#i didn't even think of that until my second read ...

[thehatboxwitch]

very honoured to have inspired this wonderful work!!

Helloo~

"Moments of Weakness" as in the reader taking L's left and right by being uncooperative with the yanderes. This idea was cooking up in my mind for a long time, and then I got heavily inspired by @thehatboxwitch for the post, specifically this one. I ate that up, such a good piece, mwah (づ ̄ ³ ̄)づ

The Amphoreus men and Jiaoqiu? Yes, I know, odd combo. I was done with the first three but then I got an insane inspo surge to write for the fox man as well, and thus this piece was born. I haven't really written short-form content ever, so this is like a test run for me. Let me know if you vibe with it!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Characters include: Mydei, Anaxa, Phainon and Jiaoqiu

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Yandere content (ALTHOUGH this is not on the heavy end of the spectrum. It's kind of fluffy), cisfem!Reader, unwanted touching, manipulation, the JQ one has periods and a vague mention of sexual stuff (but nothing explicit).

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post.

˗ˏˋ ★ Mydei

You wake up on the cold, hard floor of your room in the high tower of Castrum Kremnos. Judging from the limited view you have of the sky through the window, the time must be somewhere between midnight and the early hours of the morning. 

You’ve barely been able to get any sleep at all, truth to be told. The piece of clothing you gathered into a ball hardly served as a substitute for a pillow, and your neck has gone painfully stiff from the odd position you have rested in. Your back aches, and a faint rash has formed on one of your shoulders where it has been pressed against the coarse ground. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows. In the darkness, you’re only able to make out the silhouette of the man lying on the bed. Mydei’s back is turned to you, and his body steadily heaves up and down in the rhythm of his breathing. He seems to be fast asleep. 

The soft, plump mattress has never looked as tempting as it does now. Your shared comforter is partially hanging off the side of the bed, drooping just out of your reach. 

In hindsight, the obstinacy you demonstrated earlier tonight by demanding to sleep on the floor was beyond ridiculous. Mydei let you know that then, telling you how childish you were being, but your pride got the best of you. Though, as you recall his harsh words and the dour clicks of his tongue, you’re still of the opinion that your reaction was at least somewhat justified. 

You rub your hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm yourself up. Not having been granted the luxury of a blanket on the floor, your extremities have gone cold and numb. Shivers of nightly fatigue rake your skin. You huff to yourself.

Mydei’s form stirs. He lets out a rough exhale before turning over on the bed to face you. His piercing gaze fixates on your pitiful form. 

”Stubborn woman”, he derides you in a groggy voice, propping his head up to rest it against his palm. ”You prefer to suffer rather than swallow your pride?”

”Shut up”, you answer with equal spite. 

”Get in the bed and rest your night peacefully”, he then commands, sweeping his fingers over the empty spot next to him. 

”I said shut up, Mydei.” 

You fluff up your make-shift pillow and settle back down on the ground, turning your back to the man. Despite the way the reddened patch on your shoulder aches, you simply tug your sleeve over it and call it a day. 

Mydei scoffs at you before rolling back over. You silently celebrate the small win, but you can’t deny the way your fatigue-struck mind weeps when you peek at him and come to find that he has pulled the comforter further away from you. The action is deliberate on his end, no doubt, and you can’t help but clench your teeth in bitterness. 

You’re so tired. You’re so fucking tired, but there’s no way you’re going to let him have what he wants. Mydei truly excels at bringing out your mean side: Pleasing him is the last thing you want to do, and if that comes at the cost of sleeping on the ground, so be it. You settle your head on the clump of cloth and close your eyes. 

But there’s no chance you’re going to get any sleep as you are. The truth is quite apparent, and it stings, but the sheer exhaustion you feel is dulling out the little wrath that remains in your being. 

Not even a minute after, you slowly push yourself off the floor, careful not to make any sound. Not that you actually succeed in the latter — Mydei could probably even hear your heartbeat from where he’s lying if he tried hard enough — but it’s more for your own sake than his, anyway. 

Judging from how he has gone back to resting, he’s probably weary enough not to get mean. You cautiously rise on your toes to peek over him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but you’re unable to determine if his eyes are open or not. 

The mattress dips as you set your weight on it. You stifle a sigh of relief as you finally get to bury your head in the thick cushions, to pull the covers over your freezing form and soon allow yourself to drift into a deep slumber. Though, a wrench is thrown in your plans as you’re only able to get the comforter halfway across your body: The thing is stuck under Mydei’s broad back. 

He doesn’t move an inch as you wordlessly tug on the blanket. It’s quite obvious that he’s being difficult on purpose, that he wants to make his point as much as you want to make yours, and damn is it getting to you. 

”Mydei”, you hiss out his name. 

He doesn’t react. If you didn’t know better, you would think that he has fallen asleep again, but taking the context into account, you’re a hair’s breadth away from snapping at him. 

”Mydei!” you repeat a little louder, smacking your hand against the pillows, right next to his head. No response. 

”Mydei, for fuck’s sake-!”

Your sentence is cut short as the man suddenly lunges at you, catching you completely off guard. The strained yelp you let out is muffled by his bare chest as he pulls your body flush against his. In a split second, his arms wrap around your back, effectively trapping you in place. 

His skin is searing hot against yours. The hem of your shirt is dragged up as he plants the palm of his hand on your upper back. For good measure, he swings one of his legs over yours to keep you still. All of it happens in a single moment, and he doesn’t grant you the time to do anything about it. 

You consider protesting. There’s no escaping Mydei’s squeeze; his hold is much too tight, but he might give up the fight if you put up enough resistance. You could scratch at him, you could start screeching at the bottom of your lungs, and eventually, he would be bound to become irritated enough to let you sleep on your own. 

But the warmth. The heat that emanates from his form is nearly blissful. It seeps into your frigid limbs, lulling your sleep-deprived mind into the comfort that is his protective embrace. Your body turns against you. 

You allow your shoulders to fall lax. Slowly, your hands pull back from where they were shoving against Mydei’s ribs mere moments ago. In response to your new-found obedience, he strokes his thumb along the curve of your shoulder blade, further encouraging you to relax against him. He lets out a content exhale against the crown of your head. 

In the back of your mind, your ego is sobbing at the loss of yet another battle against your captor. Nevertheless, you let yourself sink into the comfort of the bed, deciding to save the fight for when the morning arrives. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Phainon

There’s something off about his usual smile today. The way he’s looking at you from where he leans against the wall with his arms leisurely crossed, there’s something off. His gaze is fixed directly on you, keenly following your every movement as if he’s expecting something of you. 

”... What?” you ask him, peering at his form, though your words come out as more of a comment than a question. 

”Hm?” he tilts his head to the side with a tad bit too much excitement in his expression. ”What’s up?”

Your brows knit together. Doubting his sincerity, you’re almost scared to turn your back to him as you scan the room with your eyes. Although, after a quick look, nothing too obvious seems to have changed: You let your gaze wander over the couch, the bed, the door, the-

”Phainon, what happened to the chairs?” you point at the vacant spot under the table. 

”Ah, those!” Phainon pushes himself off the wall and walks over to the bed, sitting down with one leg propped atop the other. ”I put them in the kitchen.”

You squint your eyes at the man. 

”And why would you do that?” you gesture at the now empty floor. 

”Mm, no reason.”

Phainon shrugs in a rather innocent manner, but the smile on his features tells an entirely different story. So, you continue scrutinizing your surroundings, carefully looking over each and every piece of furniture until your eyes land on the nightstand beside the bed. 

”The book?” you turn your attention back to the man. ”Where did you put the book?”

”Oh, I put it up there”, Phainon responds, nudging his head towards the bookshelf beside the door. 

You follow his gaze all the way up the highest ledge on the shelf, and there, you spot the familiar piece of Okheman literature you’ve been invested in for the past couple of days. As you put the puzzle pieces together, Phainon’s scheme becomes quite apparent to you. 

”... Really?” you ask him, spreading your arms in disbelief. 

”Hey, don’t be like that”, Phainon gives you a sympathetic look. ”Do you need help reaching it?”

You let your hands fall back to your sides. Then, you close your eyes and take in a deep breath to calm the exasperation that threatens to boil over inside you. Instead of lashing out, you silently make your way over to the shelf and pick out a random piece. 

”I’m good, thanks”, you tell Phainon in a dry tone. 

”Oh, alright”, he gives you a smile in response. ”Let me know if you change your mind.”

You roll your eyes at him. Making your way over to the couch, you plop down on the cushions and open the book on the first page. 

It’s in a completely foreign language. You don’t understand a single word plastered on the paper, but it’s much too late to put the thing back on the shelf now. Even without looking, you know that Phainon’s attention is on you, and you don’t dare to even glance at him to make sure in case he gets any ideas. You wonder what Aeon you have angered to have been granted such rotten luck when it comes to standing your ground: It seems that no matter what you do, he always gets his way. 

You don’t even know if you’re holding the book the right way up. The symbols are all squiggly, and you don’t have as much as an educated guess on what the text is about. A sigh makes it past your lips. If there’s anything positive to be found in the situation, though, it’s that most likely, Phainon is none the wiser about it. Why he even has a book like this in his home, you don’t have the slightest clue. Moreover, he doesn’t seem like the type to read in his free time, either, so the chances of him recognizing the cover are quite low — at least you hope so. 

You make the mistake of peeking at him. Sure enough, the couple of bright blue eyes are eagerly observing you from where the guy is sitting on the sheets. His gaze doesn’t fail to meet yours for a brief moment just as you turn your head away. 

Time has never moved at such a slow speed. The seconds drag on and on as you pretend to be invested in the intelligible story in your hands. You let your eyes travel over the rows of characters as if you were actually reading, but you can’t help the way your attention strays to the sight of your original novel sitting at the top shelf, far out of your reach. With each moment passing, the little patience you have left drains out of your body until you have none left. 

You smack the book down on the couch with a huff. Phainon visibly perks up, and you can almost imagine a fluffy tail wagging wildly against his back. 

”I changed my mind”, you speak out, standing up from your spot and walking over to the shelf. ”Help me get the book.”

”Sure thing”, Phainon is quick to rush to your side. ”I thought Kremnoan poems might not be to your taste, heh.”

You bite the inside of your lip and pray to whatever deity is watching over you that the blush isn’t visible on your cheeks.

”This one, right?” Phainon rises on his toes to pick the familiar hardcover from the top ledge before handing it to you. ”There you go. What do we say?” 

”I’m not gonna thank you for that”, you snap at him, snatching the thing off his hand and pulling it to your chest.

”Too much?” Phainon answers the show of defiance with a smile. ”Heh, you’re so cute.”

You flinch a little as his hand lands on the top of your head, ruffling your hair until it resembles a bird’s nest. His touch then trails lower to your cheek where he strokes his knuckles along the bone. 

”My pretty thing”, he sighs with contentment. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Anaxa

Never in your life have you had to fight this hard to stay awake. Not once, at any point, have you been this determined not to let your lashes fall shut as you listen to Anaxa yap on and on about some academic discovery he made a year or two ago. Truth to be told, you haven’t been listening to a single word, and you don’t have the faintest idea on what he’s going on about. 

Your train of thought is so sluggish that you’re barely aware of your surroundings, and your head is throbbing hot. In contrast, the rest of your body is shivering, practically trembling from the cold. It doesn’t seem to be the room, though: Anaxa doesn’t appear to be the least bit bothered by the temperature, having stripped himself of the cloak he usually wears. You would like nothing more than to burrow under the blankets on your shared bed and sleep for the next three days. 

But you have to stay awake. He promised that if you were to stay up until 10, the two of you could go for a quick walk in the Grove. He hasn’t ”had time” to take you outside in nearly a week now, and you’re not about to miss a chance like this. Being trapped in a small space and forced to endure the man’s presence is a challenge in a league of its own, and if you were a person of any weaker resolve, you would’ve gone insane ages ago. 

”— and that would be the reason why”, he concludes.

The last two minutes of his monologue could as well have been spoken to a wall. It’s difficult to concentrate on his words through the haze that drowns out your senses. Your muscles ache terribly, and your entire body is drenched in clammy sweat. You feel so miserable that the thought of giving up the fight seems almost euphoric, but you’re not about to back down now that you’re mere moments away from the clock striking the next hour. The victory is so close that you can almost feel the fresh, crisp outside air on your skin. It’s only a few more minutes away; a few more minutes of holding out against falling off your chair. 

Anaxa’s hand enters your field of view where you’ve been blankly staring at the table for the past half an hour. He taps his index finger against the wood to catch your attention, and it takes you a good few seconds to even register the action. You raise your gaze, slowly blinking a couple of times before your eyes land on his form.

”Can we go now...?” you ask him. As desperately as you’re trying to hide it, your voice tells on your fatigue as you speak. 

”We agreed on 10 PM, did we not?” Anaxa tilts his head to the side, towards the clock on the wall. 

You don’t have the energy to talk back to him. He’s so infuriatingly punctual when it comes to just about anything that you wonder how the pink-haired priestess is able to stand his company for more than a minute. You only give him a half-hearted, joyless smile in response before going back to staring. He sighs. 

Anaxa’s chair creaks as he stands up, walking out of your sight. You pull your knees up on your seat, pressing yourself into a little ball in order to preserve the little warmth you have left in your body. You don’t dare to close your eyes even for a moment in case the fatigue were to catch up with you. Instead, you remain in your spot, as still as a statue and barely conscious.

A cold hand comes to touch your shoulder from behind. You’re much too slow to turn around before your vision is obscured as he reaches for your face. Gently, he gathers your hair off your forehead and presses his fingers against your heated skin. 

”How long were you planning on keeping this facade of yours up?” he then asks, his hand moving a little lower in favour of checking both sides of your cheeks as well. 

You don’t respond to him. Instead, you only let out a quiet sigh.

It’s obvious; you’re running a sky-high fever. There’s no way of getting around it — the best remedy to a sickness such as this is rest — however, your desire to go outside is much greater than any flu you have caught. 

”I’m feeling okay”, you lie through your teeth, bending forward in order to rid yourself of his touch. 

”Preposterous”, Anaxa comments in his usual, stark tone of voice. Not paying mind to how you’re clearly trying to withdraw from him, he moves the collar of your shirt aside in favour of pressing his hand against the back of your neck, feeling for the temperature. ”One such as you ought to know better than this, no?”

”I can wait until 10”, you insist. 

”Is that so?” 

He pulls away from you. You follow him with your eyes, watching as he makes his way to the door in quick strides. 

”Well, then”, he beckons you towards him with his fingers. ”Let’s be on our way.”

You grasp the back of your chair with both hands, summoning up the strength to see the endeavour through. Your entire body trembles as you begin pushing yourself off the seat. 

Anaxa observes with curious eyes as you manage to balance yourself on your wobbly legs. For a moment, he can see the way your face lights up at the success, but your joy is short-lived: He merely quirks his brow when one of your knees gives out, and you topple down on the floor a mere meter away from the table. 

He lets out a mix of a huff and a laugh. You’re quick to scramble back up, trying your absolute best to find your footing, but the sight of him is spinning, and your limbs have gone numb. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to slump back down on the ground, defeated. 

You don’t do as much as raise your head when you hear the clack of his heels approaching you. Instead, you only listen to your own, rapid heartbeat rushing in your ears as Anaxa crouches down beside you and sets his hand on your waist. Carefully, he helps your limp form off the ground and snakes his arm under your own.

”The walk shall have to wait, it seems”, he says, failing to do a very good job at concealing his glee. 

”But you-, you promised that we could...”, you protest, wearily turning your head towards the clock on the wall. It’s a minute past 10. 

”Do you truly think you’re in any state to even entertain that idea?” Anaxa scoffs at your words. ”Go on, then.”

He loosens his hold on you, and you immediately reel to the side. Just to make his point even more clear, he lets you attempt to find your balance, but it’s a futile effort. You end up clinging to his shoulder for dear life. A mocking chuckle slips out of his mouth. 

”I thought as much”, he says. 

You really want to bite back, to go through with the plan, to go walk a single circle around the house even if it lands you in the bed for the next month. You need to, for once, prove him wrong, but alas, it seems that he has won this round. You swallow down the lump in your throat. 

”Help me”, you whisper out, hanging your head low. 

”This once”, he responds.

˗ˏˋ ★ Jiaoqiu

You’re balled up on the bathroom floor, clutching your arms around your stomach. Beads of sweat adorn your forehead, and despite your efforts, you’re hardly able to control the rhythm of your breathing. The time of the month has rolled around yet again, and for the past two hours, you’ve been battling perhaps the worst period cramps of your entire life. 

You’re aware that if you so wished, the relief to the pain would be a single question away. Jiaoqiu is just on the other side of the door, working on some herbs or something, you’re not really sure. Considering his Foxian blood, he most likely knows of what’s going on, but the damned man won’t do anything about it, of course. Not unless you walk up to him yourself and ask for his help, anyway. 

Another cramp takes over. You stifle a groan and lean forward, planting your forehead against the cold floor tiles. In the awkward position, you rock your body back and forth until the pain diminishes to a little less excruciating level. 

It’s quite obvious that you can’t go on much longer like this. As much as you detest the idea of leaning on your captor for help, he’s the only one who can aid you. You wonder if he has hidden the painkillers from you for this exact purpose: The man is as sly as, well, a fox, and no trick is too cheap for him when it comes to getting you where he wants you. He’s beyond unfair. 

You blurt out a hushed curse word as you rise from the ground, hunched over and still holding your abdomen. Taking a peek at the mirror, you come to find that your face has lost its colour, and you look like you haven’t rested in a week. The latter is no wonder, though, since you weren’t able to get much sleep last night due to the present problem. 

Being as quiet as you’re able, you press your ear against the door. There isn’t much to be heard on the other side of the wall, but you can make out the faint clinking of dishes touching against each other. Jiaoqiu has been busy conducting the same task the entire morning, and it seems that he’s still occupied with it. Dread brews in your stomach as you consider the possibility that he’ll outright refuse to help you: Considering his personality, it’s not above him, and it wouldn’t be the first time he weaponized matters out of your control.

”Aren’t you making this unnecessarily difficult for yourself?” 

Your heart jumps at the sound of his voice from behind the door. How he could have heard you, you don’t know, but then again, his kin is known for their keen ears. Moreover, you realize that there’s no hiding your current condition from him: Your options are either-or, and the responsibility of taking the initiative seems to have landed in your arms. 

Yet another cramp strains your body. You clench your teeth and endure the pain, but at the same time, your hand reaches up for the door handle. Deciding that enough is enough, you push yourself out of the bathroom. 

”Oh, there you are”, Jiaoqiu comments at the sight of you faltering out of your retreat. He can’t actually see you, of course, but his head still turns towards you as if he did. 

”Give me something”, you beg through pursed lips as you fold in half over the threshold. ”Please give me something for this.”

Jiaoqiu’s expression turns into that of compassion, although you can’t say for sure if it’s genuine. 

”One moment, please”, he says, setting the mortar and pestle in his hands on the tabletop.

He opens one of the cabinets above the counter and reaches for something in the back. Carefully, he pulls out a small bowl from between a row of bottles. By tilting the dish from side to side, he stirs the concoction until a few darker specks appear on the liquid’s surface. Then, he brings his hand over it, and in a flash, the thing lights up in flames. However, just as quickly, the fire disappears, and he’s left with a cup of steaming hot soup. 

”I tried to go easy on the spice”, he says as he fans his fingers over the bowl. ”It’s quite warm, be careful not to burn your tongue.”

He makes his way over to where you’re balled up on the ground. With a gentle touch, he coaxes you to raise your head enough for him to place the dish against your lips before tilting the cup. 

It’s good. The rich liquid flows down your throat as you drink it with greed, paying very little mind to how the heat scorches your mouth. He didn’t lie about being mindful of the seasoning — it’s much less spicy than what you’re usually forced to endure — but your taste buds are still left begging for mercy. Nonetheless, you couldn’t care less, and the soup is gone in a matter of seconds. 

”It should only take a few minutes to kick in”, Jiaoqiu says as he pulls the now empty bowl away from your lips. ”How are you feeling?” 

Bad, terrible, deplorable, godawful, but you don’t tell him that. Instead, you only let out a shaky exhale as you slump back down on the ground. 

You feel Jiaoqiu’s fingers creep along the waistline of your bottoms. For a brief, horrific moment, you think he’s about to initiate the carnal, but instead of slipping his hand further down, he lets it rest over your lower abdomen. 

”Is it in the middle or more towards one side?” he asks as he tenderly presses his palm against your stomach, warm and pleasant. 

”Hey, don’t-, don’t...”, you’re about to start protesting, but the complaint dies on your tongue as the man’s touch dulls down the worst of the ache. 

He seems pleased at your compliance, and he rewards you by caressing the back of your head with his free hand. For once, his closeness doesn’t feel completely intolerable.

[backfliips]

As someone who admittedly has attention issues of my own, I think it's important to talk about how attention is a skill that can be learned and often requires conscious and focused effort to build. I think a lot of people despair over the current state of media --- short-form algorithm-driven content that is built to snare and lure and diminish people's attention spans for profit --- and while that despair is certainly built off of legitimate concerns, I want to stress that the damage being done is not irreversible.

Over the course of the COVID-19 lockdowns I fried my brain so intensely with tik toks and instagram reels that I was getting bored 2 seconds into a 5 second video and was finding myself scrolling so quickly that I wasn't even watching anymore. I was lethargic and unhappy and though my mood was definitely simultaneously impacted by the hovering doom of COVID-19 and living in complete isolation for months at a time (I don't recommend that, BTW), I found myself losing passion for the things I loved doing: drawing, reading, and writing. I felt miserable and useless and incredibly guilty for leaving my productive and fulfilling hobbies behind while I chased... not even happiness. Just something to occupy my brain and turn it into mush.

As time passed I realized that I wasn't even having fun on tik tok anymore. I'd see funny videos and get a rush of endorphins, and then the next second I would have completely forgotten what I just watched. I was refreshing social media pages to see numbers I didn't even care about. Everything was an endless loop of swapping between different apps, just time passing and passing and my attention span dipping lower and lower until I would go for days without feeling any sense of joy or accomplishment.

And this was most definitely aided by the fact that I was unemployed and stuck in a terrible worldwide epidemic, but as soon as I deleted the tik tok app and put harsh time limits on instagram (15 minutes a day, which I rationed compulsively) I suddenly wanted to draw again. I started reading books again. I started writing and spending time outside and getting inspiration from the world around me.

Now, years later, I work with teenagers whose lives are dictated by their phones. My coworkers often lament the state of the world today --- which, again, is a valid stance to have --- but in the few months after my workplace implemented a no phones policy, I watched disengaged students bounce back to productivity. Instead of scrolling during lectures they paid attention and asked questions and engaged their peers in conversation. During lunch they played board games and talked to each other. Students even told me about how they didn't even want to go on their phones when they got home from school!

It isn't perfect, and I'm not advocating for a world devoid of phones, but I just want to highlight that these neural pathways can be built and exercised. People's brains are resilient and fascinating and much stronger and more adaptable than many people are willing to give them credit for.

I've expanded my time limits across more apps on my phone, setting days where I can't even access social media at all from my phone, and in that short period of time I've found myself far more engaged with the world around me. I've been zipping my phone up in a bag instead of keeping it in my pocket, adding a step to access it, and I've found that that alone is keeping me from using it to a huge degree. I'll toss my phone across the room when I find myself on it when I don't have any reason to be scrolling. And it's helping!

My main message here is that it's never too late to focus on your focus. Change and improvement doesn't happen until you make an effort on your own.

[blluesiide]

To Grin At You Once More

abstract: you braid spencers hair. title from Scrub by Henri Bardot, highly recommend. song is total opposite vibe lyrically in comparison to this but I was listening to it while writing! long hair reid, my beloved. my sweetheart.

You roll your shoulders a bit, feeling the tightness after a long day at work. Spencer's shoes are resting nearly by the front door, one of those rare nights he gets to sleep in your bed.

"Spence?" You call out softly, setting your things down.

"Bathroom!" He shouts, and you realize you can hear the sink running.

You step down the hall, tracing the wall with the tip of your fingers until you reach the open door, and you see him sitting on the lid of the toilet, pajamas on and hair towel gently dabbing at the excess water.

You inhale deeply, "It smells so good in here." You sigh.

"Hi." He grins at you, arms lowering as you approach, stepping between his legs to hug him.

"Hi," you reply, letting out a breath of relief.

"You smell so yummy." You comment, and he chuckles affectionately.

Your hand comes up to cup the back of his head, damp curls slipping between your fingers.

He smiles up at you, eyes watching your face with a mix of curiosity and adoration. You let him stare for a couple seconds before you lean down and press your lips against his forehead.

His eyes close automatically, leaning into it, and you murmur softly against his skin, "Can I braid your hair?"

"Only if you're gentle."

"I'm always gentle."

He hums, hand on your waist as his fingers slip just under your shirt to touch your waist. The smile resting upon his lips is easy, natural. You have that effect on him.

He swallows, glancing down at your lips, and you oblige, bending down even if the angle is slightly uncomfortable, just to kiss him.

His hand is warm, wide as it splays across the expanse of your cheek. You kiss until the twinge in your back causes you to lower to your knees, and Spencer follows, tilting down to meet you in your new position, his other hand pushing your hair back, hand holding your hair in place by your ear.

When your lungs finally object and force you to part, Spencer lets out a bashful breath. No matter how long he's been dating you, it will never fail to fluster him, how easily he loses himself in you, how it feels like the first time every time.

Your hand rests on his knee, mindful of the still-healing bone beneath skin. Your thumb brushes gently over it, and the corner of Spencers lip quirks up. "Go get cozy? I'll be in soon."

He nods once, holding his hand out to you so you can stand and then help him stand.

By the time you enter the room, Spencers hair is mostly dry, and he's sitting up, finger tracing down the pages of a book you know he's read a million times over. He sets it aside when you approach.

Spencer liked to be present when you were around. Not preoccupied by case files, or books. He'd gladly sit, content just to breathe with you. He didn't always enjoy silence, but with you it never felt empty. With you he welcomed it, finding a solace be never thought he'd be granted again.

Your fingers work carefully against his scalp, weaving thoughts of love, safety, and comfort into each section of the braids. When it's finished, he gently tugs at them with his fingers, the smooth pattern weaving itself into his memory. He turns, smiles at you, soft, relaxed and ready for bed. He thinks about the ring box in the back of the top drawer of his dresser, blinks softly at you, and pulls you under the covers with him.

You press a gentle kiss between his brows, one on his nose, and he mirrors your actions, pressing his own kisses to your skin before you both meet, lip to lip.

It's short, and when he presses his forehead to yours and softly says, "I love you." Your heart soars in your chest. "I love you." You return. He breathes it in, like it's the only thing he's ever needed.

Maybe it is.

[formulafanfics13]

You Wanted My Attention? - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

She didn't even make it past the doorway. The second she walked into the bedroom, Lando was already standing at the foot of the bed, hoodie low, sleeves pushed up, jaw tense, silent.

She opened her mouth.

He raised a hand. "Don't speak."

She blinked.

He walked toward her, slow. Controlled. Unblinking. "You leave me on read for three days."

Her breath caught.

"You post thirst traps in my fucking hoodie."

She swallowed.

"You ignore my texts, but you have time to like Pierre's post?"

"I didn't mean-"

His fingers curled around her jaw. Tight. "On your knees."

She dropped instantly. He didn't wait. Just dragged the sweatpants down, pulled his cock out, already thick, already hard, and tapped it once against her lips. "Open."

She obeyed. He shoved in. Hard.

Deep enough to make her gag, one hand fisting her hair, the other cupping the back of her neck as he held her there.

"Yeah," he growled. "You wanted my attention?"

She choked. Tried to pull back. He didn't let her. "You want everyone else to look at you?"

Her throat worked, struggling to swallow around him.

"You want Logan and Pierre and whoever the fuck else to see what's mine?" He groaned, hips jerking. "Then open wider, baby. Let them see who you fucking belong to."

Tears spilled.

He moaned.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered. "Crying around my cock."

He let her breathe, just once, before thrusting in again.

Then again. Then slower. He groaned deep in his chest. "Spit."

She blinked up, glassy.

"Spit."

She let it fall from her tongue.

He leaned forward, spit in her mouth, then shoved himself back in and fucked her mouth until her mascara was ruined and her knees were shaking.

Then he pulled out. Gripped her jaw. And dragged her to her feet. "You wanna act like a slut?"

She whimpered. "I'm sorry-"

"Too late."

He shoved her onto the bed, face-down, ass up, yanked her shorts down, and didn't even tease her.

Just lined up and fucked into her in one slow, brutal thrust. She screamed.

He groaned. "You're dripping," he snarled. "Of course you are. You've been fucking soaking since you saw me."

She sobbed. He slammed in. "Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry-"

"Say you'll never ignore me again."

"I won't-fuck-Lando-I promise-"

"You like getting punished?"

"Yes-"

"You like being used like this?"

She could barely speak. Could barely think. And Lando? Didn't stop.

Just fucked her through it, hard, filthy thrusts, one hand on her hip, the other around her throat as she broke completely. And when she came, sobbing his name, soaking the sheets, Lando groaned and spilled inside her with a hiss.

Still buried deep. Still holding her down. Then he leaned in. Kissed her shoulder. And whispered "Next time you want my attention..."

She nodded into the sheets, ruined.

He smirked. "Just ask."

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

"I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me I fucking tried." Marcus Moreno

Angry Confessions ❤️‍😠

bio : this story is part of the Angry Confessions series (you can still be a part of it)

requested by : @baronessvonglitter thank you!

warnings: fluff, one lie, some beer, two idiots

“Are you going with Derek?”

You looked at Marcus, tearing your gaze away from the computer screen for a moment.

“With who?”

Moreno smiled slightly in surprise. “With Derek. Your boyfriend.”

“Oh, sure.” You waved your hand, trying to downplay the situation. “I have a lot on my mind right now, sorry. At that pub near here?”

“Yeah, where we usually meet.” Marcus checked his watch, then grabbed his briefcase. “I have to go. I’m taking Missy to my mom’s. See you there? I’ll be waiting for you.”

He smiled as he left, and you buried your face in your hands a moment after closing the door and groaned for a long time.

A company party wasn’t exactly where you wanted to be. And you were sure Derek wouldn’t be there either, no matter how much you wanted him to. But it was a team-building event for all employees, and Marcus Moreno, the leader of Heroics, made sure you were there for the umpteenth time.

He wouldn't take no for an answer, and you knew none of your excuses would work. So that evening, with your heart in your throat and the only dress you had in your closet for such an occasion, you entered the pub. You could hear laughing voices mixed with music from the entrance, someone dancing, someone playing pool or darts.

You were supposed to have two, maybe three drinks and leave the party gracefully. Until you saw him. Marcus Moreno, your coworker, looked like he had stepped straight out of a catalog in a fitted navy shirt with a few undone buttons. You finished your drink, feeling like you were in a lost cause.

You worked at Heroics HQ for almost two years, and you and Marcus became friends almost immediately. He was charming and nice, and you quickly started to feel something for him. However, at your obvious signals, he started to tense up and withdraw. So you figured you'd rather be friends with him than not have him in your life at all, and that's how Derek came along.

Derek, the head of IT at a big company, a fan of bike trips and movies, who made great pasta and read before bed. The perfect man.

"Hey!" Marcus approached you. "I'm glad you made it."

"Me too." You nodded at the bartender, asking for another drink. "Everyone seems to be having a good time."

"Yeah." Moreno's brown eyes swept around the pub. "Is Derek here yet? Will you introduce us?"

He noticed the embarrassment on your face, the uneasy shifting in your chair. "Ummm..."

Marcus leaned towards you with a rather serious expression on his face. "Don't tell me he didn't come with you. How could a guy say no to a girl like you... Idiot."

"That's not it." You mumbled, but Marcus was clearly outraged.

"He's doing it again, so don't defend him. You were supposed to come to the barbecue, and he found an excuse too. Forgive me, my love, but a man's role is to be there for his woman."

Even though Moreno's words were really nice, you felt worse by the second. Derek was getting beat up, and it wasn't even his fault. You downed another drink in two quick gulps, then slid off the chair, feeling your legs buckle. That immediately caught Marcus's attention, who had been sipping the same beer since he entered.

"Wooh! Be careful." he said, grabbing your elbow and helping you steady yourself. "Do you feel bad? You haven't had that much to drink."

"I didn't eat dinner." you replied, standing more firmly on your feet. "I think..."

"What?! Derek should..."

"Stop it!" you hissed, not caring at all about being considered rude. "Stop talking about him, Marcus!"

Surprise was written all over his handsome face, but he quickly regained his speech. “Don’t defend him. He’s your boyfriend, he should take care of you, look out for you… You deserve it.”

There was something in your gaze that made him take a step back. He let go of your arm, then saw you hesitantly walking towards the exit. And here Marcus Moreno should have let go, but he couldn’t. You were friends. He could always count on you, you always listened to him and supported him. Now you needed him.

As he was leaving the bar, he saw you standing on the sidewalk, trying to hail an Uber.

“Wait,” he said, walking over, “We’ll go together. I don’t want you to go back alone.”

“No need,” you replied, “I can handle it myself.”

“But you know you don’t have to, right?”

You rolled your eyes, then inhaled the cool evening air. You turned to face Marcus, your eyes shining and your face showing resignation.

“Derek doesn’t exist,” you said. Moreno frowned, not understanding. “He never existed. I made him up.”

“Why?” he blurted out, surprised.

“Because I like you, Marcus! Maybe too much… But when I thought something would come of it, you started to back away. So Derek came along.” You sighed. “I guess you stopped being afraid that I’d hit on you or something, I don’t know. It was like before again… I’m sorry, Marcus, but… I can’t change the way I feel about you, believe me, I fucking tried. I understand that you don’t want to know me now, but I’m so tired of this…”

Silence fell. In the distance, you could hear conversations and music, and you stood across from each other, completely broken.

“Were you lying the whole time?” you nodded "Because you wanted..."

"Because I wanted to have a friend who was important to me, so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable around you." You finished the sentence for him "Marcus, you were more relaxed, more open when you thought I had someone. But over time I started to worry that what if... What if you met some woman, started dating her? It hurt me so much..."

"I've already met someone like that."

You lifted your head, worried. Damn it! How could you not notice? When did it happen? Didn't he tell you anything? You felt your heart speed up and a cold shiver ran through your body.

"You met someone." You unconsciously repeated after him. "That... That's great. Really great."

Tears sparked in your eyes. Marcus could see it clearly. The woman in front of him was trying to be strong, she really was, but her eyes said it all - you wanted to sink into the ground.

"I met someone." He repeated slowly. “And she’s really… great. I wanted to go out with her, but she already has someone. That guy is a complete idiot, he doesn’t appreciate what he has, he doesn’t appreciate her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Marcus’s lips formed a smirk, something you didn’t expect. “But you know, they probably broke up. Good for me. I was too much of a coward to talk to her, but I will now.” He took a deep breath. “Are you free Friday night?” 

You looked at him, completely stunned. “Yes. I am.” You stuttered, and Marcus smiled.

[wonio]

love is a bruise‎ ‎ ﹔ ‎ ‎ ‎parkjongseong

fem! reader ✴︎ prologue college au introspective romance fluff soft angst wc 1.8k ( y/n's pov ) warnings before you read mentions of stress, family pressure, emotional hurt

• ‎ ‎ ‎ a story about timing, silence, and the kind of love that changes you. she didn't believe in fate⎯until he made her believe in something more. now he's back, and she's not sure what to do with the pieces left behind.

fate is a strange thing. not the kind of strange that makes you curious⎯more like the kind that makes you wonder if anything was ever really in your hands to begin with. i used to think that fate was a fairytale. something people told themselves when life didn't go the way they wanted. i don't believe in signs, or soulmates, or the idea that the universe was ever on anyone's side. because some of us don't get to believe in stuff like that. some of us grow up too fast. we learn how to keep our heads down, to carry the weight of others like it's second nature. we learn that silence is sometimes safer than hope. and that being loved is a privilege, not a given. i didn't have space for fate. not when i was busy trying to be perfect. not when i had people depending on me. not when life was a carefully drawn map i wasn't allowed to step off from. responsibility came first. my siblings, my family, their expectations. the kind of love i knew was duty, not warmth. i guess what's why i never saw it coming⎯ him. park jongseong. jay park. the person who ruined every rule i'd written for myself. the person who made me question everything i thought i knew about love. because love, to me, was never gentle. it wasn't safety or comfort. it was loud. painful. something that slipped through your fingers the moment you started to want it. and when jay came into my life, he didn't ask for permission. he just.. existed. soft in all places i was hardened. patient when i couldn't even be patient with myself. and god, i hated him for it. because the more i tried to push him away, the more he stayed. he made me laugh when i didn't want to. he looked at me like i wasn't broken. he made it so easy to forget why i built walls in the first place. and i let him in. slowly, quietly, without realizing that he was already in every part of me. but not all stories are meant to stay soft. we broke. and when it ended, it didn't feel like an explosion. it felt like an echo⎯one that kept repeating in my chest long after he left. losing him wasn't just heartbreak. it was losing a version of myself i'd only started to know. and for a while, i told myself it was over. i learned how to live with the quiet. how to stop waiting for messages that would never come. how to breathe again without looking for him. but fate⎯ fate doesn't care about timing. it doesn't care if you've healed or if you're still bleeding. it brings people back when you're least ready for it. and now, he's here again. in the same city. under the same sky. with the same voice that used to say my name like it meant something. i don't know what i'm supposed to do with this. i don't know how to look at him without remembering every version of us. the almosts. the late nights. the things we didn't say. but maybe.. maybe fate is less about destiny and more about choice. maybe it's not about waiting for things to happen, but about letting yourself believe that something good can happen again. even after everything. and if seeing him again is fate's way of testing me⎯ then maybe this time, i won't run. this time, i'll stay.

by wonio if this doesn't flop, i'll write jay's pov as a continuation of the story ><

[legitimatesatanspawn]

So I had a weird dream a few nights ago where I was a random person who never read PIDW who transmigrated into the work along with Airplane but before Cucumber.

Because of meta reasons, NotReader had no System because Airplane and Cucumber both would've expected one and NotReader is more familiar with isekai works like Red River and uh... Digimon. So there was no visible System. For her it was a background process like a TTRPG or CRPG from the player character's PoV, and she thought she woke up somewhere in Nocturne Rebirth or Jade Empire (and is in for a hell of a shock with all the pornbait flora/fauna/monsters).

One thing led to another and she was taken into An Ding Peak. Using old skills learned in highschool and college to grind essays and paperwork. She regretted it a little but even this is better than letting her family sell her off for way-too-early marriage.

But here's why I'm bringing this up: Airplane in the dream had developed a habit of sending students who grew too suspicious of him off to die (the ones who couldn't be gaslit into thinking they were mistaken, and the ones who could be bribed would either want more later or blab anyway). After all these are all fictional characters so while they are a bit more "real" than he expected there still was a measure of seeing them as not people Especially since he was under constant stress and threat of Double Death by the System so hey what's a few deaths of nameless NPCs if it means their author isn't killed off by Siri's evil blue cousin?

So when NonReader realized that Teacher Qinghua is acting a little too squirrely? She's next on the chopping block! Shame since the kid was really good with balancing budgets but that just means he can shuffle blame off on her for a few things that disappeared to help Mobei-jun! Sorry for the inconvenience my fellow Peak Lords, I shouldn't had trusted her but she seemed so good if shy, she totally "ran away" with the money.

The two Transmigrators have no idea the other is originally from Earth. It really doesn't help that since NonReader was from Not-In-China-Like-Airplane-And-Cucumber and in spite of being an internet dweller never even heard of Proud Immortal Demon Way... there's even zero recognition when he even drops a hint of Airplane because "Fēi jī" (飞机) could literally come off as incomprehensible words to her (and yes this is a pun 费解).

Right up until she started cursing him out. In English. Granted that part happened in the dream when he was literally throwing her under an ice demon-shaped bus before he frantically started talking him down actually killing her because SHIT SHIT SHIT that's a Real Person! Killing off random NPCs is one thing but a REAL PERSON? Airplane likes to think he wouldn't allow that to happen to a real person (even though he let "unimportant characters" die right before his eyes many times before).

... yeah she didn't trust him after. Understood a little, but REALLY doesn't trust him. Shang had to resort to blackmail to keep her from blabbing and there is an element of Mutually Assured Destruction but he's more established as reliable (if a rat) and she's a Dumb New Student who he's already laid the preparatory groundwork on framing so she's already on thin ice with everyone else.

Neither of them were happy afterwards but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I woke up before I could see the fallout but as this is BEFORE Shen Yuan, Shang was definitely latching onto a Fellow Person Who Remembers the Good Times of Before SexAndMurderWorld. And as one who he was ready to Get Killed and had to blackmail, there's probably an element of "be chill and enjoy our talks OR ELSE :) ".

(For the record if this becomes an actual story, the NotReader would not become part of Shang's OR Shen's relationship. NotReader would want to FLEE THE AREA the second Airplane lets up on the blackmail. Get as FAR away from the guy who almost killed her off as possible.)

[thepinkpanther83]

Hey, I was just curious if you would put all the chapters of "The Stray" together as an all-in-one, the way you did with "The Girl Next Door". Just for convenience's sake, you know? Because it's such a short story and all? If not, just ignore this message. I just thought I'd put the idea out there.

The Stray

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

This is a short 4-chapter story, written for and inspired by my good friend @justalotoffanfiction.

This story is already posted on my Tumblr and AO3; this is just all of them posted together as one chapter to fulfill the Anony request above.

The story idea is my friend's, I just ran with it (with her consent 😘). Her blurb that inspired this story:

Find me on AO3.

Find this story on AO3.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

The Stray (Part 1)

Late Autumn, 1986

Eddie hadn’t meant to get involved. Not really. He just happened to be in the right place… no, the wrong place… at the right time. Outside the gas station just past Forest Hill, trying to coax his van into not dying completely, when he saw you.

At first, he didn’t even recognize you. You were hunched over near the payphone, arms wrapped tight around yourself despite the thin coat that clearly wasn’t yours. Too big, too worn, and not in a fashionable way. You looked small. Tired. Like you’d been crying for a long time but had run out of tears.

Then you looked up.

Recognition hit him like a jolt of electricity to the spine. “Shit.”

You were that sweet, pretty girl from his government class last year. Always polite, always with a smile when you passed him in the halls, even when no one else dared to. He remembered the boyfriend, too. Some golden boy from the track team with a temper that was anything but golden. Rumors swirled. Eddie always figured they were true, but never had proof.

Until now.

He didn’t even think before walking over, voice soft, eyes scanning for bruises. "Hey... you okay?"

You blinked at him, dazed, like you hadn’t even realized anyone was there. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a soft noise, half apology, half relief.

"Alright," Eddie said gently, already taking off his denim jacket, "that’s a no. C’mon, sweetheart. You’re freezing."

You didn't argue.

By the time he got you home… his home… you’d said maybe ten words total. But it didn’t matter. Uncle Wayne was working the night shift again, and Eddie knew how to play nursemaid better than most people would think. He gave you a blanket, some dry clothes, and a mug of cocoa so sweet it was more sugar than chocolate.

You sat curled up on the far end of the couch, looking like a kicked puppy, while Eddie paced. Fuming. Not at you. At the asshole who had clearly left marks you were trying to hide.

"You don’t have to tell me anything," he finally said, rubbing a hand over his face. "But... if you want to stay here tonight… hell, longer… I’m not gonna kick you out. Wayne won’t either. Man’s a sucker for sad doe eyes and broken souls."

You looked up at him, startled.

Eddie grinned faintly. "That’s how he ended up with me, after all."

Wayne came home just past three in the morning. Eddie had fallen asleep in the recliner, a book half-open on his chest. You were still on the couch, curled into the blanket like you were trying to disappear. The TV buzzed softly with static.

Wayne stood in the doorway for a second, taking it in. Then he sighed, loud and fond.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Another stray?”

You blinked awake, looking panicked, but he just gave you a small nod and trudged toward the kitchen for coffee. “S’alright, darlin’. You don’t gotta run. Just tell me you don’t eat like Eddie… boy puts ketchup on spaghetti.”

“One time!” Eddie groaned from the recliner, not even opening his eyes.

Wayne just chuckled, warm and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world to find someone new asleep in their living room.

And maybe... maybe it was.

The Stray (Part 2)

(Morning After)

The sound of Wayne’s boots retreating down the porch steps faded into the hush of early morning. A thin thread of autumn light filtered through the kitchen curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. The smell of coffee lingered, comforting and faintly bitter.

You stood barefoot on the tile, Eddie’s borrowed flannel swallowing your frame. It smelled like him: campfire, motor oil, and something sharp and clean that made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite name.

Eddie was across the kitchen, hunched over the stove with his hair tied back in a low, messy bun. He wore a pair of threadbare sweats and a vintage Metallica tee with a hole near the collar. His concentration was fixed on the frying pan in front of him on the stove.

"Are you actually cooking?" you asked, your voice still rough with sleep but lighter than it had been in days.

He looked up, startled, but pleasantly so. "I cook more than you’d think. Wayne taught me. Told me a man should know how to feed himself in case no one else will."

You gave a soft smile. "Smart man."

"Yeah," Eddie agreed, cracking an egg into the pan one-handed. He smirked at you over his shoulder. "Also thinks I’m a human raccoon who can survive off Pop-Tarts and rage alone, so… the jury’s still out."

You chuckled, and for the first time since yesterday, it wasn’t hollow.

Eddie turned the burner down and moved to pour you a cup of coffee. He held it out without a word. Your fingers brushed his when you took it, and neither of you pulled away for a second too long.

"Thanks," you murmured, curling your hands around the warmth of the mug.

Eddie leaned against the counter beside you, sipping his own coffee. The silence stretched between you, but not awkward, not tense, just soft. Like the whole trailer park was still waking up, and you were sharing the moment in quiet agreement.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked eventually, his voice low.

You shook your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Okay." He didn’t press. Just nodded like that was good enough. Like you were good enough, just as you were.

After a few sips of coffee, you nudged him gently with your elbow. "You didn’t have to let me stay, y’know."

"Didn’t even think about it," he said honestly. "Saw you there, lookin’ like the whole damn world sat on your chest. Couldn’t just walk away."

You looked down at your mug, cheeks warm. “Well… thanks for being a soft place to land.”

Eddie smiled then, soft and a little crooked. “Guess we’re both strays, huh?”

"Wayne’s gonna need a bigger house," you teased.

That made Eddie laugh, like really laugh, and the sound of it made something shift in your chest. Something old and scared, that hadn’t believed anyone would care enough to make you breakfast or let you cry on their couch.

Eddie noticed the shift too, the quiet glimmer of something in your eyes. He ducked his head, bashful all of a sudden. "Weird thing for me to say, but... I’m kinda glad you’re here."

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. "Even if I eat all your cereal and hog your blankets?"

He grinned. "Especially then. It means you're staying long enough to get comfortable."

Your heart stuttered at that. Not because it was a declaration, but because it wasn’t. It was something quieter. Kinder. The way someone looks at a scared animal and holds out a hand, palm up.

And for the first time in a long while, you thought maybe you could reach back.

The Stray (Part 3)

(Confrontation)

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the driveway, painting the gravel gold. You were out front, hanging clothes on the line, Wayne insisted it saved money and made things smell better than any dryer sheet ever could. It was peaceful. Healing. Quiet in a way your life hadn’t been in a long time.

Until the engine of a too familiar car growled into the drive.

Eddie was in the back, wiping oil off his hands, humming along to Dio on the tiny beat-up radio when he heard it. The rumble of tires on gravel. The slam of a car door. Voices… a voice. His voice.

And then yours. Caught between startled and small.

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He tossed the rag, wiped his palms once on his jeans, and strode toward the sound, his jaw already set.

You were on the porch, arms crossed over your chest, trying to shrink into the wood as your ex stood a step below you, hands gesturing, voice raised, not enough to yell, but loud enough that Eddie heard every bitter word.

“You think running off and playing house with the town freak is gonna fix your shit?” he sneered. “You really think he even cares about you? C’mon, babe. You need me. Who else is gonna put up with all your—”

“Hey!” Eddie’s voice cracked across the yard like a whip.

Both heads turned. Your ex scoffed. “Great. Here comes the white knight act.”

Eddie didn’t rise to it. Not with words.

He stepped up onto the porch, slipped in beside you, not touching you, not yet, but his body radiated warmth and certainty. Safety. His eyes didn’t leave the other man for a second.

“She told you to leave,” Eddie said flatly. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but he wanted him gone off his property.

“I’m not talking to you, freak.”

“Well, you’re on my porch,” Eddie snapped, his voice dropping into something dangerous. “In front of my house. Where she lives now. So yeah, you are.”

Your ex laughed, ugly and humorless. “What, you her boyfriend now?”

Eddie glanced at you for the briefest second, something unreadable in his eyes, but his answer came without hesitation.

“No. But I will be, if you keep giving her reasons to want better.”

Your ex stepped forward like he meant to puff himself up, but Eddie didn’t flinch. He smiled. A slow, sharp smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let me tell you something, man,” Eddie said, voice low and cold. “You ever show up here again… talk to her like that again… I won’t just ask you to leave. I will make you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Your ex looked between the two of you, realization dawning that whatever control he used to have over you was long gone. You weren’t flinching anymore. You were standing straighter now, eyes burning.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, turning toward the car.

Eddie watched him go. Watched the car kick up dust as it peeled down the road.

Only when the sound was gone did he look at you.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet now.

You nodded slowly, then looked at him with wide eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Eddie said. “Guy talks to you like that, he doesn’t deserve to know your name. Let alone think he still has a claim on you.”

You swallowed, blinking fast. The fight or flight had drained out of you all at once, leaving something tender and raw behind.

And then Eddie did touch you. Just a gentle brush of his fingers along your wrist. Nothing pushy. Nothing more than you could handle.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

Eddie smiled at you, like really smiled, and tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go inside. I think Wayne left us the last two cherry Pop-Tarts, and I feel like we’ve earned ’em.”

The Stray (Part 4)

(After the Storm)

Back inside the house, the silence felt like a warm blanket rather than an empty one. Eddie set the kettle on the stove, humming a tune under his breath as he grabbed a mug from the cabinet and popped the last two cherry Pop-Tarts into the toaster.

You stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms loosely wrapped around yourself, watching him. He looked so at home there, shirt rumpled, curls a little frizzy from the humidity, fingers still faintly stained with grease. And yet, he’d stood between you and the worst part of your past like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he’d always do it.

Eddie glanced back and caught you looking.

“What?” he asked, grinning. “Do I have Pop-Tart crumbs on my face already?”

You let out a soft laugh and shook your head. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he teased. “What kind of thoughts?”

You hesitated for a beat, then stepped closer, sliding onto the stool across from him at the counter.

“I’ve never… had anyone stand up for me like that,” you admitted quietly. “Not my family. Not anyone I dated. It always felt like I had to deal with things alone.”

Eddie’s playful expression softened, his smile fading into something more serious.

“Well, you don’t have to anymore,” he said, voice gentle. “Not here. Not with me.”

The kettle started to whistle lowly, but neither of you moved. You just watched each other, the moment stretching, deepening.

“You always bring strays home?” you asked, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

Eddie chuckled, his eyes flickering with affection. “Only the ones worth keeping.”

The Pop-Tarts popped up, and he finally turned to grab them, sliding one onto a napkin and handing it to you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, fingers brushing his.

The touch lingered, just a moment too long to be casual.

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “What if… what if I want to stay?” Your voice was quiet but steady… sure. “Not just for now. Not just until I get on my feet. What if I want to be here… with you?”

Eddie’s brows lifted slightly, surprised, but the kind of surprised that comes with hope blooming behind his eyes.

“I’d like that,” he said softly. “A lot.”

You both stood there for a breathless second, that space between friendship and something more narrowing, pulling tighter around you.

And then… slowly, like he didn’t want to spook you… Eddie leaned in. His hand came to rest on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. He paused a hair’s breadth away from your lips.

“Okay?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You nodded.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate or hurried. It was sweet, careful, like a promise: You’re safe here. You’re wanted. You matter.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and both of you smiled.

The kettle screamed louder behind him.

“Guess we forgot the tea,” you whispered.

“Later,” Eddie said, his thumb still brushing your cheek. “We’ve got time.”

Outside, the storm clouds had passed. Sunlight began filtering through the window, casting golden rays across the table, the walls, and the two of you standing in the middle of this quiet, imperfect house.

Home.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000

Masterlist

[obvithe-bestsoph]

Hi! 💝​ I must say, I love your writings for Lamine, you're super creative and you're an excellente writer. I especially loved the boyfriend headcanons and the clingy fic you made.

So, I hoped to make a request. It's about Lamine Yamal with a girlfriend who is like the biggest sweetheart ever. She's super kind and polite with everyone, she'd be that kind of person to stop to help an old lady cross the road, pet a dog or play with a little kid. She's like the 'too good for this world' kind of person, and everyone knows it (extra points if she's christian, you can ignore this if you want, I'm kinda self projecting on this one). But even though she's super nice, her parents are deeply awful. Always yelling at her and saying her she's an awful person who deserves to die and it's not enough, even phsyically punishing her and simply not giving a fuck about her life. Basically the person who is a sweetheart but has a messed up home life.

I'm sorry if I didn't make the request well, I didn't see any kind of rules in your blog and English is not my first language so maybe it's difficult to understand.

Anyways, thanks for reading this, and God blesses you.

💝​

love doesn't leave bruises.

masterlist requests word count: 1.5k

a/n: hopefully this is alright lol, i was going for the more angsty side of things. genre: angst/comfort. warnings: toxic parents, shouting, but lamine's a good bf so its okay lolol.

summary: you’ve always been the kind one, but when your parents storm into lamine’s apartment yelling and trying to take you home, you finally choose safety over fear and let yourself stay with the boy who makes you feel like love isn’t supposed to hurt.

But no one knows the full picture. Not really.

You don’t talk about home. Not to your friends, not to him. You just laugh things off, make jokes, change the subject. And you’re good at it. Too good. Because even though you show up with bruises you say are from bumping into a door, even though you flinch when someone raises their voice too fast, no one pushes. Not until Lamine.

Because Lamine notices. Every little thing.

The way your hands tremble after phone calls. The way your smile drops the second you think no one’s looking. The fact that you never, ever let him walk you to your door. That one time you showed up to his place after midnight, eyes red and excuses thin, saying you were just “in the area.”

It wrecks him. The idea of someone like you going through hell behind closed doors. Being told you’re not enough. Being hurt, controlled, blamed.

Because you are enough. You are more than enough.

And it all finally breaks open on a quiet Tuesday afternoon.

You show up to his apartment, silent and tense. Long sleeves in the heat, hair tucked behind your ears like you’re trying to disappear. Lamine’s playing FIFA on the couch but pauses the second he sees your face.

He says your name, gently. You don’t look at him.

You walk past him and sit down, curling into the far end of the couch like you’re trying not to take up space. Like you’re worried you might be too much. Again.

You’re staring at the floor when you speak. “They told me today that I ruin everything. That I should’ve never been born.”

Lamine stops breathing for a second.

Then, softly, “Come here.”

You hesitate, but he reaches out, patient and steady, and you let him pull you into his arms. It’s only when you feel his heartbeat under your cheek that the tears start. You weren’t planning to cry. You weren’t planning to say anything at all. But the way he holds you, like he knows, like he’s been waiting to, makes it impossible to stay quiet.

“They hate me,” you say into his shirt. “I do everything right and it still isn’t enough. They just yell and tell me I’m selfish, like I’m a burden they never asked for.”

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re not a burden.”

“They said I make everything worse.”

“They’re wrong.”

You shake your head. “What if they’re not?”

Lamine pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. His hands stay on your arms, warm and grounding.

“I know who you are,” he says. “I’ve seen how you treat people. How you treat me. You make this world better just by being in it. And if someone can’t see that, that says everything about them. Not you.”

You look away. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything for me.”

He brushes your cheek with his thumb. “You made me softer without even trying. You brought peace into my life. You make strangers smile. You’re the person who stops for a lost dog on the street and actually tries to find the owner. Who helps a kid tie his shoe and teaches him how to double knot it. I don’t care what anyone else says. You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

You start crying again, harder this time. But you don’t pull away. You just let it out. All the fear and hurt and confusion. Everything you’ve had to hold in around everyone else.

Lamine doesn’t rush you. He holds you through all of it, arms wrapped tight, one hand stroking your back in slow, steady circles.

When you finally speak again, your voice is barely there. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” he says. “But you don’t have to go through it alone either.”

“I can’t just leave.”

“I know.”

You expect him to be frustrated. To push. But he doesn’t. He just nods like he understands.

“We’ll take it slow. We’ll figure it out together. No pressure. No deadlines. Just... a plan. When you’re ready.”

You blink at him. “Why do you care so much?”

He gives you this quiet, crooked smile. “Because I love you.”

The words drop like a stone in your chest, heavy and warm. You weren’t expecting that. Not yet.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he says. “For a while now.”

You let out a breath that feels like the first real one in days.

Then, “Can I stay here tonight?”

He pulls you close again, no space between you now. “You can stay here as long as you need.”

So you stay.

You didn’t say it out loud, but it felt like a choice. Like you were finally choosing peace over survival.

So you started staying. At first, it was one night. Then a weekend. Then, quietly, you just... never left.

And for a little while, things are good. Really good.

You and Lamine fall into a rhythm. Lazy mornings. Shared playlists. Cooking dinners together even though neither of you is especially good at it. He lets you pick the movies. You wear his hoodie more than your own clothes. He kisses your forehead every time he passes you, even if it’s just on his way to the fridge.

It's warm. It’s yours. And you finally start to feel like maybe life can be gentle.

Until the doorbell rings.

Lamine’s in the kitchen, and you’re curled on the couch with your laptop. You barely glance up.

Then the doorbell rings again. Louder this time. Angry.

Your stomach drops.

Lamine’s already walking toward it, brows furrowed. “Probably someone selling something.”

But you know. Somehow, deep in your chest, you know.

He opens the door.

And there they are.

Your mother’s eyes scan the room like a threat. Your father’s jaw is tight. Neither of them says hello. Your mother storms right in like she owns the place.

“Oh, look at this. Hiding out like some poor little victim,” she sneers, voice sharp. “We’ve been calling for days.”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding.

Lamine steps between you and them without hesitation. “You need to leave.”

Your father’s voice booms. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get to show up here and start yelling at her,” Lamine says, calm but solid. “You’ve done enough.”

“She’s our daughter,” your mother snaps. “We have every right to speak to her.”

You shake your head. “Not like this.”

Your mother turns to you, eyes flashing. “You disappear, ignore us, and now you think you can hide behind this little football boy like we’re the problem?”

Lamine’s fists are clenched at his sides, but he doesn’t move. His whole body is positioned in front of you. Like a shield.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Your father scoffs. “You think you know her? You think you understand what she’s like when she’s not acting sweet for strangers?”

You flinch. The shame comes fast. Deep. But this time, it doesn’t settle. Because you feel Lamine’s hand curl behind you, grounding.

“She doesn’t have to act,” he says. “She’s the best person I’ve ever met. Maybe if you saw that, she wouldn’t be here right now.”

There’s a silence. Tight and thick.

Your mother crosses her arms. “So what? You’re moving in with him now? Playing house like a little runaway?”

You straighten your spine. Voice shaky, but clear. “I’m not playing anything. I’m just not going back to a place that makes me feel like I want to disappear.”

Her expression cracks. Just a little.

Your father steps forward. “You’re going to regret this. You’re choosing him over your own family.”

Lamine speaks before you can. “She’s choosing herself. That’s the difference.”

And finally, that lands.

Your parents look at each other. And then, without another word, they turn and leave.

The door slams shut behind them.

And you let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in your chest your whole life.

Lamine turns back to you, hands still slightly shaking. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, pulls your hands into his. “You never have to see them again if you don’t want to. You hear me?”

You nod again, this time slower. “I know.”

“And this?” he says, voice softer. “This is your home. You don’t have to ask. You don’t have to earn it. You just get to be here.”

You blink back tears. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he says.

And that night, after the adrenaline wears off and the quiet settles in, you unpack your last bag. Lamine orders your favorite takeout. You sit on the floor together and eat it in silence, his hand on your knee the whole time like a grounding wire.

There’s no dramatic speech. No music swells.

Just peace.

Just safety.

Just home.

[whiteraven87]

The Flame That Never Fades - chapter 15: Born to Die (15/16)

pairing: Toto Wolff x Victoria Lorenz (Original Character)

summary: She's young, fiery, naive and blindly in love. He's older, married, powerful and dangerously irresistible. To him, she was an obsession, an escape, a desire. To her, he was everything. The Flame that Never Fades is a story of forbidden love in the world of Formula 1, born from lust… and ending in something that can never be undone.

warnings: age gap (28 years), forbidden romance, obsession, desire, dark romance, smut, infidelity, emotional manipulation, dominant older man, angst, longing, possessiveness, emotional pain, toxic dynamics, no promise for happy ending.

word count: 37k

read on: AO3 - Wattpad - Tumblr

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my other finished fanfiction: The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC]

====================

chapters until now:

Prologue 1: Middle of the Night 2: Frozen 3: Shameless 4: Lilith 5: Ruthless 6: The Machine 7: Ride 8: No One Like You 9: Sad Girl 10: Summetime Sadness 11: Un-break My Heart 12: Blue Jeans 13: Too Deep 14: Into Dust 15: Born to Die

============================

Chapter 15: Born To Die

Don't make me sad, don't make me cry Sometimes love is not enough And the road gets tough I don't know why Keep making me laugh, let's go get high The road is long we carry on Try to have fun in the meantime Come and take a walk on the wild side Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain You like your girls insane Choose your last words, this is the last time Cause you and I, we were born to die We were born to die We were born to die Born to Die - Lana Del Ray

Italy, November

One day, something changed.

Toto had never stopped searching. Not once. Every silent lead, every shadow of a memory, every line they might have once read together, every photograph — all of them led him towards one elusive truth.

Yet it was an old shipping manifest, signed with the name she once used on registration forms, that finally gave him a real clue.

A solitary cottage in the north of Italy.

He didn't inform anyone. He simply got into his car and drove.

When he parked, his heart was pounding like a drum. The cottage stood quietly, bathed in the golden beams of the winter afternoon sun, surrounded by a protective circle of forest, cloaked in silence. He saw her in the garden — standing with her back turned, wearing a long, loose dress and a thick sweater, a basket hanging from her hand. Her belly was rounded, and she moved with the slow, graceful rhythm of a woman carrying new life.

Toto froze.

Everything disappeared — the world, time, even the air around him.

"Victoria..." he whispered, as if unable to believe it was truly her.

She turned. Their eyes met. And for a long, harrowing second, she said nothing — just looked at him. Then, with the same force she once threw herself into a corner on the racetrack, she turned away and disappeared into the house.

He knocked.

"Please, leave," her voice came sharply through the door.

"No," he answered, his voice raw. "Not after everything."

The door swung open with a loud crack. She stood there, her eyes ablaze with anger and shining with the shadow of tears.

"Do you want to see what's left of your love?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Fine. Look. Here she is. Our child. But don't think for a second that it's a reason to come back."

Toto stepped closer, slowly. He looked at her — at her belly, at her hand clutching the fabric of her dress so tightly it trembled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered.

"Because you had no right to know," she said, her voice cold and steady. "Because even back then, you were already where you always returned. To Susie. To your children. To a life where there was no place for me."

"But this is my child too..."

"No." Her voice broke slightly, but her gaze remained hard as steel. "This is my child, my little daughter. My body. My decision. And I don't need you, Toto. Not anymore."

He took another step forward, reaching out a hand as if to touch her — but she recoiled.

"There's nothing left to say," she whispered. "You left me once. Then you left me again. I won't let you break me a third time."

Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not cry. Not yet. She clung desperately to what little remained of herself.

Toto stood there in silence for a long, agonizing moment, looking at her as though trying to understand who she was now — the woman he had loved, and yet no longer fully knew.

And then, he did something Victoria had not expected.

He stepped toward her slowly, without the confidence, without the armor of strength he usually carried like a second skin. He approached her not as a man victorious, but as a man broken — and he stopped before her, his heart hammering, extending his hand as if the mere act of touching her could undo the devastation he had caused.

"I love you, Victoria," he whispered. "I love you like I have never loved anyone before. And I know I failed you. I know it's too late. But I want to fix everything. Everything."

He caught her hand in his, holding it tightly, as if terrified she might vanish if he let go.

"I'm divorcing Susie. I wasn't there for you when you needed me most. But I'm here now. I want to be a father. I want to be your partner — your husband, if you'll let me. I want to wake up next to you every morning, to hold our daughter in my arms, and... to start a life. With you."

She looked at him.

And then, quite unexpectedly, her face softened. In her eyes, there appeared a flicker of something that looked almost like hope.

And it was then — that Toto leaned in.

He took her face gently between his hands. And he kissed her.

Slowly. Tenderly. With all the love he had carried within him through all those long months — through every moment when he hadn't dared to offer her what she had craved most of all.

She returned his kiss. She gave him everything.

And then — slowly, trembling — she pulled away.

She turned her head, her hand sliding from his with a slowness that spoke of struggle, as though every inch between them was a battle she had to fight.

"No, Toto," she said softly. "It's over."

She looked at him — gently, yet with a painful certainty.

"I am no longer the same woman," she whispered. "And I don't want to build a life upon ruins. I don't want to look at you every day and remember all that I was denied when I needed it most. I don't want to raise our daughter in the shadow of everything that failed between us."

"Victoria, please, I beg you..."

"Don't say anything more," she interrupted him gently. "This isn't the absence of love. It's love that has simply ceased to be enough. Now I must live for her. For our daughter. And for no one else."

She hesitated, a tremor passing through her — but then she placed her hand over his heart. She could feel it beating. She could feel his pain as deeply as her own.

Toto bowed his head and kissed her forehead — with a trembling tenderness, as though it were a final kiss, a goodbye wrapped in every broken hope.

"I will love you always," he whispered. "And I will not forget a single second."

He turned away and walked off.

He did not look back. Because he knew — if he did, he would not have the strength to leave.

Victoria closed the door behind him. She leaned her back against it, pressing herself to the wood as though trying to hold herself together.

And it was only then, when all the strength had drained from her, that she began to cry.

Quietly. Fiercely. With her whole body.

She cried the way one cries for someone who was never truly yours — and yet was everything.

***

A few days after that fateful conversation, Victoria awoke at dawn with a strange sensation low in her abdomen. Cramping — gentle at first, but steady and rhythmic.

She did not panic — there was still time, she told herself — yet something deep within urged her to act quickly, instinct overriding reason.

She packed her bag with trembling hands, slid behind the wheel, and set off toward the nearest hospital.

The road stretched before her, empty and cloaked in the cold hush of early morning, while her mind whirled with anxious thoughts — and with hope.

Somewhere within her, she sensed this was an ending of something old and the beginning of something entirely new.

She simply didn't know yet how right she was.

The truck appeared out of nowhere — surging from the bend at a speed too great, too sudden.

Victoria had no chance to react.

The collision was violent, devastating. Her car spun multiple times before crashing into a ditch, crushed heavily on one side.

An ambulance arrived quickly — someone had heard the impact, the screeching metal tearing through the dawn silence.

At the hospital, the doctors did not waste time with questions.

Emergency cesarean section. Internal bleeding. Fractured ribs. Skull trauma. Critical condition.

But the baby — a little girl — lived. Strong. Unyielding. Just like her mother.

Somewhere in a duty room, a nurse flipping through Victoria's documents paused, her gaze catching on a name listed in the emergency contacts — a name she did not recognize, but which had been there for months, constant and waiting.

Toto Wolff. And a phone number.

***

The phone rang while Toto was sitting alone, swallowed by a silence so heavy it almost had a weight of its own.

When he answered and heard the words "hospital" and "accident," he did not ask for details.

He simply stood up. And drove. 

Upon arriving, he was led without delay to the intensive care unit. The doctor looked at him gravely, her face a mask of composure.

"Your partner... Victoria... has been in a severe accident," she said. "Her condition is extremely critical. We managed to save the baby — a girl — but Victoria is fighting for her life."

Toto said nothing. He could not. He stood there, frozen, as if every part of him — heart, mind, soul — had suddenly ceased to function.

"She's on a ventilator," the doctor continued gently. "She's unconscious. We performed emergency surgery to remove a brain hematoma. Now... everything depends on her."

"And... the baby?" he managed to whisper.

"She's healthy. Stable. A preemie, but remarkably strong. She has a beautiful heart. And an extraordinary will to live. Just like..."

"...her mother," Toto finished for her in a voice so soft it barely existed.

They moved toward the nursery window. Inside, a tiny baby girl slept peacefully in an incubator, wrapped snugly in a pink blanket.

Toto pressed his forehead against the glass, his breath fogging it faintly.

"My..." he breathed. "My daughter."

But even as the words left him, he turned — almost urgently — toward the ICU.

When he stepped into Victoria's room, he stopped, stricken. She lay motionless, her face pale and still. Wires, monitors, the mechanical beep of machines — the relentless, fragile rhythm of a heart still beating, still clinging to life.

Toto sat down beside her, carefully, as though afraid his presence might disturb the delicate balance keeping her here.

"You can't leave me now," he whispered, his voice cracking with the sheer force of grief. "Not after everything. Not now, when I finally understand that I never deserved you... but I need you."

He brought her hand to his lips, holding it between his own trembling fingers.

"She needs you. I need you..."

And then he stayed.

Hours passing like heartbeats, endless and aching.

He stayed, holding her hand, praying into a silence deeper than any he had ever known.

Because now — now he truly understood what it meant to lose everything.

-----------

Next -> Chapter 16: Dark Paradise

-----------

[gothicfied]

Quero algo longo sobre Dean Huijsen 😭

LOOKIN' AT YOU GOT ME THINKIN' NONSENSE

Pairing: Dean Huijsen x fem!reader, friends to lovers

Summary: You've been in love with Dean Huijsen for years. But, him being the team mate of your brother always made it very difficult to approach him in a romantic way. When he flew you out to his last game for Bournemouth, it seems like he had also set his eyes on you and wasn't planning on letting you go again.

Word Count: ~3.9k

Reading Time: ~16 Minutes

Warnings: Reader is implied to be dutch, reader is hopelessly in love at the beginning, reader has an annoying older brother, the interpretation of Dean's career is probably super inaccurate but I had to google a bunch of stuff, swearing, slightly abrupt ending, other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (English isn't my first language)

A/N: hi! sorry this took so long, but I had to take time iff because I'm still on vacation (and because I didn't feel like writing anything these past couple of days). Anyway, I hope this is enioyable, because I kinda think this got shitty towards the end. I'm already so in love with this man, I'm not kidding. Hopefully our second game will be better tho.

Football was never something you were interested in. The most you watched of it was during the Word Cup and maybe the EURO's. Nontheless, your parents would always drag you to your brother's games, whether you wanted to or not. Obviously, like every boy it seemed like, Max started playing at a very early age and always said he'd go pro at some point.

You couldn't tell if he was good, average or absolutely stupid with the ball, but you liked teasing him about not being good enough. And that was all fun and games until he was called up for the U17 team of your national team, the Netherlands. Sure, maybe you didn't care for normal football, but even this was a big deal for you (even though you weren't all that patriotic).

The one thing you absolutely enjoyed the most about your Max's career was Dean Huijsen. The one team mate you've had a crush on ever since you had laid your eyes on him. You didn't know what it was: Maybe it was because he's so freakishly tall, maybe it's the fact that football is only attractive when he plays it or maybe it's because he's fluent in spanish, as he had demonstrated to you before. Well, those parts definitely had a play in it.

Over the years, you've gotten to know many team mates of your brother and they come and they go, you never pay attention to them. Him, though. Oh, him you could never forget. Max thought it was stupid that you suddenly seemed so interested in the sport and especially his career, since you now showed up to every one of his national games.

Lucky for you, the two boys were really good friends. You'd get mad at your brother when he didn't announce that Dean would be coming over, yelling about how you didn't have time to shower or get ready, to which he'd always meet you with a "Why are you so obsessed with him?".

You wouldn't force hang outs, because being the weird little sister would be worse than not seeing Dean at all, but you'd literally take any chance to talk to him. Causually, of course.

After celebrating another win for the Netherlands with your brother, or at least after congratulating him for it, you stood by the side lines, greeting every familiar face you came across. "Hey," You said in an almost instant when Dean walked by while he gave you a sheepish smile. "You played well today." His eyes scanned your face for maybe a hint of sarcasm or a purpose as to why you specifically were talking to him. "Thanks.. Max's little sister." Oh, he didn't even know your name. Before continuing to walk to his family, he patted your shoulder in an acknowledging way.

Since then many things had changed. Gradually over those one to two years, even you and Dean grew closer together. Not close enough to hang out alone, without other friends or your brother, but now he at least knew your name and always stuck around to talk a little more. You'd walk him to the front door if Max was too lazy (or fell asleep) and, even though you had said your goodbyes like three times by then, he'd gladly stand in the doorframe to talk to you a little more.

Your friendship was even strong enough to withstand a generous amount of distance between the two of you. You obviously wished him all the best when he made the move to Juventus and when he got the chance to play for the second team. Dean was talented, that much you could tell, even if your football knowledge was limited. At least you still got to see your crush for the U18 or U19 Team of the Netherlands, where he'd obviously still play with your brother.

And, well, that didn't last long. Or longer. After Dean's move to Bournemouth he decided to rather play for Spain. His other half. The other half that he always seemed to like more about himself. You loved seeing him thrive, but this decision hit a bit too close to home. You obviously still had school to finish, so you couldn't even drop everything for a game during international break. But, Max was his best friend, so it was natural that he'd invite him over to watch a game or two in the UK.

"Look, I don't know why you're so upset." Max shrugged and looked at you with a weirded out expression while you expressed your disappointed. Your disappointed that Dean didn't invite you, too. "You're not friends with him, or are you?" You huffed at your brothers comment and stormed off to the kitchen. "Ugh, what? Why are you so fucking obsessed? Do you want me to let him know that you also—" He was cut off by you yelling "No!" through the whole house. "No! If you do that I'm seriously—" The words in your mouth died out when Max looked at you in realization. Oh no, it finally clicked. "Oh my god, there's no way. Him?! Seriously? You like.. him? Dean Huijsen? What is wrong with you!" While you chased him through the living room, threatening to break both his legs, your brother just laughed at you.

Max may have had the last laugh back then, but now you do. Apparently, you were missed dearly and because Dean's schedule often clashed with your brother's, he opted to inviting you instead.

...

"So you'll be there?" Dean sounded as excited as ever, while you tried your best not to do the same. You had your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, trying to multitask while making a hot chocolate for the little girl you were currently babysitting. "Yeah! Of course, it'll be great." Dean had just called to invite you to his last home game for Bournemouth.

Carefully, you handed the kid her drink so she could finally watch Minions 2 in peace, while you cleaned up the kitchen (and talked to Dean, obviously). "Soooo," You started, your thoughts already flooded with ideas on how to convince your parents to let you skip school for this. "Soooo?" He asked with a chuckle, "Are you sad? Like, because this is your last game for Bournemouth?" For a moment, there wasn't a single response from his side. You took your phone from your ear and looked at it confused because you thought he might've actually hung up at that stupid question you just asked him. Yeah, of course, the question must've been stupid! Why else wouldn't he—

"Hard to say. You're the first person to ask me this."

"Oh, well, I just thought.. maybe. Real Madrid is a big deal, I must say. But.. I don't know, it'll be weird not seeing you in red and black anymore."

"Heh," Dean chuckled again. "No, don't look at it like that. I'm sad... a little bit. But, like you said, this is a huge deal, you know?"

"Yeah..."

"Real's kits are superior by the way. I'll give you one when I get mine."

The words died out in your mouth. Dean, despite inviting you to his games more often than not (no matter if you were able to make it or not), had actually never given you one of his jerseys to wear. It maybe be a bit embarrassing, but you had thought about scenarios where that might happen to you some day and now he was just.. offering it! Just like that!

"Oh my god, really?" You were taken aback by how excited you sounded. "I mean... Yes, that would be cool." The boy on the other end of the line laughed and agreed with you, telling you he had to go now in the same breath and hung up. "Fucking hell, why am I so awkward?" You muttered to yourself. Suddenly you felt someone tug on your pants:

"Can you make me pancakes?"

...

"But! But Mom! Are you serious? No this is really important to me, come on.." Max rolled his eyes at your whining. Even if you would've done every chore in advance, even if you had cleaned the whole house, took care of dinner, done the laundry, got straight A's or brought peace on earth, your parents still wouldn't let you go to Dean's game.

"I said no! What is so hard to understand about that? I don't want your grades to suffer, sweetheart. I've already let you skip school three times for that boy!" While you were losing your mind about this once-in-a-life-time miss, even though it really wasn't, Max was amusing himself. "Stop laughing!" You hit him on the back of his head, to which he quickly whipped around and tried to do the same. "Max! Cut it out! Don't hit your sister." Your Dad finally yelled. "But she did it first!"

"So what? Are you ten? You don't have to hit her back?"

"Look, honey, I know that you like him and you think that he's the love of your life—"

"Mom!"

"I know that! But, you can't just always leave the country for two days just to see him. I can't go with you this time and your dad can't either."

"Mom, I'm literally 18, I already already passed my finals! There's no school I'm missing and I can go alone."

Apparently, no one outside yourself really understood what this meant for you. Defeated, you plopped down next to your brother on the couch and tried to somewhat enjoy the movie that was put on. After a few minutes of your Dad looking at you, then back at the TV and then back at you again, he sighed:

"When would it be?"

"What?"

"The game, silly."

Your face lit up, since this was a pretty clear sign that he had given in. Max next to you, on the other hand, just groaned and facepalmed, like this was the stupidest idea he's ever heard in his life. "Nah Dad, come on. This is ridiculous, I don't want her to date one of my friends!" You shot Max a look after he tried to come up with multiple excuses again on why you shouldn't be let go to the UK.

Of course, in a way you understood him. It was probably frustrating to him that he didn't even get invited in the first place and it must be annoying that one's little sister has this massive crush on one of your friends, but it's not like you can control your feelings.

"Alright, all of you need to stop with this whole dating thing." You said in response of your brother's complaining. To your suprise, Max actually stopped to hear you out for a second. "He just.. it's his last game at home for Bournemouth. Nothing will happen, I won't come home married or pregnant—"

"Oh, you better not! Or else I'll kill that kid."

"Dad."

"What? He always looks drugged out of his mind anyway."

Now you were the one that facepalmed and your Mom quickly told your Dad to knock it off. Your cheeks felt hot and your legs like jello as this topic about Dean was dragged on and on. You didn't like talking about your crush, especially not with your parents, that's like a thousand times more embarrassing.

Your mom grabbed the remote and put the movie on pause, grabbed both of your hands and made you look at her properly: "Okay," She started, suddenly seeming so serious about this, "You can go." Before you could even try to celebrate, she immediately cut you off again. "Ah! But! Only because school's almost over and only, only if you do your's and Max' chores for the whole week."

Max looked at you with a twinkle in his eye and laughed when he heard that he'd be free off his duties, but in reality you didn't mind. Frankly, you'd probably do anything to see Dean again. Alone this time. No annoying older brother, no overprotective parents, only him and you.

Later that night, Max decided to pay you a visit in your room. You were just minding your own business and typed something on your laptop, when the door suddenly swung open. "Max!" You yelled out, while said brother shut the door behind him. "Don't you know how to fucking knock?"

"So," Through the tone of his voice you understood that he was only here to tease you again. "You and Dean, huh?" Max took a seat on your bed. "Me and Dean, huh?"

"I just want you to know," When he realized you didn't pay any attention to him, he took the liberty to shut the laptop and take it off your lap. You sighed in annoyance and just gave him a 'what-do-you-want-from-me' kind of look. "...that you have my blessing."

"Your blessing? What are you talking about? I don't need your... blessing or whatever."

"Wait, so you weren't even the slightest bit scared that I wouldn't approve?"

"Believe it or not, you're not Dad. I don't need anything from you."

Max wasn't mad at you, but he still enjoyed seeing you doing all the exhausting things he would normally have to do. And when you asked for help, he refused, saying it was your own choice and you wanted to go see Dean's game. He'd scold you like your Mother if you didn't do the dishes correctly or forgot to do the laundry, basically taking the piss out of you.

What made it all worth it, though, was being able to talk to Dean more often. The footballer would text you, would check up on you and tell you how excited he is that you're coming over. That just fueled your delusions even more: Like, no one could tell you he didn't like you back just a little bit.

Why else would he fly you out and not someone else? Maybe if you manifested it enough, it would come true. When Dean moves to Spain the distance between the two of you will just grow closer, so you basically had to make the first step. If you got rejected, then.. well, sure you'd lose part of your dignity, but at least he's in Spain.

...

With your luggage in hand, you were waiting to be picked up by Dean's father, Donny, like always. Currently, you were listening in on a conversation between a husband and his mistress, on how he doesn't know how to divorce his wife and what would happen to the kids. Bournemouth Airport. It never gets old.

When you were finally in the car, and on your way to Dean's family home, you were really grateful to speak to someone in Dutch again after hours getting by with your, accented, English.

"How did your finals go?" Donny asked you whiem leaning one arm against the edge of the window. This was strange — No matter how often you flew to the UK, you'll never get used to sitting on the left side, in the passenger seat. "Uh, pretty good, I'd say."

The man next to you chuckled, "So you passed?" You've known Dean's family for a long while now, but it still was a bit awkward in that moment. Especially because there wasn't your dad or your mom to make conversation with the other parent.

"Thank you for coming by the way."

"Oh, there's no need to thank me! I.. I really like doing this. It's actually an honor that he invited me for his last game at home."

"He's been really excited. Primarily because you'll be there."

Donny laughed after he just exposed his son like that and you could immediately feel your cheeks burn up again. You took a moment to look outside the window and think about how this may go. Should you pretend like everything was fine and platonic? Or should you just.. tell him? Maybe it works out in your favor and you could cheer on your boyfriend tomorrow. No, that would be too much. You knew you couldn't ever confess to someone like that, you were too shy. But maybe you shouldn't be this time.

"Dean really likes you." It was like Donny could read your mind.

"Hah, really?"

"Yeah, no, no, no... He really, really likes you. I think you were actually the first person he told about his move to Madrid, outside of his family."

You smiled to yourself when you heard that. True, you were actually the bearer of the news to your brother, and if Dean didn't tell your brother first then.. yeah, that checks out. Donny probably already knew that you liked his son back, which you had already suspected. Ever since that one conversation he had with your mother, he can't help but try setting the two of you up.

"Anyway, here we are." The car pulled up into the driveway of this very british looking neighborhood you knew so well.

A happy and, suprisingly, little nervous Dean opened the front door for you and his dad. While the latter hauled your suitcase inside, Dean almost immediately leaned down to give you a hug. The way his eyes lit up when he saw you was probably the cutest thing you've seen all year.

"How are you?" He asked you out if courtesy, his hands coming down to rest on the small of your back when he slightly pulled away. It was like your brain turned into mush when your eyes met his, you didn't know what to say without sounding like an idiot. "Uhm," You chuckled nervously, "I'm good! And you?"

If you hadn't fully pulled out of the hug, you were sure you would've exploded right then and there. Dean shut the door behind you, but still kept his arm around your shoulder when leading you to through the hallway and to the living room. "Good. Great, even!" When you looked up to him you noticed that it was the first time he looked... awake, basically. Dean's droopy eyes are what you loved most about him, but seeing him like this was pretty amazing.

"Ah, oh my god!" Macha, his mother, hollered from the couch. Dean was basically a carbon copy of her and she was just as excited to see you. "Aw, how are you? Oh, it's like I haven't seen you in ages."

The woman gave you a warm hug, asking you about your family and how your brother was doing. "No, no, he's very happy at Ajax." You explained about Max while Macha was fixing you something to drink.

"I knew he'd be. He's a clever boy, your brother!" Donny has had his fair share of time at the club himself. While his parents asked you a million things about your life and your brother, Dean was more than eager to get you away from them. "Sorry, they're so nosy." He whispered to you.

"Don't worry, you'll get her all for yourself in a minute." Macha gave her son the look and handed you thr coffee you had requested.

"Mom.. I'm just—"

"There's still time left until dinner. Why don't you guys go upstairs?"

...

"Here," Dean tossed a shirt out of his closet directly at your face. Confused, you took it into your hands and held it up to see what it read. Huijsen. Oh, his last name. You looked at the boy with a slightly confused expression on your face, turning the jersey around to see the Bournemouth sigil stiched on the left side of it.

"I figured," Dean's voice suddenly didn't sound all that confident anymore. "Uhm, that you need something. For tomorrow." Your fingers delicately traced his number that was printed out on the back of the shirt. "I realized I never gave you one."

"Thank you! That's like, really thoughtful." Dean chuckled at your words and took a seat next to you on his bed. "It'll look good on you." He promptly took the jersey out of your hands and held it up to your body to see if he was right. "Maybe a bit big, but red and black are definitely your colors."

All you could do was nod and hope that Dean wouldn't notice how your cheeks turned almost crimson red the more compliments he gave you. Even if you attempted to talk at this point, only nonsene would come out. You took a deep breath to compose yourself: "You're like.. two meters tall, this will be like a dress."

Dean grinned and just shook his head. Nervously, you fiddled around with the hem of the shirt he had just gifted you, while he stood up again and searched through more clothes in his closet.

"Come here."

"Huh?"

"Come on, I gotta see something."

After a moment, you obeyed and approached him. Dean's room hadn't changed one bit from the last time you saw it — It's exactly what you'd expect a room of a man in his late teens would look like. Not very interesting, filled with individual trophies he won and pretty bare overall.. why are boys like this?

The footballer whipped around and gave you another jersey — Bournemouth's third kit of this season. "Okay, I get that you don't need these anymore, but why give them all to me?" Dean snickered and gave you the piece of clothing anyway. "You're funny."

"I'm just asking."

"I want you to have them. You're important to me so I'm giving them to you, what's there to complain about?"

"I'm important to you?"

Dean slowly realized he might've screwed up with his choice of words. His eyes fell droopy again, boring into yours like he was trying to see your soul through them. "Ehhh," His gaze shifted away from you and onto the ground, "..yes? I mean, I like you, don't I?"

For a long moment there was just silence as Dean stared at you in disbelief (at his own words) and you were just expecting him to speak up. "I fucked up now, right?"

Carefully, you dropped the clothes you had in your hand onto the floor, feeling more confident now that he seemed to be nervous. It was like becoming an extrovert when around other introverts — It came so naturally, you couldn't really tell yourself to stop. Because, this was literally your chance. The one you've been waiting for since forever.

"You didn't.. fuck up, Dean."

The boy took a deep breath.

"Okay, so this won't ruin our friendship?"

"What?"

The moment Dean cuppe your face with his hands was like getting hit over the head with a baseball bat and suffering short term memory loss. You only remembered to kiss him back after he had pressed his lips onto yours several seconds ago.

The kiss was slow, conservative, but still expressed the things he couldn't quite put into words. His lips felt so delicate on yours, as if he was too scared he'd break you if he deepened it too fast. This was making your brain go smooth, that's for sure. When he eventually pulled away and looked you in the eyes, searching for any amount if disapproval, he couldn't find any. Anything, actually. The more you stared at him, the more it felt like your pupils were physically forming into hearts.

"This.."

"Don't— Don't talk, it's okay."

"This doesn't change anything?" Dean looked at you confused.

"Everything. But.."

You were dying to feel his lips on yours again. In that very same moment you heard his mom yell for dinner downstairs.

[britishchick09]

'doomed to loom'- a senpai comic from 'the big book of freaks'! ;D

see rick parker's original drawings for the comic here!

[killjoy-prince]

Manga haul!! I did end up going on my usual bookstore trip!!

[luvkimi]

satoru "i love my wife" gojo.

the man was practically a puppy nipping at your heels. when you were dating, he attempted to be less clingy at times because he didn't want to scare you off, but since you're stuck with him forever now, he has no issue clinging to you.

you both could be in public, and his arm would be around your waist the whole time. if you're looking at something, he'll hug you from behind and rest his chin on your head until you're done looking.

and also, ever since you both got married, know that you won't be addressed as anything but 'my wife' for a while.

there's no more sweet names like baby, honey, or love. it's always 'my wife', but emphasize the 'my'.

he will literally scream the 'my' part and just normally say 'wife' because he wants everyone to know that you're his.

"do you want your usual?" satoru would ask as you both walked into a cafe, and you would nod in response while he just gave you a smile. his hand was currently interlocked with yours, and with how tight he was holding it, you knew you wouldn't be able to let go any time soon. the barista looked at you both as she gifted you a smile, and she turned her attention to satoru. "what can i get you two?" "i'll have..." satoru hummed before pointing at a coffee on the screen. it couldn't even classify as coffee—it mostly looked like foam and whipped cream with a bunch of sprinkles and mochi on it. "that one." the barista nodded as she tapped on the screen in front of her, "is that all?" "also, can MY—" the cafe fell quiet with satoru's shout, and the barista just quietly laughed once you smacked his arm. yet, the man only grinned before contiuing. "can my wife have that one?" he pointed to the screen that had your usual order, and the woman nodded. "your total is twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents." "can you write 'gojo's wife' on her cup?" the barista nodded at satoru's question, and you just frowned. yet, you didn't mean the frown. more than anything, you wanted to jump into satoru's arms and laugh at his stupidity. a few minutes later, your orders came out, and on your cup read 'gojo's wife.' when you finished your drink, you cleaned out the cup and stored it in a box with all the little trinkets satoru has given you over the years.

that's also another thing about being married to satoru—he gives you random things, and you can never tell what he's going to give you next.

one day, he'll bring you your favorite flowers, and then the next day, he'll bring you a random rock he found on the ground.

the best part about that, though, is the face he makes when he gives you the trinket.

he'll have a bright grin on his face while holding out the object in both of his hands, and if his blindfold is off, his eyes are practically shining with excitement and curiosity as to how you'll react.

and trust me, he memorizes how you react. that's one of the things you love most about him. he pays attention.

if you get really happy over one gift, he'll start bringing things like that around more. if you only smile at him and thank him for the gift, expect to find those things in the trash later.

he wants all your trinkets and gifts to be things that make you insanely happy—not just meh.

though, he doesn't just pay attention to how you react over trinkets. he memorizes everything about you.

he can tell your mood from the tiniest things.

if your eye twitches even the slightest bit, he knows you're irritated and will get rid of whatever is bothering you. if the corners of your lips fall down for a split second, he knows you're upset and will try to make you laugh. if you narrow your eyes, he knows you're mad, and will try to calm you down.

the reason he does this is because he wants you to know that he does pay attention, for he never wants you to feel neglected.

another thing he does is that he will have a serious conversation with you on the oddest topics.

his tone will make people think that he's talking about the earths issues or whatnot, but in reality, he's just talking about how it's stupid some birds have wings but then they can't fly.

"what do you mean ostriches can't fly because they're too heavy? are you calling them fat?" satoru frowned at you from where he sat—slowly resting his head on the kitchen island while you rummaged through the fridge for dinner ideas. "yes, i am calling them fat. they're too heavy to fly." your answer only made satoru pout. "then why do they have wings at all!? it's like false advertising for birds—can you even call them birds at that point if they can't fly!?" "birds are defined by their wings, feathers, and beak." "okay, first of all, you're a nerd." satoru commented as you walked over to the kitchen island, and you leaned against it while staring at satoru. "and secondly, that's stupid. wings are supposed to help you fly. like, why do penguins have wings?" "they're flippers, toru." "SHUT UP! THEY LOOK LIKE WINGS!"

now, satoru does a lot of random things, but a favorite has to be when your phone camera is on.

no, not just on him, but you as well.

your selfies? most of them have him in it. it's either his hand is in a peace sign, his arm is wrapped around you, or he secretly leans his head in frame and sticks out his tongue.

your mirror photos? his arm is wrapped around your waist with his chin on your shoulder, or if he's shirtless, he will step behind you and flex.

you complain, but you always end up looking back at those photos with a smile.

now, when the camera is on him, he does take it seriously. many think he would be funny with it, but satoru knows he's handsome.

so, he has to make sure all of your photos of him are good-looking so when you look back at them—he knows you look back at them—you remember how amazing he is.

but if you asked him to be silly, he just has to do it.

not because he wants to, but because you want him to.

he'd do anything for you, which is why he's satoru 'i love my wife' gojo.

he would legally change his middle name to that if it proved to you that he is hopelessly in love with you.

a/n : someone's reblog text of one of my other writings inspired this.

comments & reblogs are appreciated !!

[kianamaiart]

One thing that was kinda ingrained in me while storyboarding on Big City Greens was screen direction and the sort of illusion of progress that screen direction can create (this isn't just a BCG thing by the way, it's an actual film technique but this is where i learned it)

It wasn't a hard rule or anything but our showrunners generally preferred to have the characters going from left to right as the story/episode progressed (you'll probably notice this in a lot of movies now if you didn't know about this before haha). I've definitely had to restage sequences due to this rule when I first started LOL but it's become second nature to me at this point. Whenever a character moves left to right, in my brain, that means they're moving the story forward, much like how when you read it's usually left to right and you yourself are moving the story forward (obviously this is a more western thing).

I, in hindsight, realized I was doing this in my pilot. When I was first visualizing the pilot I always imagined Aika going from screen right to left at the beginning of the episode for some reason. I didn't really give it much thought but afterwards I asked myself why I did that, because I always start characters going left to right. It just felt correct in my head and now I'm understanding why. Because she's running away, actively trying to get away from the story and the goal. It's not until she gets to the cafeteria and starts moving left to right, towards Zira, who unknowingly is going to be the reason Aika has to dive back into her story. Then from that point on the left to right screen direction continues (even into the credits). I thought it was cool that my brain was just wired to do that after all these years but also a nice reminder about how important but subtle filmmaking and cinematography is. I think a lot of people do this even if they don't know the technique!

Idk why I felt like sharing this LOL. Just thought it was funny and maybe helpful for anyone looking to get into storyboarding or filmmaking! I actually don't know if there's a technical term for this? This video calls it Lateral Character Movement so maybe it's that!

but yeah anyways thought it'd be fun to share. I LOVE ART!!!

[ms-demeanor]

Sometimes college professors like to hop on my posts lamenting the sorry state of syllabi these days and joke about how they haven't thought that far ahead in the course themselves, or talk about how they struggle to complete a schedule for their students.

With all due respect, that's your job. If you can't do your job, you should have a different job. If you need help, ask your colleagues or your department chair or *someone* because I know that professors aren't given a hell of a lot of education on how to educate, so you probably *need* help.

But every single time I make one of those posts I get anywhere from ten to thirty messages, replies, reblogs, and asks say "oh man, that's exactly why I had to drop out of school; I couldn't keep up with the assignments because I didn't know when they were due until the week they were due."

I have been a college student in three separate decades, and "not having a schedule of assignments in the syllabus" is new to my experience. That shit didn't fly in the 2000s or 2010s and I think it likely has to do with professors being overly reliant on apps.

AT A MINIMUM your syllabus should have:

Contact information (including preferred method of contact) for the professor

Office Hours

Grading Policy

Assignment schedule.

Your assignment schedule doesn't necessarily need to have the exact page numbers of every reading or a full assignment sheet for each project, but it should have things like:

December 1st - Major Project 3 second draft due December 9th - Quiz 10 December 12th - Major Project 3 final draft due December 15th - Final Exam

If you end up presenting a more thorough schedule with readings and homework later, that is acceptable to present a week or two into the semester but it is absolutely insane to me that students these days don't know what homework they're going to have to get done over Thanksgiving break during the first couple weeks of class.

If I had three professors at once who didn't give me a schedule, how on earth would I know if I was going to have to read three chapters of a novel, take a midterm and turn in two stats homework assignments, and complete a history research paper the same week that I'm planning to travel to see family? If I'm aware of this from the beginning of the semester I can make sure not to pick up extra shifts, or I can plan to leave a day later to accommodate the midterm, or I can start working on the paper early to complete it before the due date but if I don't know what's going to be due when, I'm going to have a big problem.

If you don't give your students a schedule you are communicating that you don't care about their schedule, and that you think it's their responsibility to contort their life (and their job, and their other classes) around your class, and honestly my advice to students in that situation is "drop in the first week and pick up another class". That's actually part of why I recommend signing up for one more class than you can really manage - if you get a professor whose class looks like it's going to be a disaster because they don't have a schedule, you can bail before the withdrawal period and get a refund for the class.

I'm only in one class this semester but the professor's response has fully dropped me into "Fuck it, I guess I'll fail" mode and I don't even know if I can pull myself out of my current D grade because I don't know how many assignments we have left in the semester.

This is a shitty way to run a class. If you can't do better than this, you shouldn't be running a class.