit of throwing SO MUCH into every chapter of PiP. Part of it was I did want them going through a lot, it was what pushed them to work through their collective baggage to arrive in a much better place. BUT a lot of it was I was new to writing and figuring out pacing and crammed in a ton, worried about showing the downtimes when big things weren’t happening.

This scene got cut because it was leading to Anakin being sick - he was going to wake up in the morning super sick and Obi-Wan was going to take care of the kids and take care of everything work on rebuilding trust and showing the kids he wasn’t going anywhere.

Too much.

[edited to add: ALSO I can’t really remember but I think i had previously cut or at least significantly reduced the interaction between Anakin and Quin when he asked him to come take care of Boga so he and the kids could flee the Obi-Wanless house go camping for a few days]

I instead ended chapter 30 on a positive note at Qui-Gon’s cabin, and then had chapter 31 be the family camping trip where they have family time and solid communication and rebuild that trust all together.

Read below the cut for the deleted scene

***

Luke’s head rolls to the side as Anakin lifts him from his car seat. Both twins had fallen asleep on the ride home shortly after leaving Qui-Gon’s cabin in the woods, as soon as they were convinced that Obi-Wan was coming as well. He arrives to ease Leia into his arms, snoring softly.

“What is Quinlan doing here?” Obi-Wan sounds mystified as he eyes the extra car in the driveway as they pass by.

“Oh, I asked him to stop by and feed Boga while we were camping.” Anakin grunts as he shifts Luke to one side to open the door. From the entryway they can just see Quin sprawled on the floor with the ginger tabby kneading his stomach. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he calls out.

“Excuse me for spending a couple minutes looking after this precious thing, like you asked.” Quin rolls his eyes as he stands. “You look like shit, Obes,” he frowns as he looks him over. “Uhhh you too, kid. Is everything -”

“I don’t think we like camping,” Anakin mumbles in his direction. Now that he’s home everything must be catching up to him, he feels leaden as he moves to take Leia from Obi-Wan. “Take your time and hang with Quin if you want, inspect the damage. I’ll put these guys down and then pass out myself. I’m dead tired.”

“I’ll bring her up first,” Obi-Wan attempts to protest, but Anakin ignores him and shifts her out of his arms with ease of practice. “I don’t know how you do that,” Obi-Wan smiles softly as he watches him adjust one child on each hip and move to the stairs.

“It’s my workout. Got to maintain my dad bod,” Anakin purses his lips in an air kiss as he walks away.

“Oh love, you do not have a dad bod,” Obi-Wan corrects, mostly to himself. Quinlan snorts and scoops up the cat as he plops down on the couch with a scrutinizing look. “Go on then,” Obi-Wan sighs, sinking down with exhaustion. “Get on with it.” He figures he’d rather just get the inquisition over with, he wants to get upstairs to bed. To Anakin.

“Come on Obes, don’t be like that. You look like you’ve been on a bender.”

“I was not,” Obi-Wan snaps, his eyes flashing. “And I’m alright, Quinlan, just exhausted. Thank you for looking in on Boga.”

Quin narrows his eyes. “Why did he ask me?”

“Hmm?” Obi-Wan asks distractedly as Boga lands in his lap and he pets her absently behind the ears glancing wistfully at the stairway.

“Why did your boy toy, who avoids contact with me at all costs, craft a cryptic message worthy of the CIA to ask me to take care of your cat? It’s not like you to take off on an unplanned camping trip. And you just returned in separate vehicles looking like you’ve come home from war. ”

Obi-Wan holds the cat to his chest gently in stark contrast to the rock hard stare he turns onto Quinlan. “He is NOT my boy toy.” He grits his teeth and seems unwilling to address the rest of his friend’s astute observations.

Quin seems to pick up as much and softens his stance. “I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

“Yes! Your concern is noted, but I can take care of myself, thank you. Secondly, I am fine. Just very tired at the moment.”

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Quin rolls his eyes as he makes for the door.

Obi-Wan snorts in disagreement. “That would be a first” and

“That reminds me: I’m pretty sure you guys owe me a favor now so I’ll let you know when I’m ready to cash in on that: I have a couple of ideas in mind -“

“Goodnight, Quinlan!” Obi-Wan shoves him toward the door without any heat behind it. He’s just glad he can finally head upstairs to join Anakin. He doubts he would have slept very well the last few nights by himself, even if it hadn’t been for the mess of emotions that was absolutely impossible to keep at bay in the quiet of night; he’s become too used to sleeping with the weight of Anakin in his arms, snoring lightly into his chest.

Boga leaps out of his arms when he peeks into Leia’s room, a relief because he doesn’t know that Anakin would tolerate anything coming in between the two of them in bed this evening. He spends a few minutes lingering in each room, readjusting blankets and watching the rise and fall of chests through peaceful rest.

He’s overwhelmed with the realization that he could have lost this. All of this. He’s not sure at what point after seeing Anakin breathless and on his knees at Rex’s garage, red faced and stammering and perfectly disheveled, he started to imagine a future where he might not just find love but a whole family.

He can’t resist the pull of Anakin any longer. He enters the bedroom and immediately wraps the younger man in his arms. It would seem Anakin had face planted onto the bed directly after his shower, his hair and upper body soaking Obi-Wan’s clothes, his hips still wrapped in a towel. “Ugh, love, you didn’t dry off. You’ll get the pillows wet.” Obi-Wan complains without moving away, in fact, he hugs the wet body to his side even tighter.

“Too tired,” Anakin mumbles into the mattress. He lets out a small whine of protest, still unmoving, when Obi-Wan presses a chaste kiss to a damp shoulder and eases off the bed. He returns only moments later with sleep pants, which he maneuvers onto a supremely unhelpful Anakin after freeing him of the towel and gently patting him dry.

“I try to avoid saying this as a matter of policy, but Quinlan was right. You look terrible,” Obi-Wan murmurs, taking in the bags under Anakin’s eyes as he rolls him onto the pillow. Anakin spares a critical glance that lets Obi-Wan know he hasn’t missed the swollen eyes, gaunt cheeks, and unkempt hair and beard on the face looking down with him in concern.

“ ‘M better already,” Anakin slurs sleepily, and Obi-Wan didn’t think his heart could melt any further until an arm reached up for him. “Hold me tonight?” There isn’t a single night that Anakin doesn’t end up chasing Obi-Wan across any space that manages to move between them during the night, closing the distance and tangling their bodies together even in his sleep, but the request is endearing and Obi-Wan is happy to oblige.

[morlock-holmes]

I've been chewing on this story from New York Magazine, whose financial advice columnist just got scammed out of $50 large by a group of scumbags.

The reactions have been sort of divided between vicious mockery and "Anybody can fall victim to scams on a bad day" and I find myself somewhere ambivalently in the middle.

How can I say this... I think I would need to be having a much worse day than this woman was in order to fall for a scam like this. In particular, it really seems like a financial advice columnist ought to have a much more solid confidence about the fact that enormous personal financial transactions like this don't ever need to happen in the span of a single phone call over a few hours.

But I don't agree with the attitude of "Come on, this is what happens when you're gullible" because, honestly I think that when people start believing that on a big scale that scams like this become easier to pull, rather than harder.

This particular scam is, I think, much easier to pull on people who are paranoid about the trustworthiness of institutions and feel that we live in a world where gullible people are rapidly and harshly punished.

One thing you'll see throughout the article is that the scammers will say something authoritative, and Cowles won't really know if it's true or not:

“I completely understand,” he said calmly. He told me to go to the FTC home page and look up the main phone number. “Now hang up the phone, and I will call you from that number right now.” I did as he said. The FTC number flashed on my screen, and I picked up. “How do I know you’re not just spoofing this?” I asked. “It’s a government number,” he said, almost indignant. “It cannot be spoofed.” I wasn’t sure if this was true and tried Googling it, but Michael was already onto his next point.

Or

My head swam. I Googled my name along with “warrant” and “money laundering,” but nothing came up. Were arrest warrants public? I wasn’t sure.

Or

 I was embarrassed, like I’d left my fly unzipped. How could I have been so thoughtless? But also — didn’t everyone use the airport Wi-Fi?

or

I knew I should probably talk to a lawyer or maybe call the police, though I was doubtful that they would help. What was I going to say — “My identity was stolen, and I think I’m somehow in danger”? I had no proof.

Here's the core of the scam, where you're hooked or not:

“If you talk to an attorney, I cannot help you anymore,” Michael said sternly. “You will be considered noncooperative. Your home will be raided, and your assets will be seized. You may be arrested. It’s your choice.” This seemed ludicrous. I pictured officers tramping in, taking my laptop, going through our bookshelves, questioning our neighbors, scaring my son. It was a nonstarter. “Can I just come to your office and sort this out in person?” I said. “It’s getting late, and I need to take my son trick-or-treating soon.” “My office is in Langley,” he said. “We don’t have enough time. We need to act immediately. I’m going to talk you through the process. It’s going to sound crazy, but we must follow protocol if we’re going to catch the people behind this.”

The scammer in this script is trying to get you to have two feelings, the first is "I don't understand what's going on" and the second is, "If I act without understanding what's going on something really terrible will happen to me."

The person who thinks, "Gullible and ignorant people get in lots of trouble because of their own ignorance, I can't let that happen, even though I'm confused" is far more likely to buy into the scammer's threats of dire consequences and actually get scammed.

This scam script actually relies on the mark believing that it's very dangerous to be gullible or ignorant, that doing so will get them into trouble. But since they are also convinced that they don't have the information that would allow them to make a good decision, they cede decision-making power to the scammer.

Instead, it's the person who thinks, "This feels like a scam. I could be totally wrong about that, but that's okay, being wrong this way and acting on it can't do me any harm" who hangs up on the scammer, calls an official government number, and finds out that they're being scammed.

When people live in a state where they reflexively mistrust institutions, and feel that acting from a place of ignorance or confusion is likely to get them into really big trouble that they can't get out of, I really think it becomes easier to scam people this way, not harder.

[thestraggletag]

Gluttony, a RSS Fic

Surprise, @tickletorso, it is I, your Secret Santa! Here to wish you some early tidings of joy and bring a little smut to this festive season. I hope things there are ok (I read that the weather is awful right now, so I hope you're coping!) and that you're getting the finishing touches there for the holidays. Here is my present, which wrote itself so I absolve myself of any guilt regarding it. It just came out like that. Hope you enjoy, though!

Summary: Mr Gold had always fancied the idea of running into Belle French, the posh new town librarian, at an elegant party, wearing a designer dress and sitting next to him to share a fancy meal. The reality was, he had to admit, not quite how he had pictured it.

Ever since Regina Mills had won her first election as mayor of Storybrooke she had always had at least one scheme in the works. Her first success had been bringing back the Miner’s Day Festival, an inconsequential local celebration that, he had to admit, had turned out to be good to attract some nearby tourism. A few years later she had followed her initial hit with an expansion of the local hospital, a very popular idea by any measure, and later with the reopening of the local library. That last little bit had been good to boost real estate prices, so he had actually supported her actively. And just last year she had overseen the construction of a new playground, just in time for her adopted toddler son, a lovely little chap by all accounts, unlike his adopted mother, to enjoy it.

Sadly for the library, and the librarian, Regina’s love-affair with the public building had lasted about as long as it had taken her to understand what a drag keeping it open was to her carefully-curated budget. Royce Gold wasn’t really surprised about it. Regina tended to be, sadly, a bit short-sighted when it came to her ambitious pursuits, and dismissive of what no longer appealed to her.

Her latest scheme- some expensive vanity redecoration project aimed at “elevating” the town from solid middle-class to upper-middle-class or, even better, upper-class- had recently gone over budget, and Regina had not managed to bully the town council- bully him, mostly- to let her have use of discretionary funds. Instead, she had managed to divert funds allocated to fixing the library’s leaky roof to compensate for what money she was missing. 

Royce didn’t care much about that latest obsession of hers. Motherhood had made her ruthless in the pursuit of the sort of perfection that was finally good enough for her wee bairn. Nevermind that Henry looked like a happy, healthy, well-adapted little chap who wasn’t lacking anything that a posher town could potentially offer. Regina, however, was blind to such things and had made the betterment of Storybrooke’s social class her newest quest. She had tried to approach him as an ally first, convinced that he would see the benefits of her way of thinking. She was wrong, of course. He didn’t see the appeal in turning the town into some cookie cutter suburban monstrosity. He rather liked Storybrooke the way it was. He had selected it specifically because of its inconsequential small-town charm, and saw no need to change that. He didn’t mind having to go out of town when he fancied something less mundane or to order from outside whatever extravagant tastes might strike his fancy. Storybrooke was sleepy and quiet, and though there was definitely room for improvement, he didn’t want to change the essence of it. Small, charming and sometimes even a bit unsavoury. 

Places like The Rabbit Hole made him nostalgic for the run-down pubs he used to frequent back in Glasgow, when he was an uneducated street urchin with more ambition than sense. Regina didn’t see that in him, or chose to ignore it, thinking that whatever barbarism remained in him from his rough upbringing was a flaw he would be eager to cleanse or conceal, eager to welcome more people of “his class” in town to cover whatever filth still clung to him.

She was wrong, of course. Royce Gold wasn’t a man to lie to himself. He saw no point in it, no gain. He knew who he was, what he was. A bastard son of no one from the dodgy part of an already dodgy city. No polishing or education, both of which he had strived to get, would ever erase that, nor did he want it gone. He had grappled with the notion for years as he pulled himself out of misery one deal at a time, but he had learned to embrace it in the end. He could pretend, put on Armani and Brioni and enjoy a good bottle of Scotch, turning his head at the swill he had once upon a time guzzled down gladly, but inside he was still that small child who had grown up on the streets, grifting and fighting for whatever he wanted to own and keep. And he liked it. He liked the edge it gave him. How desperation and need had sharpened him, like a dagger. 

The mayor was blind to it, but he knew well that a bit of savagery still clung to him, coiling beneath his expensive suits. He had just learned to channel it into deal-making and, perhaps, the very occasional bout of violence. Just a little beating here and there to relieve the stress, and only ever with good reason. Like that time he had rendered Keith Nott unconscious after he had found him accosting the librarian.

His thoughts turned towards her. Isabelle French. Belle French. Belle. Not a small town girl by any means, and yet, against all odds, she fit in perfectly. She was a strange gust of fresh air, ruffling the stale stillness of the town with her quirkiness and her cultured background. He knew a posh lass when he saw one and Belle French was definitely posh. A lavish wee bird, the kind that he had never been allowed near when he was young. Private-school educated, with a fancy degree from Cambridge and a rather expensive wardrobe. The kind that only people who knew quality could appreciate, no flashy branding or ostentatious touches. But he had an eye for beauty and quality, and could easily tell her clothing was too rich for most people’s blood. Her shoes alone were decadent, and her good taste he knew was acquired from a lifetime of being around the finer things in life. She had been to his shop and correctly identified several of the most valuable antiques, which would not have appeared so to the untrained eye. 

And yet. And yet she had no trouble drinking with the miners, whose rough manners and bawdy jokes she took in stride and who she could, apparently, drink under the table. She had no trouble striking a friendship with Miss Lucas, whose outrageous fashion sense and reputation sometimes scared people away, or with Gus Souris, the shy mechanic who had a rather unearned reputation for aggression after Sidney Glass, who ran the local gossip rag on the side when he was not trying to look respectable as the editor of the Storybrooke Mirror, had blown a minor bar fight- where Mr Mius had been the victim- out of proportion in order to embellish a story. She also seemed intent on participating in all the trite small town affairs Storybrooke had to offer. She had carved a space for herself, in spite of her quirkiness, out of sheer force of will. 

He had tried to tell himself at first that all he felt for her was admiration. For how she refused to cow to Regina, or pretended she didn’t understand Mother Superior’s unsubtle jibes at her reputation for wearing short skirts or hanging around undesirable people. Then he told himself that he was a man with eyes and as such he could recognise that Belle French was, objectively speaking, an attractive woman. In the way he liked the most, disarmingly wee, with reddish-brown hair and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. With a sort of effortless elegance that could not be feigned, or copied. She was gorgeous, and he had no problem admitting that. The sort of lass too good for the likes of him.

But at some point he had to come to the painful realisation it wasn’t just her looks. Belle French, if possible, was more beautiful on the inside than she was on the outside. Genuinely kind, volunteering at the animal shelter and lending her ear to whoever had a problem and her hand to anyone who needed help. And intelligent too, not just a bleeding heart with good intentions. With a unfeigned thirst for knowledge and almost obsessive when it came to books and all the wonders that they entailed. He had been smitten by their third conversation, and in love by their fifth. He had gotten a library card only so he could check out books in order to see her, though he had to admit that her book recommendations, along with the improvements she had made to the selection of books in the library, caught his attention as well. 

Being in love with Belle French soon became the new normal for him and he told himself nothing needed to come out of it. Through some bizarre miracle the librarian seemed to consider him a friend and did not object to his sporadic visits to the library, often engaging him in conversation and keeping him for longer than he had planned to stay. And she visited him at his shop too, not necessarily to buy something but to inspect any new treasures he might have acquired. And, like the fool he was, he obliged her every time. It was nice, he told himself. And harmless. As long as he didn’t get any silly ideas about where their relationship stood and did not push things further than what was appropriate it would be fine.

He had so internalised his feelings that he barely felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach when he entered the library and saw Miss French shelving books, wearing a lovely Valentino dress in dark blue wool tweed, with flesh-coloured tights and a cardigan to ward off the chill, a wine-red hairband keeping her faintly-bronze curls off her face. Perfection, as always, and he could let himself admire it because he was in control of himself and his emotions.

He was. As long as he did her best to not look at her sleek Santoni ankle-length boots, of course. He knew his limits, after all, and his weaknesses. His disproportionate fondness for her shoes was the biggest chink in his armour. 

Like always her eyes lit up when she saw him, a delightful smile spreading across her lips. She smelt like vanilla and bergamot, with a subtle aftertaste of jasmine, a perfect winter scent. He hoped that he was not smiling as hard as he felt he was.

“Mr Gold, how nice to see you! It’s been a while since you’ve ventured into my library. How are you?”

He liked how she called it her library, like that little possessive flair in her.

“I was about to ask you the same. I heard about Regina’s latest stunt and thought I would inquire as to how bad things are.” Anyone else would have likely accused him of behaving like a shark smelling blood in the water. But not Belle French.

“It’s kind of you to ask. I wish I could say the roof could keep for a couple of months till the next budgetary meeting, but it won’t last the winter. Marco confirmed it yesterday. I’ll have to get the cash quickly, somehow. I have a bit of a supplementary income”- he had always suspected so, given her clothes and shoes “but it’s nowhere near enough for something like this. And I have savings, but I’d hate to dip into them. My mamam always stressed the importance of having savings.”

Ah, yes, Colette French, who apparently had been, in fact, French. She had told him early on that she had passed when she was still young, and small stories about her. A lovely woman and a devoted mother, apparently. He rather envied her that.

“I-I might have an alternative for you, then. An offer.” He paused, wanting to get things right. Wanting to get his offer right. “I could, perhaps, be persuaded to lend you the money, at a reduced interest rate, something negligible. After all-” He paused, feeling like he was coming across as too eager- “The library is good for the town’s real estate. Keeping it open works in my best interest. It’s just good business, you see.” Yes, that was good. Sounded convincing and appropriately self-serving.

“That’s a lovely offer, but I’m not looking to make a deal.” Belle smiled up at him, with not one ounce of distrust or fear, which took a bit of the sting out of her rejection. “I’m picking up a temporary job that pays really well, so I’ll just have to dip into my savings a tiny bit, I’ll make it up in no time after the holidays.”

He flexed his fingers around the handle of his cane, feeling a sudden and acute rage towards Regina. The library had been her project, and as the mayor it was her responsibility to make sure the town’s buildings were properly maintained. And yet she got to swan around in pursuit of whatever new fad took her fancy and it was Belle French who had to sacrifice her time and effort to make sure Storybrooke got to keep and enjoy the many essential public services the library provided.

“As a librarian you’re paid by the town to work at the library, not the other way around. And your hours are already ridiculous, cannot imagine they leave much room for anything, let alone a side-gig.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s temporary, and a friend’s father owns the business, so I know I’ll be comfortable. I know what the library means to the people around here, so I’ll do whatever I can to keep it open.”

Whatever she could, apparently, did not involve making a deal with him. Which he was not going to take personally. At all. 

“It’s also not the first time I’m left scrambling for a bit of cash. Once, when I was in uni, my dad got into a bit of trouble so I got a gig as an Easter bunny for a private party. Which, I thought, would be rather charming. Only the costume was, to put it mildly, absolutely terrifying and no child wanted to get anywhere near me.”

She was a delightful storyteller, he had always thought so. Funny and engaging, both to the wee bairns that she read to several afternoons a week- he had memorised the storytime schedule so he could sneak in to “browse” and enjoy the cadence of her voice in the background as tots hanged on to her every word- and to adults. She leaned close as she told the story, pausing for dramatic effect at the right time and bursting into laughter at the end, pulling a reluctant bark of laughter out of him and looking delighted at having done so, a secretive little smile pulling at her lips. He would’ve called it flirty, if it hadn’t been directed at him.

“In the interest of looking to avoid you traumatising any more children, could I get you to reconsider my deal? It’d be the best one I’ve ever offered, some might say you’d be taking advantage of me. That would make you incredibly popular around here.”

She smiled, recognising his attempt at humour, but shook her head.

“I’ll be fine without it, I promise. Besides, I wouldn’t want a deal between us. It would… muddy things, don’t you think?”

“Of course.

He was still thinking about the library days later, as he sat behind a rented car making its way across upper Manhattan. A courageous little thing, with boundless optimism. Too good for the town she fought for and certainly too good for him. Which explained her rejection of his help. But at least that grounded him in reality, reminded him where they stood. No use longing for more.

With that finite thought he tried to relax and ready himself for the little soiree he was about to attend. He had dressed himself with care, knowing the subtle power play behind a well-tailored, black Kiton suit paired with an understated Gucci shirt and a bold tie and pocket square combo for a splash of brashness. It was his battle uniform, of as much use to him as his brass knuckles had been when he was a young lad. And to him this evening was akin to a fight.

Though people in Storybrooke thought his money came from his real estate portfolio and his profitable deals, those were mostly ways to maintain himself on top of the power structure of Storybrooke, above whatever elected official- Regina Mills, as of late- occupied the mayorship at the time. His real money came from deals, yes, but those he helped broker between companies behind closed doors in the business world. Some of the biggest mergers, take-overs or joint ventures of the past years had happened because he had acted as the middle-man, making the necessary introduction, ironing out the terms for both parties, smoothing over any perceived wrinkle. He used to actively seek those deals, when he was younger and looking to make his fortune. Nowadays he had to make himself attend a few society parties to be seen and perhaps approached, or at least partially propositioned, and he would decide later whether the deal was sweet enough for him to get involved in. Otherwise he would return to Storybrooke and bask in the simplicity of it. Another reason why he didn-t want things to change. He had sought the town out as a retreat from the corporate world, a place of escape where he could disappear until it was time to show up at another party.

He had come to this one mostly as a favour to the hostess. Corinne Deville was a longtime… frenemy, he supposed, who he kept in touch nowadays mostly so she could be his eyes and ears around the city. She knew everyone worth knowing on the island and her parties, at least, were never dull, stale business affairs. She liked to be a bit outrageous and had the money to pull it off. And she always had good booze and a lot of it, which was enticement enough. He rather thought a rooftop party in early December was a bit of a bold choice, but Corrie was like that, and the Peninsula Hotel, though not his first choice for a Manhattan stay, was acceptable. 

He arrived fashionably late, so that everyone could see him as he came in. That way he didn’t need to do the rounds and he got to see who was looking at the entrance, as if waiting for someone, and swiftly turned around and avoided eye contact when they saw him, as if afraid to look too eager or interested. Those people would inevitably approach him at some point in the evening. All he had to do was get himself a drink, something to eat, and seat himself somewhere off to a side, looking vaguely approachable. 

But first, he needed to greet the host. Corrie wasn’t one to play hard to get, thankfully, rather effusively swanning over to him to give him her customary two kisses on the air just next to his cheeks. She looked amazing, wearing a black-red orchid mermaid-style Alexander McQueen, with a voluminous stole to protect her naked shoulders from the nippy Manhattan winter air. She was clearly already drunk, yet she almost didn’t look it, managing to walk gracefully in spite of the alcohol and the cumbersome shape of her dress. He knew her too well not to notice the way her eyes were just a bit redder than usual, or the way her grip on her glass was just the slightest bit unstable. Besides, she was holding a Martini, which was usually her third drink, right after a Gimlet and a Tom Collins. 

“Royce, dah-ling, so thrilled to have you join my little party.” She smiled, all teeth, like a predator showing its weapons, and ushered him to the bar. “I’ve ordered that expensive Scotch you like to drink, had it brought specially for you. Never say I don’t do things for you. And there is… a lovely and a bit risqué food arrangement, do try it. Some very good, very expensive sushi, with a rather spectacular presentation specially commissioned for this get-together.”

He glanced to a corner of the terrace, where he could see some tables laid out, with a rather large number of people around them. 

“Some interesting antique set, perhaps?”

“Rather the opposite, dahling.”

She left him once they reached the bar and, almost against his will, he found himself curious as to what surprise Corrie had prepared for this particular evening. He asked for his Scotch, a 25-year-old Glenmorangie Signet that he hoped Corrie hadn’t blabbed about to anyone else, so he wouldn’t have to share- and sauntered over to the tables set up with the sushi, noticing again the inordinate amount of people lingering around them. Most of them, he noticed, were men.

He understood then when he spotted a foot peeking from behind a wall of people, naked and attached to what looked like an equally-naked calf. He got the gist of it right away. After all, it was hardly a novelty, though he couldn’t recall ever attending a party where sushi had been served in such a way. It was Nyotaimori, the practice of serving sushi on top of a naked woman, a fad from the 60’s born from the economic bonanza of the era in Japan and inspired by some much older Japanese food-play practices having to do with sake rather than sushi. Rather trite, in his opinion, but allowed for a bit of harmless titillation without it actually being very boundary-breaking. Something right up Corrie’s ally, risqué enough to make her party memorable but not too taboo that would get her exiled from the Manhattan social scene.

He grabbed a plate and slowly made his way along the tables, barely seeing the skin on display. It didn’t interest him much, though he was glad to see the entire thing was done in a rather tasteful fashion, with not only the bare bits of modesty guaranteed but also with somewhat of an artistic flair. The models’ important areas were covered by lovely bits of greenery and flowers- and bless Corrie for avoiding the mistletoe and holly typical of the season in favour of something less hackneyed- but there was a theme and a colour palate, with bits of the skin on displayed painted to imitate the swirling brushstrokes of vaguely-oriental designs in different shades, depending on the model. 

A glint of gold caught his eye as he added his twelfth piece of sushi to his plate, a model painted in delicate shades of his namesake and blue, which, along with her creamy complexion, reminded him of a porcelain tea set he had at his shop. The colour palate complimented her hair rather nicely, a rather fetching shade of red-brown that reminded him of Belle French.

Rather a lot, actually.

Come to think of it, the model’s softly-blushed skin was also the exact shade of the librarian’s. And she also had a beauty mark on her left inner-thigh, close enough to her knee to be seen when she wore some of her more flirty skirts during spring and summer. He staggered close, almost losing his grip on his plate, his eyes refusing to acknowledge what they were seeing as truth. It was fucking Belle French. Naked. On top of a table. With delicious food spread over her, ready to be plucked and eaten. Surreptitiously, Royce pinched himself. No, not a dream. Sounded a lot like a dream, but no.

After the initial shock wore off- and he managed to pull himself together the slightest bit- he forced himself to think about his choices. Should he approach her? Would it be awkward, would she be embarrassed? He didn’t want to shame her in any way, especially given that this was clearly the temp gig she had gotten to help pay for repairs to the library. And what would it mean for their future relationship? Would this damage whatever small relationship they had? He rather liked their little talks and their small everyday interactions. But she might not want to interact with him much at all if she knew he had seen her naked.

As straight-out-of-his-fucking-fantasies a naked Belle French on top of a table slattered with food was, it was not worth risking the everyday Belle French he got to enjoy every day. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he could quietly slip away and she would be none the wiser. She seemed distracted by the people around her, mostly young men, circling her like vultures, spending too much time deciding on what piece of sushi to take, pretending to be musing over the selection while their eyes drifted towards her covered breasts. Insolent little things, trying to engage her in talk while the librarian struggled not to make eye contact and keep a placid expression without making it look like she was inviting their advances. She was also trying not to fidget as a man used his chopsticks to try and move a leaf covering her lower right breast under the guise of trying to pick a piece of nigiri. Where the fuck was Corrie and why was she letting something like that happen? Hadn’t any of those wannabe executives learned basic manners? Or the barest notion of consent?

The cherry on top of that absolute clusterfuck was a tall, brawny fellow- someone’s favoured son, no doubt, the lad didn’t look like he could count to ten by himself-, some junior VP that distantly rung a bell, pretending to be too clumsy with the chopstick to try and pick up a piece of maki with his bare hands. The moment he saw Belle flinch at the touch of the man’s fingers he decided that enough was really enough. His cane came out a second later, smacking the offending hand away as he told the eejit, in his most Scottish tone, to keep his hands to himself. The idiot looked like he was going to protest before he realised whose cane that was. Looking like he would rather be chewing glass, but also like he might be shitting his pants, the oaf apologised, quickly scurrying off. He smiled with thinly-veiled satisfaction, setting his cane back by his side.

“Mr Gold?”

He turned to look at Miss French, making sure his eyes never strayed from her face, both to convey that he was not looking at her nude body and to try and read carefully any emotion flickering across her eyes. She didn’t look uncomfortable, to his surprise, at least not more than she had before she had noticed him there. Rather she looked cheery, as she always did with him, and more than a bit relieved. He noticed that most other youngsters fluttering around her had gone along with the big lummox, likely scared off by his presence.

“It’s so lovely to see you!”

“It is?”

The librarian laughed, one of her hands reaching out to touch his on top of his cane.

“Of course. Under rather peculiar circumstances, but it’s nice to see a familiar face here.”

And of course it was. She was naked in a party full of strangers, some of them entirely devoid of manners. Seeing a familiar face, someone who could intercede in her favour since she was limited in her actions by her circumstances, was a comfort. And to have someone like him, who could instil fear into people’s hearts even more so. Which meant he had to stay. He could not leave her exposed to whatever lech or overconfident idiot who decided to let his small prick do the thinking.

“It is rather lovely to see you, Miss French. I do so enjoy our talks, and I had resigned myself to a rather dull evening of empty platitudes and boring business talk. Would you mind if I sat next to you?”

She didn’t seem to object, her eyes reflecting pleasure instead of panic, though she did glance around and confessed she wasn’t supposed to talk to the guests.

“Corrie won’t mind, she’ll be delighted I’m sticking around for longer than I intended. Don’t worry.”

It took him a moment to signal for a waiter to get him a chair, sitting right next to the librarian’s head, his glass of Scotch by her hip and his plate of sushi in his hands. He sat himself at an angle so that he could both look at her in the eye and also glare at any passerby that even thought about approaching Belle, a bit like an old dragon guarding his hoard or, if he tried to look at things in a more benign way, guarding the fair princess. He had amassed a fearsome enough reputation with the present crowd to foresee little trouble staking his claim.

He had prepared himself for an awkward evening, telling himself he would endure the discomfort for Miss French’s own ease, but he had been mistaken. It was surprisingly easy to “get over” her nudity. Being so close to Belle while she was wearing nothing- with bits of her bare skin painted the colour of his namesake- was still intoxicating as hell, but he managed to quickly reign in that sensation and store it somewhere in his subconscious to deal with it at a later date- no doubt in nightly fantasies for weeks, if not months, to come. 

He had always thought her attractive to the point of distraction, but it was her mind and her conversation that had always kept him coming back. It was lovely to have her “all to himself” for so long. Their library interludes were always cut short by a patron or some crisis, and she tended to visit his shop during her brief afternoon break right before school ended, which meant she could never stay for longer than twenty minutes. But here she was free, with no one to claim her time and attention but himself, and after a few failed attempts at starting a conversation- she was nude, after all, and he could not imagine himself being very socially graceful in her position- she managed to engage him in a light-hearted discussion about books, starting with a ranking of books by Thomas Hardy based on how depressive they were, both agreeing to put in first place Tess D’Urbervilles  but squabbling good-natured about second place. He maintained the honour went to The Woodlanders, while she argued strongly in favour of Jude, the Obscure.

It was a much more engaging discussion than it had any right to be, mostly thanks to the librarian’s sincere passion for the subject, combined with her extensive knowledge. He saw how effortlessly cultured she was, and how at ease she was amongst the wealthy and privileged, even while wearing nothing but a skimpy thong and some strategically-placed foliage and paint. A posh bird like had often admired from afar as a lad, a perfect fit among the Upper East side crowd around them. And yet she wasn’t snobbish like a lot of them where, or like one would expect someone like her to be. She wasn’t putting on airs or feigning interests. She was as she presented herself to be, her manners effortless instead of artificially refined and her intellect sharp from curiosity rather than a need to boast. But it was her generous spirit what was more fetching about her. A sincere concern for anyone that crossed her path, from a drunk miner to a grumpy, misanthrope pawnbroker who no one else liked.

Even when he attempted to do something for her- it was cold out, so he managed to talk a poor waiter into bringing some of the spare braziers he knew the hotel had in abundance and had distributed generously already to the nearby tables were people were sitting and talking, so that she would be more comfortable. She had thanked him and immediately insisted that she didn’t need as many as he wanted to light around her, telling him to distribute them amongst the other living displays as well.

“It’s not fair that they should go cold just because they don’t have a guardian angel to look after them like I do.”

Time passed without him noticing. He waved away the few people stupid enough not to correctly read his body language and try to approach him for conversation, having decided that it wasn’t a night prime for dealmaking like he had previously intended. Instead it was a night for talking about literature and the places they had been, recalling anecdotes from their college years and in general sharing bits about their lives. It was the most he had ever shared of himself with another person, more intimate than Belle’s nudity. She told him about her mother, and how she had come from money. Old money. But she had fallen in love with an Aussie with more ambition than wealth, and had moved to the ends of the world to be with him. Later he had proven himself, building a successful business and allowing her a childhood spent half in Australia and half in Europe with her mom and her grandparents. 

But Moe French’s entrepreneurial spirit did not survive his wife’s death, and so he had let his business languish. Her mother, who had fretted for her only daughter’s future during the last months of her life, had set up a considerable trust fund, which had allowed her to go to college in England for her undergrad and graduate degree. And later, when her mother’s parents had passed away, she had inherited a modest investment portfolio, which accounted for the few luxuries she allowed herself as a small town librarian.

He, in turn, shared as much as he could stomach about his rather sordid upbringing. An unwanted mongrel, son of a mother who he never knew and a father he would rather forget. Left behind by both at a young age, to beg, borrow and steal a life for himself. It wasn’t until he had come into contact with distant relatives- two of his father’s cousins, who lived modestly but honestly outside of Glasgow, that he had been given a chance to settle, to get an education. Still, he had learned bad habits that had been difficult to break and he had continued with them in his new life, brawling for cash, gambling and doing unsavoury jobs to raise the money needed to get his law degree. It should have made him uncomfortable to expose their stark differences in upbringing and breeding, but there was nothing but understanding and compassion in Belle’s eyes, something he would’ve mistaken for pity if he didn’t know her well.

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. It must not have been easy.”

They were so enthralled in their own little world that they both startled when they began to clear the tables in preparation for dessert. It was to be a selection of fruits and tarts, served in the same style.

“But before there’ll be a bit of a break, mostly so that us models can walk about a bit and freshen up. Will you be here when I come back?”

The way she said it, with a hopeful lilt, looking at him from beneath her lashes, had him nodding effusively. Wild horses could not drag him away. He did think the idea of walking around sounded good, and he wanted to refresh his drink. While he was at the bar he had the idea to request a glass of ice water and a straw, so he could offer Belle a drink if she was thirsty while she worked. While he waited, not minding that the bartender was a bit busy at the moment, he felt someone approach from behind, one boney, well-manicured hand sliding up his shoulder. He smelt smoke, and considered himself lucky that the hand currently slipping something into the pocket of his suit jacket wasn’t the one holding Corrie’s trademark long cigarette holder.

“I’m so thrilled you’re still here, darling. And given how you’ve been spending the evening so far I thought I would give you a present. One you’ll like, for a change.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, knowing Corrie was looking intently at him, he fished whatever she had put into his pocket out. It was a sleek keycard, one from the Peninsula.

“As an admirer of fine, beautiful things I thought you might want a more… private setting where to study your latest find. I would not usually condone it, but she seemed so willing, so strangely… receptive of your attention, that I thought it might not go amiss to get you a room for the night. You know, just in case you’re too tired or hungover to go back home safely, of course.”

He could see her grin out of his peripheral vision, something feral with a hint of madness that summed up Corinne perfectly. He rolled his eyes, affecting an unaffected manner, knowing it would piss her off not to get a rise out of him.

“Corrie, I wish you’d stop after the fifth drink. Once you get into the gin tonics you grow somewhat fanciful.”

“Be that way. Keep your secrets. I’m not here to interrogate you, dear. Just doing my one good deed of the year before time runs out. I was cutting it rather close.”

With that she sauntered off, but he paid her no mind. Let her think whatever she wanted. He knew it wasn’t like what she was implying with Belle. They were just two friends, or friendly acquaintances, though perhaps that was too distant in light of all the bits of themselves they had shared with each other that night. But still, nothing like Corrie was suggesting, nothing unseemly, just two people having a friendly and thoughtful con-

Fuck.

Belle was back. They had laid her down on her stomach this time around, a few gauzy bits of nothing covering her incredible ass from his view, her head pillowed in her arms, which meant he could see the soft curve of the side of a small, perfect breast. Along her delicate spine and sloping shoulders someone had arranged bits of fruit, bombons and bite-sized tarts. He narrowed his eyes, swearing he could hear Corinne’s shrill laughter in the background.

He took a deep breath, shaking his head. He was not some slobbering animal. And Belle was a lady. He would keep it together, would march there and pretend nothing was amiss. Would not give the perfection before him a second glance. When he sat down he focused on Belle’s face, the way her eyes lit up when she spotted him, no doubt grateful to have her protector return and keep the mannerless young men from before at bay. When he offered her some water, shyly, she beamed at him, as if he had offered her the moon.

“You’re so kind, Mr Gold. And such a gentleman.”

His ears burned at hearing Belle fucking French, with her exotic accent and posh manners, call him a gentleman. He had to force himself not to preen. 

“Please, call me Royce.”

“Only if you call me Belle, as I’ve told you to do before.”

She gratefully sipped at the water offered, making a pleased sound in the back of her throat that threatened to go straight to his groin. Thankfully he was sitting down, which allowed him a bit of coverage. With herculean effort he sought to resume their conversation, which had moved on to a rather spirited debate on the merits of the different adaptations of Around the world in 80 days.

They were in the middle of comparing Cantinflas and Eric Idle’s Passepartouts when the librarian fidgeted the slightest bit, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter? Are you unwell? Do you need me to call someone?”

Belle sighed, shaking her head.

“I’m just hungry. They had to retouch my body paint a lot when I took a break, so I never got to eat any of the power bars I brought specially for that purpose. And it’s not helping that whatever they’ve put on me smells rather heavenly. It’s strange to be literally brimming with food and yet unable to eat.”

He had to agree with her about the food. It smelled amazing, the bombons nestled inside foil wrappers to protect them from her skin’s warmth- warmth he was very specifically trying hard to think about– and the pieces of fruit, cut and arranged into fanciful, artistic shapes, glistened in the dim light of the terrace, looking beyond succulent.

“I could- I could feed you if you wish. It’d be no problem.”

‘It’d be all sorts of problems, but oh so worth it.’

“Oh, you wouldn’t mind? Because that would be lovely.”

“What would you like?”

“I saw some lovely raspberry tarts and some Royce nama chocolate squares that looked amazing. Just not dark chocolate please, I can’t stand it.”

“More for me then.”

Gingerly, making extremely sure he did not touch her skin at all if possible, he picked up a few selections of sweets, arranging them into a plate so she could pick and choose what she wanted. When she made a selection he made sure to hold it out to her so she could bite into it without worrying about his fingers, though he still felt the phantom touch of her breath on his skin even when he tried his best to get himself out of the way. It was a heady, altogether surreal experience: the closeness, the trust, the implied intimacy of the gesture. A dream fucking come true, as far as Royce was concerned, the single most erotic moment of his life and it was happening in public. He had come to the party with the intention of testing the waters for new deals and he would leave it empty-handed and yet a changed man.

‘Best. Night. Ever.’

But as nice as it was, it couldn't last forever. He tried to pretend at first he did not see the signs, the way the crowd around them began to dwindle down, the waiters passing around with trays laden with champagne flutes, offering a “last round”. The writing was on the wall even before he saw the first of the “living displays”, the one closest to the exit, being taken away. Still, neither moved or made a comment about things coming to an end, not even when Belle was the last model left out. 

At some point, however, they had to acknowledge that something was happening, because the waiters were beginning to clear the tables, the bar was getting ready to close, and no one had come for Belle. She seemed puzzled by it, but he imagined it had something to do with the fact that no one had wanted to bother him. Perhaps Corrie had said something, or perhaps his reputation had done the talking. Either way it was unacceptable that Belle be made to wait, exposed in cold weather that no amount of heaters could nullify, for someone to finally come get it. He proposed he get his long overcoat so she could drape it around herself and he would escort her then back to wherever she had left her clothes and things, so that she wouldn’t have to walk around half-naked alone.

He loathed to leave her, but there was no choice. He hurried to the coat room, commanding the attention of the poor sod running up and down fetching coats, and managed to get his long Zegna cashmere coat in no time. Pleased with his expedience he rushed back, pausing when he noticed that something wasn’t right. Belle was still in the far corner of the terrace where he had left her, but she had scrambled to a sitting position on the table, using the white tablecloth she had been lying on to cover herself as much as possible as a tall man- the lumbering idiot from hours before, now clearly drunk off his arse-  leaned close to her, one hand gripping one of her naked forearms. She was trying to shake him off, her body language screaming her discomfort and unease, but she was clearly reluctant to make a scene, the power imbalance working against her. 

Thankfully it wasn’t working against him. He felt no restraint or compunction when the urge to do violence overtook him. Thankfully he had, as always, a handy weapon as his disposal. It took one sweep of his cane, once he was close enough, to get the idiot away from her, the surprise at the unexpected blow to his side making him let go of Belle before staggering back a few paces. A few more blows had him first on his knees and later sprawled out on the floor, and only Belle’s gentle hand on the back of his jacket got him to put his cane down. With enviable nonchalance he signalled for a passing waiter, letting him know that the poor bloke on the floor had had a bit too much to drink and should be scraped off the floor and put into a cab as soon as it could be arranged.

“Right away, sir. Thank you for letting me know.”

He tried not to gloat as three people were called away from clearing the nearby tables to pick up the unfortunate young man, no one making a comment as they dragged the lummox away. Good fucking riddance. Realising that he still held his coat in his hands he turned around and swiftly draped it around Belle, noticing with pleasure that, though she had had a front scene to his violent outburst, she didn’t shy away from his touch. Rather the contrary.

“Are you alright? Was he bothering you for long? Did he say something inappropriate?”

“No, nothing like that. He was just not taking no for an answer, and looked drunk enough to try to do something stupid out in public. Thank you for taking care of him.”

Fuck, it was doing things to him that a prim and proper lass like Belle French was thanking him for behaving in a less than gentlemanly manner. Right out of his fantasies as a lad, the idea of a posh bird that would revel in his most coarse manners, in the violent habits he had had to acquire at an early age. It all threatened to go to his head or, even worse, his groin, so he forced himself to push it to the side and concentrate on Belle's immediate wellbeing. Wrapped up as she was in his coat- and fuck, did she nuzzle the lapel and take a deep breath, as if smelling his cologne in the collar of his coat?- she was clothed enough to get off the table and walk out of the terrace. He accompanied her past what was clearly a staging area for the models, given the remnants of body paint and the leaves and petals strewn on the floor, until they arrived at a large room with screens in the corners, clearly where the models had first disrobed. Only one bag was left, a Jackie Smith tote he recognised as Belle’s. He glanced around, noticing there was no place to shower, just some baby wipes packets with which he gathered the models were supposed to wipe the paint off their bodies before putting their clothes back on. Which wouldn’t do, really. Not at all.

“I-I have a room. Here at the hotel. With a shower.”

She stood there, looking waifish and small in his oversized coat, with paint still on her skin and her hair in disarray, yet even then there was an air of understated elegance about her, something in the way she carried herself. Himself, on the other hand, could not boast the same, feeling like he was sweating as he waffled on about how he got the hotel key as a prank but now she could put it to good use to shower and relax, perhaps charge ungodly amounts of room service. It would serve Corrie right to have her little joke backfire on her like that and-

He paused when he noticed how much closer Belle was than a second before. She was looking up at him with something akin to… expectation, almost, and clutching the sleeve of his suit jacket, almost afraid he would take off. There was a patience to her look, as if she was trying to coerce a shy deer to eat from her hand, and Royce’s eyes narrowed, a puzzle slowly unravelling in his mind. He recognised that look, she had worn it often around him as of late, something tinged with affectionate exasperation, as if she was waiting for him to figure something out, something that should be obvious. A nagging voice that had been whispering in the back of his mind now started yelling, telling him he was an idiot for not seeing what was right in front of him.

Could she… could she fancy him? Was that possible? Was he just so fucking dense and self-loathing that he hadn’t realise Belle fucking French was coming onto him? That she had been for a while? It sounded too much like wishful thinking to be true, but there was also no other way to account for how close the librarian was standing to him, how hopeful she seemed as she looked up at him. He froze, unwilling to accept the reality in front of him and yet unable to deny it.

Thankfully for Royce the librarian seemed to notice and understand his inner turmoil, a soft look overtaking her face before she slowly, carefully, leaned into him, standing on her tippy toes to reach him and making sure he had more than enough time to pull away in case her advances were unwelcomed.

No fucking chance of that.

The magnetic pull of her, in the end, overcame his deep-seated denial, pushing him forward, his attention drifting towards her mouth, so laser-focused on the heat and the scent radiating from her that he almost forgot where they were.

Almost.

When he did, he pulled away, babbling about how this wasn’t a private enough place for her to kiss him while wearing nothing but his overcoat. His self-restraint only went so far and his control had been close to breaking the whole evening. If she kissed him he would not be able to stop. It was a shameful confession, but Belle barely batted an eye, looking briefly deep in thought before she took one of his hands in hers.

“You mentioned you had a room, right?” He nodded dumbly, unwilling to connect the dots himself and assume she was saying what he thought she was saying. “Maybe that would be a better place for this?”

There was no mistaking her meaning, not even for someone like Royce Gold, for whom denial was an Olympic event. When she tugged at his hand he didn’t fight her, hopeless to do anything but follow behind her, vaguely dazed, having only enough presence of mind to offer to carry Belle’s bag, which she politely declined. The elevator ride seemed to take forever, even though they were going down only one floor. Corrie had given him one of the best rooms in the hotel. She never half-assed things and wasn’t known for being cheap. 

He held it together till the hotel door was firmly shut behind them, at which point he pounced on her, restraint and decorum entirely absent after four fucking hours of close, unrelenting contact with a naked Belle French. He had been good, so good, but they were behind closed doors and Belle had made it clear that she was not opposed to his advances, so whatever disguise of gentlemanliness he had created over the years was now in tatters and only the unpolished, savage beast from Glasgow remained, intent on quenching its thirst on her. He pressed her up against the hotel door, his mouth eagerly seeking hers out, pleased when she opened herself up to him eagerly, her hands going around his shoulders so they could tangle in his hair. She felt amazing against him, soft and pliant, smelling faintly of something fruity and a scent that was uniquely hers, a mixture of vanilla and the smell of a new book. It was intoxicating, and so he pressed closer, the hand not clutching his cane for dear life wrapping around her waist, resenting the fact that he could not touch her directly. He had relished the fact that she had been wrapped in his coat only minutes ago, when they were outside and she was shivering. But the room they were now in was cosy and warm, with an artificial gas fire crackling nearby. There was, therefore, no need for the librarian to remain bundled so he tugged at the fastened buttons of his coat, humming in pleasure when it was Belle herself that reached down to undo them, shimming out of the outfit altogether a second later.

He could feel her then, gloriously nude but for a scrap of skin-coloured fabric covering her cunt, soft as he had always imagined she would be, skin like silk beneath his fingertips. She didn’t seem to mind her lack of clothing, didn’t shy away from his hands or his lips when he began to explore her throat and the gentle slope of her right shoulder. She was delightfully responsive beneath him, making the softest, most devastating noises as he nipped at bits of flesh, taking care to avoid the big swatches of skin covered by the gold and blue paint.

“You don- Oh, dear Lord- you don’t have to worry about the paint. It’s edible.”

“Come again?”

He couldn’t possibly have heard her correctly.

“Yes it’s-” She sighed when he caressed her spine- “It’s chocolate paint. For safety, mostly, in case the food came into contact with it.”

He blinked, pausing a second to take stock of the situation. He was in a lavish hotel room with Belle French, who was basically naked and, apparently slathered in strategically-placed swirls of chocolate paint. And they were making out like wild beasts. This was beyond his wildest dreams, so far-fetched that it could not possibly be a figment of his imagination. Even his subconscious had limits. Reality, apparently, didn’t.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His Scottish brogue, reasserting itself as a result of the drink, the lateness of the hour and how absolutely out of his mind he was with lust, made him slur his words. “Fucking minx, been teasing me the whole bloody night. So gorgeous, so lovely to an old monster like me…”

He lost himself in the feel and smell of her, feeling starved for every bit of her he could kiss and touch. She was perfect, everything about her the right size and feel for him, as if she had been made to fit him. Her skin felt warm and soft beneath her tongue, the taste of her pairing well with the taste of chocolate from the paint, and she was delightfully responsive, no pretence or air of artifice in her as she pulled at his hair and whimpered helplessly. There was also no faking the delicious wetness between her legs, the scrap of fabric that was her flesh-coloured thong drenched to the touch. 

“Take me to bed.”

He had dreamed about Belle French telling him just that, but not even his wildest dream could have conjured up the reality of it, the way she sighed it, her hands grabbing handfuls of his hair to drag his ear against her mouth, the way it was both a plea and an order. He hastened to comply either way, manoeuvring both of them down the small hallway to the suite, where the king-sized bed stood pride of place. In the small journey there he had somehow lost his dinner jacket, the librarian’s nimble hands working on his tie, undoing the Eldredge knot with an ease that had him imagining her, wearing nothing but one of his shirts, kneeling on his bed and tying his tie, a lovely little domestic tableau with implications that set his blood on fire.

The bed at the Peninsula had standard, if luxurious, white bedding, nothing quite like his burgundy sheets and cream damask comforter, but he barely registered any of it. His senses were full of Belle, who managed to half-shove him into the bed, swiftly climbing on top of him before he could complain about their separation. She sought his mouth immediately, her fingers sinking into his hair to change the angle of the kiss just so. When she let go he whimpered, immediately missing the scratch of her nails against his scalp, but he quieted when he realised she was undoing the buttons of his shirt, having finally done away with his tie and, apparently, his belt. Crafty little thing, this lass, devious beneath her prim and proper facade. And all his, his to kiss and touch, to lay down the bed, legs dangling from the edge while he dragged that little scrap of lace generously called underwear, allowing him to see her in all of her glory. She was every bit as perfect as he had imagined, and so smooth. She was almost entirely devoid of hair from the waist down, a small strip of soft curls the only thing left. 

“So lovely.”

She was. Lush curves, smooth skin and the irresistible lure of unfettered enthusiasm. The moment he put his mouth on her she was like a livewire, practically vibrating beneath his touch, the tension and energy in her impossible to ignore. It made him feel powerful, and more than a bit smug, to know that a woman like her, who could have anyone with a look and a gesture, was trembling with barely-repressed desire because his tongue was lapping at her cunt, his hands curling around her thighs, teasing the edges of her labia. None of the young, rich assholes that had circled her like vultures before he had seen her had interested her, only him, old and crippled as he was.

It wasn’t long before he felt her tense even further, her back bowing in a perfect arc and her whimpers turning into loud moans. He thought briefly about denying her the pleasure she was building towards, to drag things out to heighten the sensations, but soon came to the conclusion he didn’t have the self-control to deny her. So when he felt her tumble close to the edge he sunk two fingers into her, the heat and pressure making his already hard cock ache. He was not going to survive her. Thankfully she came just as he thought he was going to lose the last shreds of his composure, her cries distracting him from his more pressing needs. She was beautiful when she came, as far away from the composed, prim lass he was used to seeing, wild and uninhibited. A magnificent sight to behold, one he tried hard to prolong for as long as possible. Eventually, sadly, she grew slack, almost boneless, one hand lazily combing his hair, as if he was some pampered pet who had done a good thing. The feeling was exhilarating. 

“Mmmmh, that was…” she sighed, her nails scratching against the sensitive skin of his nape. “Wonderful.”

He smiled against the supple skin of her thigh, feeling smug, like he often did after a beneficial deal being signed. He didn’t even care that he was so hard it bordered on painful, not when he could smell Belle, feel her warmth and revel in the knowledge that he had made her come apart.

“I’m cold. Come up here?”

The hand petting his hair tugged on it, leading him to crawl over to the bed after quickly discarding his pants and socks and, after a deep breath for courage, his underwear. He pretended not to notice Belle staring at his cock as he climbed on top of her, trying to distract himself with the feeling of her hands as they explored his naked back, pausing every time they encountered a scar. He had amassed a small collection of them, mostly in his late teens and early twenties, knife wounds and a couple made with glass. They were all faded, the only one standing out being the curved one on his side, product of a rusty blade he had mostly-but-not-quite managed to dodge, and the one on his right shoulder. That one had gone in deep but hadn’t been able to hit anything major. 

“Do any of them hurt?”

Belle’s voice was soft, her eyes wide and the slightest bit watery, likely imagining the pain he must have gone through to acquire each of his marks. He shook his head quickly, wanting to reassure them.

“No.” He paused, wondering if saying anything further would be oversharing. But she had to know. It would be a factor if things… progressed. “My ankle does, sometimes. When it’s raining, or I’ve been overexerting it.”

To her credit she didn’t even try to glance down, her focus entirely on his face, likely trying to read any signs of discomfort that might appear there. He kissed the hand that went to cup his face, for once not mistaking compassion for pity.

“Are you comfortable?”

At that he smirked and, daringly, he ground his hips against hers, bringing her attention to his rather desperate state.

“Not really, but my ankle doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you were asking.”

He was rewarded by a genuine laugh, easing whatever leftover bit of self-consciousness he might still have felt. He leaned down to capture her mouth, eager to devour her whole. She was delicious, still tasting of the raspberry tart he had hand-fed her, and something uniquely hers, which he had already tasted when he had delved his tongue into her cunt. But now he could also feel her beneath him, all the soft curves he had dreamed about pressing against him, her body cradling his like he was something precious. Beneath the buzzing of adrenaline and the thrill of his desires coming true there was an undercurrent of safety he was surprised to feel. He was safe with her, he knew this innately. Safe from judgement or ridicule, safe to expose those parts of him that were weak or ugly without feeling like he was ceding the high ground, leaving himself open to an attack. And that small undercurrent of safety, somehow, heightened everything else he was feeling. Allowed him to let go.

“I can practically hear you thinking, you’re doing it so loud.”

Belle’s voice, throaty from her screaming earlier, sent a shiver down his spine. He burrowed his head against her breasts, anchoring himself in the moment, and apologetically kissed the skin there. One kiss turned to two, and before he knew it he was taking one of her rosy nipples into his mouth and sucking reverently on it, like he had often imagined doing in his own home, usually after a few drinks. She was wonderfully responsive, squirming in the most delightful way, each movement sending sharp spikes through his groin and reminding him that if he didn’t manage to do something about it he was liable to explode. Luckily his lass was bold and brass, and the sort to take charge, and so when he was distracted by her lovely breasts- just the right size for his hands, and so, so soft- she moved one hand down to grasp him firmly and, with the help of a bit of shimmying, guide him to her entrance.

“Oh, fuck, I forgot to ask about…” She hissed when a startled movement made him bump her clit with the tip of his cock. “Protection. I-I mean, I’m clean and on the pill but if you want-”

He had no doubt that there were condoms in the room. It had been, after all, paid for by Corrie to unsubtly encourage him to fuck someone silly in it. The drawers of both nightstands were probably chock full of them, likely in all colours and sizes, and it would take but a moment to crawl over either one to grab what he needed. But the thought of feeling her fully was too good to pass up.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m clean too. Can I- can I really…?”

He couldn’t finish the phrase, nor take that last plunge, but before he could try to shake himself out of his stupor she draped her legs around his hips, hooking her feet right in the dip where his spine met his ass, nudging him rather unsubtly forward till he was, blessedly, balls deep into her, his cock enveloped by silky, wet heat that had him almost coming right then and there. He gritted his teeth and almost bit his tongue off in an effort to not shame himself, body tense for another reason entirely as he fought to control himself. It seemed to take forever but eventually he began to thrust, first tentatively, afraid of hurting her or discovering he hadn’t quite gotten it together as he hoped he had, but need, that itch that was growing to rule every instinct he had, slowly pushed him to go faster, to thrust harder. Belle met him move for move, canting her hips forward, her nails digging into his back in a way that should have felt painful but only enhanced the pleasure building up inside of him. She was, like before, delightfully vocal, and disarmingly demanding, telling him to go harder, to give her more.

“Insatiable little minx,” he grunted, trying not to stare at her breasts as they bounced with the force of their actions. If he got distracted he ran the risk of spending himself inside her without bringing her to orgasm at least one more time and that was unacceptable. “You’ll be the death of me.”

It felt a little bit like he was on the brink of death, of a pleasure so acute it was indistinguishable from pain. His hard-earned self-control was close to snapping and only his pride was keeping him going. Desperate to feel her flutter around him he braced his upper body on his left arm and both his knees, leaving his right hand free to trail down her stomach and dip in-between her thighs, looking for that bit of flesh that he had previously only touched with his lips and tongue. He let her cries guide his fingers, letting her gasps and keens set the pace as he stroked her slowly at first, increasing the tempo and the pressure in response to her needy demands. Finally she tensed beneath him, back arching in a perfect bow as she came, loud and uninhibited, her cunt gripping him tight as it spasmed, the feeling too much for him to bear. His orgasm was quieter, his groans muffled by her hair and skin as he pressed his head against the crook of her shoulder and spilled himself into her for what seemed like forever, a catharsis that felt both physical and mental.

Afterwards he had enough sense to collapse to the side instead of falling bonelessly on top of Belle like he had wanted to. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and he felt cold and clammy, but a second later Belle was cuddling up to him, draping a leg over his, making sure to keep her feet away from his ankle. He drew her close, greedily seeking out her warmth and the reassurance she brought. He dared drape an arm around her, his fingers ghosting up and down one of her exposed arms.

“Any complaints?”

He kept his tone light, flippant even, but he paid attention closely to her face, trying to read her expression. She looked dishevelled and delightfully smug, satisfaction oozing out of her, stretching out like a cat in a sunspot, but then frowned, her nose wrinkling a bit. He tensed, preparing himself for whatever had put that look in her face. Maybe she was having second thoughts already?

“I’m sticky.”

“Come again?”

“From the edible paint and your valiant efforts to rid me of it. Don’t misunderstand me, it felt heavenly when you were licking the paint off but now that my skin is dry it feels… well, sticky.”

“Oh.” He shook his head, willing his blood to flow upwards to his brain again and allow him to think somewhat coherently. “I’m sure the bathroom’s facilities are more than adequate. These sort of rooms usually come with the full package, a spacious shower and a bathtub with all the bells and whistles.”

Her eyes sparkled and he patted himself in the back mentally for clearly saying the right thing.

“Oh, it’s been ages since I’ve been able to take a bath. The apartment above the library only has a rather pitiful shower stall and I love a good soak in a tub every now and then. Some bubble bath, a glass of wine and a good book… And maybe some company.”

There was no mistaking the look she shot him, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with promises.

“You don’t suppose the bathtub here is big enough for two, do you?”

Her tone, mellow and just the littlest bit sultry, had him aflame and made his tired body reconsider the time it would take to rise to the challenge once more.

“Only one way to find out.”

[compassionatereminders]

Hiii paranoid delusional anon. So— some examples;

- I have had constant reoccurring obsessive issues with thinking somebody is stalking me / stalking my socials and is going to try and become my friend to air my bad opinions out and get me canceled.

- for a solid. God. I don’t even know, literally years- I was CONVINCED I had a specific Illness despite no evidence and was constantly searching for evidence. The delusion only went away when I ACTUALLY got the Illness and was treated for it

- constantly freaked out thinking I have cancer. If a limb hurts for a few days, I genuinely start seriously stressing abt the logistics of trying to get evaluated for cancer.

- this only happened once but I had a massive breakdown once and thought there was cameras in my room. I also used to be very paranoid of my webcam

- I often think people are talking about me behind my back and constantly ruminate on this but honestly this is kind of normal on par with my BPD / normal anxiety I think ??

- on some socials , I have to change so much about myself out of the fear that I’ll be recognized as me and be outed for things I said on that social, that I go through the lengths of not just using a pseudonym but using different pronouns, using a different typing style and even talking about some media I don’t like to make things seem… not like me. So I can express myself properly without it being linked to me ..

- constantly have issues where I will think about death before bed OBSESSIVELY and am CONVINCED I will die in my sleep. Leads to many sleepless nights until I pass out from exhaustion and a lot of weird notes written for my family ‘incase I’m found in the morning’

- if anyone is walking behind me in public for . A little too long… I start seriously freaking out. Even on long single direction sidewalks. It honestly makes going outside a nightmare because I constantly feel like I’m being followed

- I can’t talk in public to my friends. The fact other people can hear what I say makes me feel insane in ways I can’t even describe it makes me so so scared. For them to hear private conversations and hear my thoughts on things without me being aware, it scares me so much.

All in all. Clearly this isn’t NORMAL but is this more.. extreme anxiety / agoraphobia or ??? And ontop of that. Does it mean anything that I can be aware something is UNLIKELY rationally but am still feeling all the Emotions as if it is 100% fact and will still like. Believe it? If that makes sense? Can you believe sometning while rationalizing it’s unlikely?? I always feel so aware of how ridiculous im being but there’s always the 1% chance and aaa it makes me feel crazy. Anyways thank you for any advice Kat

Whether it's mainly caused by OCD, a psychotic disorder or a personality disorder, I'd personally say that "delusions" are the right word for at least some of the above. It definitely isn't normal experiences.

[hauntedaugust]

Gojo x reader

WC: 795

Summary: medieval au, soldier Gojo is just following orders, it's not his fault you get caught up in them.

A/N: I genuinely don't know why I started writing this, but I'm not mad that I was convinced to finish it. I'm considering a part two as it was originally supposed to be a reincarnation au, but if I did that it probably wouldn't be for a while. Also unintentionally implied fem reader

Part 2

_________________________

His eyes seem less intense when they are bathed in the warm light of sunset,

His laugh carries further when taken away by the gentle breeze,

And the expanse of the field makes me almost believe that if I can run fast enough, I may escape his loving arms, although every other time I thought that has ended in my being tackled into the soft grass.

Far from our homes, I can believe his stories, the words he weaves into fantastical tales, all of which feature characters comparable to us, although he denies that there's any correlation between our love and the love of those in his stories.

In a perfect world, his narrative would be true.

In a perfect world, he would not have to sneak away from his guard duty and I would not feign sickness to have even a few seconds of his time.

In a perfect world, we would not have been born into enemy kingdoms. He would call me his and I would do the same. He would gift me his surname as a pledge of devout loyalty and as a promise of protection.

But the best he can give me is fairytales. As vibrant and colourful as the centuries of spilled blood that keep us apart.

I dare not fall asleep in his arms, although his steady heartbeat lulls me. I dare not dream that his stories come true. I dare not hope that in another life, he could be mine.

“One day,” he spoke, his voice a mere murmur in the ambiance of the forest, “one day I will be strong enough to love you the way you deserve to be loved. I will protect you with everything that I am, you will be warmed by the fire in our hearth that I built myself and I will never let you sleep alone.”

And just once, I dare to dream.

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

I am ripped from my dreams by screaming, by men shouting and alarm bells echoing through the night. My town is fully ablaze, the light of the fire illuminating the destruction that's been done, it highlights the haphazardly donned armor on our severely underprepared soldiers,

if you can even call them that.

Farmers, doctors, and boys, who speak about the honor of protecting your home, barely old enough to comprehend what honor means.

And now their blood waters the daisies on the side of the road.

I tried so hard to move, to do something, to help in some way, but between the heat of the fire, the screaming toddler, and the shock in my body, I thought only of how much the daises needed watering in this drought.

In my daze, I barely noticed the pain in my side as a soldier's blade caught me.

I pulled my hand away from my side as the soldier who stabbed me ran. and as I rip my eyes away from my own blood, I find myself staring into the eyes of the only man I have loved.

His eyes seem more intense when they are bathed in the warm light of blazing inferno,

His voice is weak when compared to the cacophony around us.

And the expanse between us makes me almost believe that if I can run fast enough, I may escape his arms, although this time I may end up being tackled into the solid cobblestone.

The more he spoke, the less I heard. His panicked voice faded fast along with my vision.

I soon found myself plummeting to the ground, I would have hit it had his arms not surrounded me as they had done so many times before.

As I looked at him he stilled like a deer caught unaware. His eyes wide and hands shaking as he kneeled next to me. His usual tenacity and unbridled confidence seemed to evaporate under the heat of my gaze.

And for once this loquacious storyteller was at a loss for words.

It was only when my breaths started coming in short, frequent, gasps did he seem to realize the severity of this situation. He only regained his voice when I lost mine.

Over and over again he repeated the same things, apologies and regrets pouring out of his lips faster than the blood poured from my wound.

And through the chaos and clamor, I heard his voice clear as the night sky we had met under all those years ago, “In some lifetime, I will be strong enough to love you the way you deserve to be loved. I will protect you with everything that I am, you will be warmed by a fire made not for destruction but protection and I will never let you sleep alone.”

And for a second time, I dared to dream.

[nebulabasket]

Remembering a World and History that Nobody Else Has Ever Known

CW: cult mention, death mention, apocalypse mention, religion mention, spirituality, bigotry.

I am a somtive/dreamtive "headmate" (party member; I don't like the term "headmate" for myself), and the lives I remember only seem to exist in this world through me and the dream that brought me here. I say "lives" because, in the world I remember as my own, I am a magical gaurdian beast reincarnated into a human body. I wish I could remember my name from my first life, but here I've come to refer to myself as anymic archaeosapient magical gaurdianbeastkin in lieu of a proper name, let alone one the people of this world would recognize. I was worshipped as a deity in my first life, but I don't really feel like a deity. I was only doing what I needed to do. More on this later, but even given this glorified history, I would be genuinely shocked if anyone in this world were to recognize any of what I remember.

In my first life, I was this powerful magical luminous golden gaurdian beast the size of a small mountain tasked with protecting the world I'm from. I fought this equally powerful, magical, and enormous red serpent-bull-man beast of chaos, death, and destruction. Ultimately, I sealed it away underground where I stayed to gaurd it and make sure it stayed sealed away. As such, I was worshipped as a deity. In this life, I formed a small glowing green rabbit companion in my mind and magically projected it into reality with magic as a sort of helper and messenger. A manifestation of peace and prosperity. After hundreds of years, I faded into a deep slumber, passing on from that life and leaving my rabbit companion to watch over the world in my wake. It was prophesied that I would be reborn into a human vessel far into the future when the red beast begins to break free and my powers would reawaken to seal him away once more.

Well, a few thousand years or so later, I was reincarnated into the human body I have in the inner/other world. Transmasc nonbinary xenogender neopronoun user, aroace, punk, non-religious, neurodivergent, disabled, indigenous, and, as I'd come to find out after never really feeling human anyway, otherkin (I do have much in common with the body in this world). I had never felt like anyone had ever taken me seriously, I didn't have a good relationship with my family, I didn't really have any friends because I sucked at making any, and I was (and honestly still am) generally exhausted and sick of everything. Then one day in my early 20's, some weird guy came up to me spouting about how I was the chosen one or some shit and dragged me to some cult meeting where both of us proceeded to be mocked and ridiculed and I was called a solid handful of slurs. But the guy convinced them to bring me to this alter thing and do some kind of ritual just to be sure. Well, I guess that awakened the past life version of me and I gradually started regaining my memories and powers and my eyes began to glow gold. Unfortunately, the cult wasn't too pleased with this outcome and didn't even know how my magic worked or how I was supposed to seal away the "demon". Well, I guess the green rabbit from my past life had found me and told the weird guy to lead me to the artifact at the alter so I could reawaken my power, and the green rabbit came to me as a guide of sorts and started speaking to me in riddles. There was also this guy that was supposed to be training me, but I don't think he knew what he was doing.

Anyway, I was supposed to solve the riddles to find some hidden extremely unaccessable temple ruins or something to complete some kind of ritual and battle the red beast again to seal him back away once more until the next time he would break free. One of the temples turned out to be underneath a high school, which was a pain in the ass. I went through all that trouble still dealing with all of my personal and health issues on top of that and almost died trying to seal away the red beast, and I was told I couldn't tell anyone or ask for outside help as to not cause mass hysteria, and the weird bigoted cult certainly wasn't any help. After all of that, I hardly even got a begrudging "thank you". Like, I don't want to be worshipped, but recognition and gratitude would at least be nice. I was just expected to just go on living my same shitty life like nothing ever happened, but now with magical powers and new trauma I could never tell anyone about. And don't you think the savior of the world being part of multiple minority groups and being disabled could have brought on at least a little positive change or at least a little hope? Honestly, it's not like anyone would have believed me, anyway. But then I woke up here in this body in this world where none of my achievements even happened or mean anything. I'm still rapidly losing my rights in a hostile environment in a world where I feel even more alone. I just hope someone else out there can relate, I guess.

~ 🌘 Crow 🌔

[theenbynightingale]

CLONE HIGH (2023) EP. 8 SPOILERS

Okay, I know I’m opening up myself to a bunch of arguing but like... We need to have a talk. I should preface this by saying I’m not a die hard fan of Clone High. I only caved into watching the original series a few days before the reboot dropped despite hearing about it for years. I think they’re both good but I have my problems with both.

But I wanna talk about Topher Bus, a Christopher Columbus clone in a Gen Z world. He’s kind of taken over the role of Ghandi as Abe’s best friend in the revival, since the creators don’t want to bring him back unless they know they’re gonna be able to make more seasons. He hasn’t had a lot of screen time or development because the abundance of characters in this version. However, him becoming somewhat close with Abe has resulted in some fans shipping them.

So imagine their surprise when Topher tries to blackmail (or white leverage) Abe at the end of the final episode because he is attracted to Joan as well. I’ve seen so many people actually get angry about this. Many found themselves disappointed that Topher wasn’t straight or that he’d do something so terrible to Abe.

To which I say... Why would you expect anything else from this guy?

Topher’s whole thing was that he was an asshole who tried way too hard to convince people he’s progressive or an ally or “woke”, a term he unironically uses. He goes on and on about how he’s looking out for poc and women because he’s just trying to survive in a world that has flat out rejected his clone father.

“But he has a ‘Everyone is Welcome Here’ rainbow flag in his room!” Yeah, he does. He also has a co-exist poster, too. Good for him. Except there’s also a poster that says “Not a paid activist”. It’s a front! That’s the point! 

“But he keeps trying to drill it into everyone’s heads that he’s straight, like a closeted person!” Yes, he does. But it’s not just closeted people who do that. I went to a Catholic school and I also live in the real world. I’ve seen dudes be afraid to drink tea or hug because it might make them look “gay” or “feminine” or whatever bullshit.

“The way he said he liked Joan and white women in general was so exaggerated that he must be forcing himself to say it!” This is Clone High! Everything in this show is so exaggerated. From the very beginning, it’s been a parody of teen satires. It was created by the duo that would go on to make Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, 21 Jump Street and The LEGO Movie. This is their style.

“The episode would have been better if he blackmailed Abe into not confessing to Joan because he had a crush on Abe.” So you’re saying you would have liked the episode more if Topher had gone “Abe, the reason I almost got you molested by a teacher was because I’m in love with you”? I need you to realize how fucked that is.

Topher is a weasly little shit who tries to convince everyone how progressive he is when he’s actually a total asshole. That was the point. Y’all thinking he was in love with Abe or that he had Abe’s best intentions at heart just means that it worked. You took the bait. I’m not saying shipping Tophabe would be immoral (okay maybe after the whole statutory rape thing but that’s just for right now). There’s a solid chance that their friendship could be salvaged after this. I certainly never thought I’d ship Cleo with anyone but know she and Frida are my OTP. But you gotta stop pretending that this character is someone he isn’t.

I might delete this because I’m just trying to get my feelings out. I’m not calling anyone stupid or whiny just because they got upset by the new episodes. (Shoutout to my boy, @warcrimetime​. Sorry they took JoanFK from you so soon). This is just another case of me getting annoyed by people calling queerbait just because a ship didn’t become canon and me getting everything out of my system. (But also, if Joan does see Topher’s blackmail and her reaction is anger at Abe and not “HOLY SHIT YOU WERE MOLESTED?!” then that would actually be legit bad writing).

TL;DR:

Although, maybe I’m just not upset because I got Kahlopatra and you guys lost your OTP and I just don’t understand, I dunno.