#not really but i could be telling the truth.

[okwonyo]

when you are shipped with another idol.

엔하이픈 ୨୧ female reader seven hundred requested ！ established relationship ⠀⎯⠀⠀ not proof-read kissing skinship slight jealousy ( other )

heeseung would be purely flabbergasted. because, with who could his girlfriend be shipped with if it is not him？you will be able to see thirty different expressions displaying on his face in the space of ten seconds. would try to hide the tiny bubble of jealousy that grows inside of him. “it was me who gave you this beanie, pft,” he’d mutter under his breath while he reads the freshly aired article your manager sent to you. you would have reassure him, “it’ll go away quickly, don’t worry, bub” and maybe with a few kisses— he would forget about it quickly enough.

jay would only give you a soft and weirdly understanding smile as you tell him that fans are spamming another idol’s name in your lives. they claim that you would look cute together and you try your best to ignore them. the truth is, he would know; he would watch your live regularly. would not mind that much though, as he would not be the jealous type. still, his still so sweet demeanor would throw you off, “you don’t care?” you would ask, only slight shock written on your face. “do i need to?” he would ask, giving you a peck, “i know you are my girl,”

jake would sulk immediately. would never think that you would be shipped, loved to be seen, with someone who isn’t him. would not try to hide his jealousy at all — rather opting for a overdramatic pout that just goes with his personality so well. “do you think he is cuter ..？be honest,” he would question you, the only response he would get would be a confused look that he would straight up take for a ‘yes’. you would have to shower him in compliments while gently stroking his hair until he becomes red and hide his shy face in the crook of your neck.

sunghoon would develop a one sided dislike for the, unlucky (in that case, because your boyfriend would think that they are really lucky) idol you get shipped with. would shoot the said idol some glares that would make cold sweat appear, would slightly roll his eyes whenever that that idol talks and would fight the urge to start a war if they are a bit too close to you for his liking. you would definitely make fun of him for it, “you know it’s really all in your head right,” you would ask him, and he would just mumble while making himself comfortable on your chest.

sunoo would feel offended, almost cheated on by your fans. would hide it well, to anyone else but not to you, with a wide smile when you ask him what is wrong. you would try to scoot over his shoulder discreetly, eyeing a tweet about you and, allegedly, another idol caught dating— knowing who it really is. “you know it’s you, right?” you would giggle in his ear and he would jump, holding his heart as you scared him. would claim that he does, still pouting, nonetheless; a few poke on his soft cheeks would make him forget about it.

jungwon would be confused. would have his inexistant comprehension of the situation written all over his face. would raise his eyebrows while he watches a slideshow of you and an unknown’s ‘dating proofs’. ridiculously enough, after scrolling through the hashtag of the freshly created couple, it would convince him as well at some point. “w-woah, these are really convincing,” he would mutter, putting his phone down to stop whatever is going on. “you are only dating me, right?” he would ask in your ear, scooting over you, wrapping his arm around your waist.

riki would not like that, at all. “which one is cooler,” showing you his phone, he would interrogate you. “him or me?” your gaze would be full of endeared annoyance and fondness. would tilt his head to the side, mirroring you and waiting for you to answer his question. “you are so cute,” you would tell him, cupping his head in your hands. would have to lean a bit towards you as he is taller. the look in your eyes would quickly take over his mind— forgetting the question he asked a few seconds ago. “you will always be my only choice,” then he would smile when you kiss his nose.

this was really fun to write ! >_<

[gglitch1dd]

I’m almost 100% Wifey has had at least one heart attack having to deal with what comes out of Hero’s mouth (even if he’s not mentioned often) The kids a menace, 100% drops something fully out outta pocket at a family get together or a random quiet car ride and it SHOCKS the whole family 😭

Also before I forget - I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR WRITING just a bit of appreciation especially for the way you portray reader. I love fanfictions where the female reader is a hero or something but just like you said personally I wouldn’t mind staying home and not working, and you write it in such a respectful way towards women. Reader is a woman comfortable with her husband providing for her a chooses this life because it suits HER, supporting woman is supporting whatever path they pick, whether that’s a NASA scientist or a stay at home mom!

Anyway that’s my little ramble 😭

AWWW thanks honey! I'm glad you see it that way. Just a bit of a reminder that the only reason that wifey feels like she can stay home is because she trusts Izuku. Izuku is a man worth trusting to provide for her and THAT is what dictates her decision. But she could have been whatever. We love women.

Also YESSSSSS.

The things Hero says is CRAZY. He's definitely a mix of Riley from the Boondocks and Carl Gallagher from Shameless.

Hero

Your son, Hero was a one in a million type of boy. Although very active, he had a mouth to put even his father to shame. There was something about your middle child that never made sense to you. For starters, he never had a filter on his mouth and it scared the living daylights out of you.

"Mom, why are girls stupid?"

You paused at the question, turning to look up at your son through the rearview mirror as he sat at the back of your mommy van that your husband had bought you. All of you were coming back from a night out together and your husband was driving, allowing you to focus on Hero.

"Why do you say girls are stupid honey?" You asked.

"Stupid people are hypocrites and girls are hypocrites." He stated boldly, folding his arms over his chest.

Shoyo blinked confused, the seven year old tilting his head. "What's a hypocrite?"

Asahi adjusted his glasses as he kept his eyes on his game on his phone. "Hypocrite. Adjective. A person who acts in contradiction to his or her stated beliefs or feelings. Synonyms, a liar, or someone who is two faced." He stated the definition almost as if saying it straight out of the dictionary.

"Aka, Takahashi Suzume." Hero stated with a scowl on his face. You heard your husband snort at the name dropping in the car.

You gave him a look before turning back to look at your son. "Hero, why do you say she's a hypocrite?"

"Because she asked me to the winder formal and I said no. I told her no, but she kept asking me. I thought no means no, mom! When a girl pressures a guy and he says no, he's being unreasonable. But when a guy pressures a girl, noo, it's sexual assault." He rolled his eyes.

"Hero!"

"What happened to equal rights mom? I want my rights!" He demanded making Toshinori burst out laughing at the back where he sat next to Kane. "This is the problem with society today. If girls want to be treated the same, I shouldn't go to jail if I punch Takuhashi everytime she opens her fat mouth. Equal rights, equal fights!"

"HERO!"

You stood in the kitchen as Asahi sat at the island table, venting to you as you made lunch. You were cutting up sandwiches for the boys as your second oldest son sat with a hand keeping his head up. "I don't know mom, he says he likes me, but I really can't find it in myself to like him romantically."

You hummed as you nodded your head understandingly. Your husband stood up from his recliner and walked over to where you were standing, moving to grab a little triangle sandwich and stuff it into his mouth. "Asahi, you just have to come out straight to him and tell him the truth." You advised. Your husband nodded his head in agreement, chewing on the sandwich. Izuku reached over to grab another one but you slapped his hand away, motioning for him to wait, you handed him a glass of water instead making him frown.

"I thought Asahi already came out?" Hero asked as he walked into the kitchen from outside. "Or is he finally out of his phase?" He asked nonchalantly, making you turn your head to look at your eleven year old child shocked. Asahi's jaw dropped that his brother would just say that.

"Hero!" You chastised. You sighed as you shook your head. "Your brother is just... he's having trouble telling his friend that he doesn't like him back." You explained simply, knowing that Hero had gone through something similar as well.

Hero raised an eyebrow as he grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl. "Is that it?" He asked surprised as he looked to his older brother. "That's what you've been worried about? Not liking your fellow Otaku friend?"

"I'M NOT AN OTAKU!"

"Yah, and Satomi doesn't have a fat ass, I guess we're both lying."

Your husband chocked on his water. You gasped. "HERO!"

Hero shrugged. "It's the truth, and at least I can say it now that her and Toshi have broken up." He turned to look to his brother again. He pat Asahi on the back. "In all serious, Asahi. Just tell him the truth. Grow some balls man," He smiled. "Maybe then you wouldn't find the need to date someone else that already has them." A loud laugh came out from Toshinori somewhere in the sitting room.

"MIDORIYA HERO!" You shouted at him, your face burning at his comments

"Sorry, mom, it was a joke." He put his hands up in surrender. He looked over at the banana he was holding before looking back at his brother. He handed it over to Asahi. "For you." Hero grabbed a peach before turning around and heading back outside.

You turned to look at your husband with a pointed look. "Izuku, you need to do something about him!" However as you turned to your husband, Izuku held a hand over his mouth to hide his own laughter. "Izuku! This is not funny!"

"No. No it's not funny, but he's hilarious."

In all seriousness, Hero loves his brothers and everything he says is joking... sort of. But he would die for what is right and he is a good boy. He just says something that would make you sprain your neck at least once.

-Glitch1d

[finelinefae]

the other woman

synopsis: y/n is the other woman who just wants to be loved

word count: 5.5k

contains: angst, not a super happy ending maybe it is depending how u see it idk, harry is kind of a dick, mentions of medication, mentions of mental health (anxiety, allusions to depression), harry definitely listens to the 1975 in this, smoking, friends with benefits situation, toxic relationship

. . .

"That's the ugliest piece of shit I have ever seen."

"Yeah,"

"I love it."

"You do?"

"I adore it."

"Good."

Harry sat against the headboard of her bed which took up the majority of his tiny bedroom in his even tinier apartment an hour train ride from central London. He was shirtless, his trousers were unbuttoned and his hair was a dishevelled mess. He had a cigarette between his teeth, Y/N hated the way the smoke made the room smell but she would never tell him that.

She sat up against the wall, her legs on top of his. She wore cotton underwear and his shirt, the buttons weren't done up, his gaze switching between his sketchbook and her breasts. Her eyes were fixated on the picture in the center of the white A3 pages.

She didn't know what it was but it was black and white and looked like skin. She wondered whether it was his skin but she wouldn't have called it ugly. She had seen every inch of his skin and the last forty-five minutes was proof of that. Her lips had pressed against the most intimate of places, she would know if it was his skin.

"What is it?" She frowned, tilting it to one side to see if a change in perspective would enhance its features.

"It's an areola," He responded, releasing a sigh, almost as if he was frustrated she didn't know he had taken a picture of a woman's breast.

"A tit?" Her heart began to race as she thought about him taking pictures of her without asking.

He chuckles and puts out his cigarette on her bedside table, leaning forward to throw it out of the window. "It sounds less artistic when you say it." He leans back again and reaches for a strand of her hair to play with. "But yes it is a tit."

'Who's is it?' She wanted to ask 'When did you take it?' 'Is she pretty?' 'Why not me?'

She could feel herself slipping away, wanting to cover herself up the more she questioned him in her own head. She glanced down at her chest briefly.

"It's not you." His words stung more than they should.

"I know that." She pushed the sketchbook away, not wanting to look at the picture of another woman's areolas. "What for?"

"We're doing the human form." He answers,

"Right."

"You're upset."

"I'm fine." She argued but the truth was she was upset and she hated the fact he knew that immediately.

He was good at hiding his emotions, he always had that sense of mystery to him, her not so much. She was sensitive and wore her heart on her sleeve. She was desperate to fall in love and when she did, she felt it to her very core, her chest would ache at the thought of being isolated from human contact. Sometimes she felt he took advantage of that but if she were to admit that, she would have to leave him and she couldn't do that.

She would rather die than be alone, especially if it meant being away from the one person to who she had developed an unhealthy attachment since they had met.

Harry's phone went off and he quickly reached across her to grab it from his side table. She felt like someone was pinching her all over as he bit back a grin at whoever had sent him a text. Suddenly being naked around him felt wrong so she quickly reached for her clothing that had been discarded on the bedroom floor.

"You're leaving?" He asks.

"Who is it?"

"It's nobody." She knew him long enough to know when he was lying.

"How long have you been seeing her?" Y/N wasn't going to cry, she wasn't, she really really wasn't.

Harry rolled his eyes, "You're being dramatic," He always tried to make it seem as if her feelings were too big for the space around them.

"You're a fucking jerk you know that?" She pulled her trousers up her legs and didn't even bother to button them up as she went in search for her shoes. "You show me someone else's tits as soon as we finish having sex? And then you get a text message and don't even tell me who it is?"

"I don't know why you're getting so upset we agreed long ago this was just a temporary thing."

"Oh I know you remind me that every time, I like to remind myself every day I'm just someone to pass the time." Y/N was used to being someone made to be used by someone else. She could be bleeding on the floor in the middle of the street and she wouldn't be surprised if someone took a plastic bottle and started filling it up with her blood in hopes it could save someone else before they even thought about rescuing her.

The problem was, she didn't even try to stop them. People entered her life and took pieces of her and carried them away with them, just to discard them later. Before she even thought about healing herself, someone else would come along and snatch another piece of her away.

That was the problem with people who were afraid of living with no love in their life, they were prepared to do anything for it. Y/N put too much faith in people despite the number of times she had been let down by the people close to her.

Harry was no different to that it seemed.

"What are you talking about? Hey," He grabs her wrist and pulls her into him, his eyes were sharp and for a brief moment, she thought she saw a flicker of emotion in his eye. Her heart pounded at the touch of his fingertips grazing her pulse. "What do you mean? You don't really believe that do you?"

"What does it matter? I know nothing about you Harry."

"You know more about me than anyone else does."

Sometimes it didn't feel like it.

Harry liked to make her feel special. He was good at it. He sent her texts during the day and brushed his hand against hers when they passed in the hallways. They'd come back to his place after a few drinks with friends in the evening, fuck, and be done with it. He'd send her away and act as if what they did didn't matter to him.

It mattered to her though. No one thinks that about a rebound or a person you had casual sex with but it always matters. She had never slept around until she had met him and now she was intoxicated by him because it mattered, right from the very beginning.

She closes her eyes and nods, "Please tell me who it was." She almost pleads with him.

"It's the girl in the picture, she's in my photography class." He admits.

"Do you like her?" Y/N almost whispers, she braces herself for the answer. She had been dreading the day he was planning to end this, she thought she would have more time.

Harry's head falls back like it kills him inside to give an honest answer to her question, "I really like her."

Y/N pushes him back and finally cries in front of him, "Go to Hell."

"Y/N-" He tries.

"No," She moves away from him quickly and reaches for the door, "And for what it's worth I lied, that is the ugliest piece of shit I've ever seen and I hate it. It's ugly and you are an awful photographer."

She was glad she got that out as she slammed the door behind her on the way out.

An hour later she called him.

"Harry, I'm sorry," She whimpers and sobs into the phone. It was an ugly, heart wrenching sob as she cried to him on the phone, "I didn't mean to upset you. I don't think it's ugly at all. I'm sorry,"

"Hey love, it's okay, it's okay," He comforted her.

"I didn't mean it Harry please forgive me I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. Please, please, please, please." She said the words over and over again. Pleading for something that seemed like more than forgiveness.

"Y/N I forgive you, I promise. Please go to sleep." He asks her, he was worried for her but she had done this often enough he knew it wasn't anything serious.

"Promise?" She cries, sniffling.

"I promise,"

"Okay, I'm sorry Harry."

"I forgive you."

The call ended and Y/N lay back staring at the ceiling, her eyes burning from all the crying she had done since she got home from being with Harry. She turned over and took half a miligram of xanax and a sleeping pill, despite her doctor telling her not to, and fell asleep.

"Who was that?" Harry turned to look at the girl in the photo who was now lying on his bed. Her hair was flipped to one side, exposing her entire neck and collarbones.

"Nobody." He forced a smile on his face and walked over to her with his camera, the sounds of Y/N's pleading echoing in his head for the remainder of the night.

--

The next day, Y/N walked into the art room for her first class of the day. She took out her portfolio and sat at her table where she had been working on her next project. It was a painting she had been working on for the past few days and she wasn't near to being finished just yet.

Her eyes were swollen and red from having spent the majority of yesterday crying her eyes out. She skipped her therapy appointment and turned her phone off as she thought about how lonely she really was and how she had no one but herself to blame for putting herself in that situation.

Harry was also in this class but he hadn't turned up yet. The thought of him made her stomach twist. Picturing his smile as he told her about the girl he had been seeing, 'I really like her.' echoed in her head and she wondered what it would be like for him to say that about her.

"How's it going?" Ollie, a good friend of Y/N's, sat down at the easel and stool next to her and placed his backpack on the ground at his feet. He pulled out his pens and watercolor paints as he set up his station to paint.

"Fine." She muttered, reaching for her headphones in her pocket and putting one in her left ear.

"That doesn't sound good." He chuckled, shaking his head.

"I'm fine Ollie." She repeated, a little more hostile this time.

"Did you go to Harry's place yesterday? I tried to call you but it went straight to answerphone."

"What makes you think that?" She looked at him, tilting her head in curiosity.

"You have this look in your eye." He seems as if he doesn't want to go on but she waits for him to carry on speaking, "I don't know how to describe it... It's like someone's put light in your chest just to then suck the life out of you." He motions towards her painting, "Kind of like that."

She looked at her painting and stared at it. A woman sat in an empty room, a stream of light hitting her face from the window. Outside were people celebrating amongst vines and trees and flowers. The painting was a mixture of beiges and browns and green but the woman's eyes were black and lifeless... they were the saddest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

--

"Fuck," Harry groaned and fell on top of her, sweat beading his forehead as he left her and fell to her side. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her mind was blank and her chest was heavy.

Harry reached across her for his phone, "Shit." He muttered, shifting to the end of the bed and jumping to his feet.

"What?" Y/N asked, sitting up, the blanket falling to her waist.

"I didn't know what time it was, I'm late for my class." He pulled up his trousers and ran his fingers through his hair as he went in search for a shirt to wear on his bedroom floor.

"Hmm." She sighed and fell back, reaching for one of his cigarettes and fiddling with it between her fingers.

"Are you going to smoke that?" He nodded towards the cigarette.

"Would you like me more if I did?" She replied.

He frowned, "I'd like you just the same."

She stared at him, he was so pretty. He had just gotten out of bed and his hair was a mess, his shirt had a stain on and his trousers were undone but he was so beautiful. She wondered if he ever thought that about her, whether she was beautiful despite the ugliness and mess.

Y/N reached for a lighter, lit the end of the cigarette, and inhaled the smoke.

She didn't seem to mind the way it made the room smell this time because it was a reminder that he had actually been there in her presence even just for a brief few minutes. She stared at the empty room where he once stood.

--

Y/N remembered when she first saw them together. It was a Friday night and all the art students spent Friday night at a bar in Camden Town. Y/N and Harry weren't in the same friendship circle but they had friends that knew friends and that was really how they met.

She sat with Ollie on a couch as everyone else played pool. She had taken three shots of vodka and was on her first drink of the night. The door opened and they both walked in hand in hand. The girl was stunning, her legs were long and thin, her hair was thick and wavy, her eyes were innocent and shone underneath the lights of the bar and her hand was intertwined with Harry's.

They caught eyes for a brief second before Harry turned away from her and went over to the bar to order them a drink. Ollie was talking about something she wasn't paying much attention to as her eyes stayed fixated on them.

She noticed the way his hand pressed against her back at the bottom of her spine and how he brushed her hair behind her ear as they leaned against the bar waiting for their drinks. How she smiled as he whispered something to her and bit her lip as he traced the back of her hand with the tip of his finger.

Y/N realised the Harry standing in front of her was someone she had never met before. It was strange how we never really know the people we meet as they choose to present themselves as someone else depending on who they are with. It's only when you're with your person that you can truly be your authentic self. She wondered which version of himself was real. She even wondered which version of herself was real, who she was with him or who she was without.

"I'm going to go over there." Y/N slurred, moving off the couch but falling back again as the room began to spin.

"Oh no you don't." Ollie pulled her back. "I'm not going to let you embarrass yourself like that."

"Why would I be embarrassed?" He looked at her like she was supposed to understand what he was hinting to.

"You'll forgive me in the morning." He said like he had done her some kind of favour.

She did.

--

"When are you going to take pictures of me for your class?" She wondered, playing with the ends of her hair on his bed as Harry fiddled with the strings of his guitar.

"You want me to do that?" He asked.

"Why not? I think it would be fun." She thought for a moment, "What would you choose to take pictures of?"

Harry pondered on the idea, thinking really hard to come up with an answer to her question. She bit her lip to hold back a smile. She liked the idea of him scanning his memories for parts of her body he had seen. It made her happy knowing that pieces of her were ingrained into his mind like lyrics to a song or the colours of the rainbow.

"Your eyes." He answered after a while.

She frowned, not expecting the answer, "What?"

"Your eyes." He repeated.

"That's it?" Her eyes were the only part of her he thought worth photographing?

"Yeah."

"That's boring." She muttered, falling back against the mattress.

"What makes you say that?"

"You took a picture of that girls boob and you've probably taken a lot more pictures since you like her so much." He cringed and set his guitar down to look at her properly. Harry knew he had to be careful with what he was saying, he could tell by the tone of her voice she was getting upset.

"Those were the only pictures I took." He argued, "And besides, I like your eyes."

"You never look into them." She retorts.

"Of course I do."

"You don't."

A beat of silence rested between them until Harry spoke again, "Maybe when you're not looking."

"Why would you look at my eyes when I'm not looking?" She wasn't understanding anything he was saying.

"Because I love watching you watch the world." He replied. "If I don't know how I feel about something I look at your eyes and everything makes sense. Sometimes it feels as though I'm understanding the world through you."

Her face softened, her heart settled in her chest. She felt warmth spread through her like she had just received a warm hug. The corners of her lips tugged upwards and she crawled over to kiss his cheek. "That was possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." She confessed, her heart expanding.

"Then you need to be surrounded by better people." He reached for his guitar. "Come sit here." He patted his thigh and she rolled off the bed to sit exactly where he asked.

He began to play a song on his guitar, gently singing the lyrics in a low voice. She rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck.

It was one of those moments she wanted to freeze and stay in forever. Nothing else existed outside of this bubble. Her heart was happy.

--

Ollie's birthday was January 23rd and he was having a house party at his flat.

"How many people are coming?" Y/N asked as she applied mascara in front of his bathroom mirror. She was crouched down inside the sink so she could get as close as possible to the mirror.

"I don't know, I invited about twenty and said they could spread the word to whoever was available." OIlie applied aftershave as he spoke.

"So everyone?"

"Possibly."

Y/N was excited to see Harry. Although they didn't speak much outside of the confinements of his bedroom, she was still looking forward to being in his presence. Ever since their intimate moment, they shared a few days ago, she had been longing for him. Her heart sighed in bliss at the thought of being near him again.

She wanted to wear something extra special that she thought he would like. Her hair was curled, which she never normally did, she wore black, leather trousers and a black corset to go with it and black heels to make her slightly taller than she really was. She accessorised with gold jewellery and had done her makeup in a much more simple manner.

"You look like that girl." Ollie spoke as soon as she walked into his kitchen.

"What girl?" She blushed.

"The one Harry was with at the bar the other night. I mean, the outfit is hot but you never wear your makeup and hair like that."

"Geez would it kill you to just say I look 'good'?" She mumbled, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. She never normally wore her hair down as it irritated her.

Ollie's face softened, she hated the sympathy on his face, "You look fucking hot." He said, pulling her in for a hug, "Don't let anyone change that." He whispered.

People began to arrive around 10pm. Ollie's apartment filled up rather quickly and Y/N was already on her third drink of the night. She was stood talking to a few of her friends from one of her textile classes until her eyes caught sight of the curly-headed boy she had been waiting for.

She smiled, excusing herself from the conversation and shifting through the crowd to get to him. "Harry hey," She beamed but then immediately felt her happiness slip from her.

"Hey Y/N," His eyes were wide at the sight of her, he was so used to seeing her in her natural form.

Y/N didn't reply as her focus was fixated on the girl talking to some other people. The girl he had bought with her. The girl in the photo. "Are you okay?" Harry asked when she didn't say anything.

"I'm fine." She forced a smile on her face.

"We're not staying long. I just thought I'd stop by to see Ollie." Her heart deflated at the use of 'we', they were a 'we' now.

"Right, I'm sure he'll appreciate it." She nodded, reaching for another drink.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He checked with her.

"I'm fine. I just need to use the bathroom." Y/N pushed past him and made her way to Ollie's bathroom which was surprisingly empty.

"Are you okay?" Someone asked her from behind as she was about to step into the bathroom.

She turned around and came face to face with the girl from the photo. She looked even more beautiful up close if that were even possible.

"I'm fine." Y/N muttered, it seemed as though that was the only response she was giving anyone nowadays.

"Harry sent me to come and see if you were okay." She said, even her voice was soft and gentle, "He was worried about you."

Y/N scoffed, "What he couldn't come find me himself?"

"He was trying to find Ollie I think-" The girl sighed, "If you're okay, I'll go back and tell him."

"Before you go...Can I ask you something?" Y/N could hear the voice in her head screaming at her not to say anything but she had to know, she needed to know.

"Go ahead." The girl seemed irritated by Y/N, like she was wasting her time.

"Do you know who I am?" Y/N could feel her eyes burn as she asked the question.

The girl from the photo frowned, confused by her question, "What?"

"Do you know who I am?" Y/N repeated but this time more sternly.

The girl from the photo looked at her, really looked at her, narrowing her eyes as if to get a better look. "I have no idea."

Y/N's insides felt as though they were bleeding. It was almost like Harry was the only one who was keeping her stitched together but now everything inside of her had come loose from that one reply.

The girl from the photo hesitated before saying, "I'll go and tell my boyfriend you're okay."

Y/N looked at her as she walked away, completely crushed. She walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her, falling onto her knees and sobbing into her hands.

She hadn't realised how much power he had over her until this moment. How much she relied on him and how she couldn't picture her life without him. She trusted him too easily and that was nobody's fault but her own.

Her breathing began to pick up and she felt a strange sensation like pins and needles trickle along her skin. She pulled off her trousers and her corset until she was in nothing but her bra and underwear. She crawled into the bathtub and turned on the shower so cold water could reach her skin, all whilst hyperventilating and crying her eyes out.

This was unlike any pain she had ever felt. She wasn't sure why it had hurt so much but maybe it was because another person had used her, maybe this time it was because she gave every inch of herself to him and she had nothing but skin and bones left.

"Y/N are you in there?" His voice was muffled from behind the door.

"G-Go away." She whispered, rocking backward and forwards with her head tucked into her knees and cold water wetting her skin.

"I'm worried about you, love." His voice sounded so sad.

"Go away." She carried on chanting like this was a nightmare she wanted to wake up from.

She felt soft hands touching her shoulders and immediately looked up into green, sad eyes. For once Harry was easy to read as his eyes showed nothing but remorse.

He reached past her and turned the shower off, she was shivering and he reached for a towel to wrap around her shoulders in hopes it would provide some warmth.

They said nothing, Y/N didn't get out of the bath as it helped in providing a separation between them. "Why don't you love me like I love you?" She whispered. Her eyes looking into his, they were red and her face was stained with tears.

There was no point in denying things anymore, he was one of the only people who knew she was too clever for that, "I don't know," His head fell forward, he felt defeated.

"Why did you put me here?" She cried, "Why did you put me here if you were just going to leave me?"

"I-I thought you understood what this was. I thought-" He lied.

Harry knew Y/N better than anyone in her life. He knew better than to hurt her like this.

"Why does everyone leave me?" She whimpered, "Why can't I be loved?"

"Y/N-"

"Please tell me you love me. Please, please, please," She was begging him, crying into his shoulder.

"I-I can't Y/N." Never had her name sounded so disgusting coming from his lips.

"I don't know what to do anymore Harry. I-I would rather die than be alone," She sobbed.

"Y/N you're never alone."

"You're ending this." She cried, "I'm alone."

He couldn't stand having this conversation and not being able to hold her. He stepped into the bathtub fully clothed and sat in front of her, reaching for her hand and holding it gently in his. The feeling of his skin seemed to ease some of the pain she had been feeling, but the loneliness still echoed throughout her.

"I don't know why I can't love you, Y/N, but it doesn't mean I don't feel anything about you. You have become my best friend—"

"I don't want to be your best friend. No, no," she shook her head. "You've killed me once by admitting you don't love me. Please don't send me to Hell by calling me your friend. Do you know how painful that is? I just want to be loved by you. Is that too much to ask? I have given everything, I have given everything to you. I rooted for you in every way possible. I have killed myself trying to get you to love me, and I don't think I even know who I am anymore because of it."

Harry didn't know what to say. He was selfish and a coward and undeserving of her love, and he wished she could see that.

"Y/N—"

"Please just leave."

His eyes watered at the thought of going about his life without her. He could feel the air around them grow thick, his chest rising and falling as he tried to breathe in. He felt like he was drowning at the thought of her leaving his life. Despite not loving her in the way she desired, he realized he would also be alone without her.

Maybe that was it.

All along, they had just been two people dealing with loneliness and coping with it differently. One used the other to fill the gaps in the spaces where they felt most alone, and the other fell hopelessly in love in hopes it would change them. That was the true nature of it, and even if they were meant to be together at some point, now was not the time.

"Listen to me," Harry whispered, collecting her hands and holding them to his chest. "I'm going to leave."

She choked on a sob.

"I don't want to do that." She shook her head. "I just want to be with you." The thought of the loneliness seeped into her pores, and she didn't think it would be possible for her to stay afloat as she drowned in it.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," he said softly, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry. I don't want to hurt you. I-I don't know what I'm doing."

She was taken aback by his tears and was unsure of what to do. It was the first time she had seen him cry, the first time she realized he was equally as afraid as she was. She leaned forward and wrapped him in a hug, allowing him to cry into her shoulder.

This was the end.

"I love you, Harry. I really do," she whispered into his ear.

He couldn't reply, so he just sobbed even harder.

--

The days hadn't changed so much when Harry stepped out of Y/N's life.

They didn't talk much during the day when they were friends so Y/N went about carrying on her classes and speaking to Ollie who she appreciated more than ever as he comforted her when she was feeling at her worst. It was Ollie who made the days feel... a little less lonely.

She missed his touches and texting him on her phone but she tried to come up with ways to cope with that by watching youtube videos or drawing so she wasn't tempted to unblock him and forgive him again.

The nights were the hardest. Y/N hadn't realised that the only reason she'd been sleeping was because of Harry. She had tried to not take sleeping pills to help her get to sleep but sometimes she'd spend the entire night just painting in hopes it would made her tired.

Since they had some of the same friends now, Y/N knew of Harry's ventures through word of mouth. He had broke things off with the girl from the photo the day after Ollie's birthday party. Turns out they weren't really in an established relationship and the girl did know who Y/N was because Harry never stopped talking about Y/N when they were together.

That made her smile.

He was an assistant to a wedding photographer on the weekends so that he could save up some money for his own studio. She was happy to hear he was actually making the most of his talent instead of wasting it like she had considered doing multiple times.

Other than that, the days went by rather slowly and nothing out of the ordinary happened. She had been on dates here and there and was in her first real relationship in her third year of University but that only lasted a few months. Turns out he was cheating on her the entire time they were together which felt like one step forwards and two steps back.

Y/N moved into an apartment in central London after she graduated and did some freelancing as an illustrator whilst working weekends at a hotel and the evenings at a bar in Soho.

Her life was mundane but she was okay with that. She had spent so much time focusing on others that she forgot to focus on herself. She had started going to therapy, the gym, and even became vegetarian for a little while. She was no longer taking Xanax as often as she used to and spent less time thinking about Harry.

She wondered what he was up to from time to time but in the end, she just hoped he wasn't alone.

[hkthatgffan]

I really did not wanna talk about this stupid topic, but with so many people falling for it, I figured I should; THE DIRECT ARTICLE ABOUT A GRAVITY FALLS REVIVAL IS A FUCKING LIE!! Lemme explain below why!!

Ever since this article by The Direct was published, way too many people are thinking Gravity Falls is really coming back and the usual season 3 belief is spreading yet again. And of course, YouTubers who should know better made videos on it and other "journalists" are spreading this lie. Here's the real facts! The executive in the article NEVER alluded to a revival. All they said is that Alex is publishing a book (The Book of Bill) and there's some shorts being made. All this article is basing its claim on is the phrase, "Never say Never!" Alex has had a deal with Netflix since 2018. Under that deal, he cannot make new cartoons for other networks, including Disney and Gravity Falls. He can voice on non Netflix shows and help in small ways like he did on TOH, but he cannot make a new show outside Netflix.

The shorts they are alluding to are confirmed to be likely stuff like the Broken Karaoke series on Disney Channel's YouTube page or theme song takeover stuff. Disney TVA News, while not 100% the most reliable source, has suggested that as the case and given Alex was at DTVA in April recording something per an Instagram story he made, it makes the most sense. What's more, there is a rumoured short being made for The Book of Bill which this could be meaning. Notice how it has no indication of a revival? Alex Hirsch has said he has ideas for GF stories, but they are more book centric. Heck, in me and Hana's interview alone he alluded to Stan and Ford stories he'd wanna do if given the chance to make another graphic novel. That is all!

And speaking of Alex…he's not said shit on this! He's not tweeted about it or liked any tweet about it. And Alex has said in the past to not believe anyone claiming Gravity Falls is coming back unless he says so himself on Twitter. So, take a guess what I did? I messaged him!! I was in talks with Alex recently for another video I'm making later in the future and asked him about this article during it. Without leaking our DM's, Alex said straight up, this article is all "just talk!" It's clickbait! Alex Hirsch confirmed it is clickbait!!

Direct is lying to you and so is anyone else saying this is real or that Gravity Falls is coming back! It just isn't. The only person who you should believe about this stuff is Alex Hirsch himself and he clearly has said it's not. And even supposing Direct is telling the truth about this executive saying something is possible, it's just gonna be book or small shorts stuff…NOT a season 3 or reboot, or revival or spin off series. I know that stuff is pretty popular to talk about, hell, I'd kill for a Gravity Falls prequel story myself. But it's not happening.

But with that said, I hope this post helped you better understand what is up. This article is a sham and a joke to the field of journalism. Do your damn job and tell the truth instead of making clickbait shit that will get you ad revenue! People who write articles like this are a joke and I feel bad for anyone who falls for their BS! These articles will never stop being made, so it's up to you all to be smart and not fall for them.

Remember, if Alex Hirsch doesn't say anything about it, it's not legit!!

Stay informed properly out there! New videos coming soon :)

[nanaarchy]

Hey chat !!!! I'm going insane.

Ever since my first listen to TMA, I've had a huge question that NEVER got answered.

Never. Not in the whole series, not Q&As or the wiki or anything. I thought I would never find answers. I thought it would be forgotten. I thought it was a small insignificant detail and I'd have to live with never knowing the truth about it.

Now with TMAGP 19, I might finally know the answer.

Maybe. Maybe maybe. But It Could Be. And now I'm losing my mind at the implications.

((For the record, I know that the stories and worldbuilding are inherently separate - hell, there are even timeline differences in the cases I'm using as evidence. But the overlap might be important, especially when it comes to the Web.))

Spoilers for both shows below!

Its branches were exquisite, and delicate, swaying slightly from small eddies in the liquid, and they shone with every spectra. I must confess that to look upon it, one was – (sigh) filled with profound wonder at its exquisite elegance. [...] Even I, steeped in worldly matters as I am, recognized The Lord’s words to Adam, and was much dismayed at the implication. Isaac then plucked the delicate fruit with ungloved hands and held it before me. [...] The creature was taking root. Strands of its mottled brown hair were extruding downwards between the floor, seeking the dark earth below. Then, too, its back began to sprout, radiant branches unfurling and thickening before me, reaching upwards towards the sunlight with a seemingly insatiable desire. [...] I tell you here, Robert, it saw me, and it knew me. (TMAGP 19 - HARD RESET)

It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole. Graham noticed me staring, and told me that interesting antique furniture was one of his few true passions. Apparently he’d found the table in a second-hand shop during his student days and fallen in love with it. It had been in pretty bad shape but he’d spent a long time and a lot of money restoring it, though he’d never been able to figure out what was supposed to go in the centre. He assumed it was a separate piece and couldn’t track it down. (MAG 3 - ACROSS THE STREET)

Re: Magnus Institute Ruins. By RedCanary on Saturday April 23 2022 12:17pm. The photos from the spelunk seem properly gone, but I did find an old wooden thing with a bunch of similar symbols on. Some kinda empty box, not really sure what for, though. Gonna see if I can get the light right for a decent pic. Edit: No dice, I’m afraid. Must be something up with my phone camera. Really not helping the whole paranoia thing either. Anyone know anything about photographic distortion? Gonna see if I can borrow my dad’s SLR tomorrow. (TMAGP 1 - FIRST SHIFT)

Adelard Dekker stood in the corner. He was straight and motionless, his lips moving rapidly, though no sound came out of them. In the centre of the room, stood a table carved from dark wood and wrapped all over with a sprawling, intricate pattern. And in front of that table was the thing that had said it was my cousin. It was long and thin, the tops of it bent against the ceiling and its stick-like limbs flailed from too many joints and elbows. Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light. The face at the top of that gangly frame was like nothing on earth. (MAG 78 - DISTANT COUSIN)

Now... Now I get it. I get it. I finally gave an answer. Or, at least, I think we'll get a concrete answer soon. But I think I get it.

I think I get where the web table comes from. I think I know what it's made of. why it glows. why it had a hole in the middle. I think I might know how the web gained control and sentience so much faster than the other fears. and, if it still manifests in the same way in the Protocol universe, how it also quickly became "the manager" of other fears, as theories suggest.

More importantly, I think I know what was up with the mysterious tree from so, so long ago.

Now I have an answer.

Why was there an apple buried in Hill Top Road?

I opened the box and sitting inside was a single green apple. It looked fresh, shiny, with a coat of condensation like it had just been picked on a cool spring morning. I picked it up. I wasn’t going to eat it, I’m not that stupid, but more than bleeding trees or phantom burning, this confused me. As I took it out of the box, though, it began to turn. The skin turned brown and bruised and started to shrivel in my hand. Then it split. And out came spiders. Dozens, hundreds of spiders erupting from this apple that was rotting right before my eyes. I shrieked and dropped it before any of them could touch my arm. The apple fell to the ground and burst in a cloud of dust. I backed away and waited until I was sure all the spiders had left before retrieving the box. I smashed it with a crowbar, and threw the remains into a skip. (MAG 8 - BURNED OUT)

And now I have an answer. Maybe.

[doobean]

SMOKE SIGNALS ─ BAROU SHOUEI

𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼: Barou seems to have enough of your godawful dating life. What he doesn’t know is that you’ve reached your breaking point, too.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚: explicit content ﾉ 18+ ﾉ fem!afab!reader ﾉ friends to lovers ﾉ idiots in love ﾉ roommates AU ﾉ barou centric ﾉ soft love making bc he's a CLB duh ﾉ narration heavy ﾉ kinda mean to reader but it all means well ﾉ first time/virginity loss ﾉ dry humping ﾉ fingering ﾉ missionary ﾉ no beta we die like men wc: 8.5k (longest smut fic i've written thus far whew) a/n: hello friends i am back hehe trying out a new format :3 and also a standalone barou fic because wow i've always paired this guy w nagi sjakhdkajdfh pls give me more hair down barou im begging on my fuckin knees

“Promise me that you won’t get mad,” you peek around the door frame, head poking into Barou’s room.

“The hell did you do this time,” Barou tries to keep his voice casual, red eyes flickering from his computer monitor to your face, then back again. Frankly, he has no idea what you’re possibly referring to, but whenever you’re vague like this, it’s usually not a good thing.

Your brows knit together and you clench the sides of the door. “You gotta promise me, Shouei.”

It has to be something bad, at least in his mind, because you’re trying really hard to look convincing. He can make out the small fidgeting motions by just how hard your knuckles are gripping against the door frame. Barou exhales and pauses, and it’s for a long, rare moment. He’s always the type of guy to say whatever comes to mind, and it’s usually a whole bunch of unfiltered harsh truths and things that others don't want to hear. It’s rare that Barou is actually picking his words carefully and, of course, that catches your attention even more.

“Shouei…”

After a few seconds, Barou manages to narrow the possibilities down to three. 

The first answer being the obvious choice: you’re planning to invite a bunch of your friends over for a last minute party. Your friends are loud, messy, and a bit too friendly towards him despite the numerous times he’s yelled at them. Whatever, he’s used to this by now. Afterall, he’s been living with you at this apartment for well over a year now—four years if he counts the amount of times you’ve crashed at his dorm during his time in high school and university. 

The second outcome might be directly related to the second half: you’re moving out. Could it be a new job opportunity with better pay? Hell, he’s seen you hunched over and obsessively scrolling through multiple job posting sites these past few months that he’s had a feeling that the day will come sooner or later. But it wouldn’t be something that Barou could see himself getting frustrated over.

Which only leads to the third option: you’ve somehow brought home a stray animal and expect him to be okay with it—

“Okay, dude, you’re seriously starting to freak me out.”

Barou snorts and rolls his eyes. “Can’t promise if I don’t know what it is,” and motions at the empty space by the edge of his bed. “Whatever you brought back home, though, it’s a no. You know I have a cat allergy.”

“I wouldn’t bring an animal home without telling you! Plus, that’s such a lie because you had a cat growing up,” you flush brightly and glower. Needless to say, you end up shuffling past the door frame, into full view, and Barou quickly realizes what you’re referring to, and why you’re acting so agitated. 

Breath quickly catches in Barou’s lungs. He averts his gaze, looks back, and clenches his jaw—all in a matter of seconds.

“You’re… dressed up,” he’s pretty sure his face is all contorted, because you’re suddenly acting meek again. 

“Don’t give me that look,” your hands fly up and do a poor job covering your chest and exposed thighs. 

A form fitting dress is the last thing he’d ever imagined you in, then again, you were never the type to actively show off your feminine outfits in front of him—lounging around in nothing but sweats and an oversized tee is a sight he’s more used to—until now. 

“I don’t normally see you wearing stuff like this,” he tries to make the words casual and dismissive, though he’s very aware that he’s just admitted that he pays close attention to you. And, for whatever reason, he has the burning urge to tear himself away, before the tiny voice in his head starts taunting him to go even lower. “Why are you even showing me?”

“Y’know, I had an explanation to give you, but now you sound borderline pissed,” you begin to tip toe back behind the door frame, slowly.

“I always sound borderline pissed,” Barou adds. He’s paused his task at the desk, computer monitor on mute, and the room is exceptionally quiet, except for the low, hesitant creaks from the floor panels. After another moment of studying your face, he exhales and shakes his head. “Let me guess… a date?”

“Oh,” you look momentarily surprised, or maybe that’s just his imagination. You revert back almost immediately though. “How’d you figure it out so quickly?”

If it weren’t for those damn career boosting sites, the second most used apps would be those stupid dating ones. 

Both of your parents work all the time, business partners even, so it’s been mainly the two of you left to your own devices at a young age. Barou didn’t have many friends growing up, outside of you and his sisters, if he can even count them. 

You’re generally introverted by nature, but somehow you seem to attract people who seem to lack common boundaries and have a strange affinity to soccer. Of course, that includes him, your friends, and all the dates you try and bring back—Barou never lets them go past the shoe rack and, thankfully, your dates always seemed too afraid to object. 

Your parents think that it’s a blessing of some sort. That he’s your personal guardian or a shitty guard dog to keep out unwanted men. Something about keeping you safe, another comment about being a good future son-in-law. Conversations with your relatives always tend to steer from topics of career goals, the amount of savings you have, to relationship status, and—ultimately—hey, Shouei’s available, right? Of course, you two don’t have that type of relationship.

Barou is observant, despite what others might think. Observant enough to know that you get uncomfortable when the idea of the two of you being together comes up. You tend to go quiet, then flustered, all before storming off to your own room. Maybe that’s why you spend all your energy into those dating apps—a weird rebellion phase of sorts.

He wants to chastise you, hoping it’ll lead towards you finding another pastime that consists of less unimpressive dicks. Perhaps picking up more books would be well suited for you. Though, upon recent apartment cleanings, he’s stumbled upon plenty of your obscured romance novels. The type of novels that the covers consist of half naked men in cowboy attire with the classic damsel in distress in his arms—Barou doesn’t understand why anyone reads that stuff—piled up all on the living room coffee table.

Scolding you is definitely on top of his to-do list right about now, second to decluttering the fridge. Advising that you can’t blindly trust men on these shitty platforms because god knows what they lie about to get a person’s attention. But he has a feeling that you’ll brush him off, spouting an all too familiar speech that you’ve given him plenty of times before about not being a kid. It’s probably a dumb idea, and he knows that.  

So, instead, he shrugs and ignores the anxious buzzing tugging at the back of his mind. “An educated guess.”

“Oh, hm,” you go quiet at that and he isn’t entirely sure why that makes him nervous. “Do I look weird?”

“What?”

You tilt your head. “You’re staring. Like deep in thought.”

So much for keeping his expression neutral.

“Hmph,” Barou snaps his gaze back to his monitor, observing you from its reflection. 

His awareness of your dress comes in levels of recognition. First is material: even from the distance he’s sitting, he can tell with a quick eye that it’s from some sort of designer brand. The silk fabric clings to your figure as if it was made for you, worshiping every curve and kissing your features perfectly. Second is how you chose to style it: the adjustments made to your chest is purposeful, making your cleavage the centerpiece while your neckline draws attention to it. Third is his own reaction to it: his mind races to the thought of how unfair everything suddenly feels.

“It’s nothing. It’s just—it’s different from the usual, that’s all.” An awkward beat and, “You don’t look weird.”

You lean back on your heels, body now coming back into view, and there’s a small grin. Looking closer, he sees that you’ve got your makeup and nails done, too.

“What? You’re coming at me for relationship advice now?” Barou asks, after a moment. “I’ve got nothing to say.” 

“Your big mouth always has something to say,” you look at him with quirked brows.

He sighs airily. “Who cares, it’s not like you’ll listen,” then rolls his eyes. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, of course, but you’re quite literally one of the most stubborn people he’s ever come across. 

Barou’s familiar with your on and off dating sprees before, and in the beginning he did loosely hand out some advice—even though most of the information came from all those dumb teen magazines he found in his sisters’ rooms. It’s almost like a damn script by how it plays out: obsess over a mediocre guy, go on a date or two, and be extremely disappointed when they don’t live up to your expectations. 

It’s been about three months since your last date, and Barou doesn’t understand how this one might end up any different. 

As if you’ve read his mind, you begin to explain, “We’ve been texting for a few days now. He seems super nice over video call, likes to cook, has a stable job—”

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s the bare minimum.”

“Shouei,” you grumble, “be nice.”

He feels his eyes narrow, lips pressing thin. “You planning to bring him back or something?” Barou can’t seem to mask the edge in his voice.

“If everything goes well, then yeah,” you look relatively proud of yourself. “Which is why I’m asking you to not scare him away—you’re capable of doing that, right?”

“It’s not gonna happen regardless,” the words roll out almost too naturally for both of your comfort, “something always goes wrong, anyways.”

Your lips press thin, weight shifting subtly between your feet. “Don’t be such a dick. I’m bringing a guy back this time.”

Barou doesn’t know what to say. What the fuck can he say? All he knows is that this is making him feel more annoyed than usual. You’ve got to be aware of that, right?

You two have fought before, of course. Nothing ever goes well when it deals with two stubborn individuals. Thankfully, none of the arguments have never escalated past mild inconveniences. Barou can’t seem to remember when’s the last time you’ve actually gotten angry, though. He imagines it being similar to his mom, or sisters, and it’s terrifying because you’re giving him that look—one where you’re a comment away from swatting everything off his desk.

His brows draw together for a moment, eyes squinting, before regaining his ground. He bites back his tongue. “Do what you want.”

“So, I take it that you’re not…?”

Barou scoffs, drumming his fingers against the desk. “Why would I be mad? I’m not in charge of you.”

It’s over a late dinner when Barou finally checks his messages. He sees a few notifications under your name, and he pauses. He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating, there’s a strange churning feeling in his stomach and suddenly he’s lost his appetite. Barou flips his phone down at the table before discarding his utensils, and the look Isagi gives him is a weird one.

“Everything alright there?” 

“I’m not mad.”

Across from him, Isagi leans against the kitchen counter and laughs. “Didn’t say you were,” he picks at his dinner plate with a tilted head. “So, erm, why did you call me over here again? Something about a problem…? You still haven’t gotten to that part.”

“Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Not a damn problem around in this shithole. Fucking perfect around here,” he’s suddenly hot with anger.

Isagi replies to this with a vague handwave. “If I had to guess, someone’s out on a date, again, and you haven’t done much about it.”

Barou shoots him a scathing glare. Thinks of denying for a moment. Doesn’t. “Why bother asking if you already knew?”

Like him, Isagi is oddly extremely aware of everything and everyone. On and off the playing field. Which probably explains why he’s both the coach and fan favorite of the bunch. And more of a reason why Barou is stuck third in line for most sponsorships, right behind Itoshi Rin. Well, whatever, he was never a people’s pleaser to begin with. Though, it is nice having him around to vent to—if you count offering to cook dinner in tense silence while going over sporting logistics—because Isagi Yoichi doesn’t judge. Unless your name is Kaiser, then that’s a whole different story.

A shrug. “Wanted to hear it from you, though that might’ve taken all night.” It’s not a tease.

No matter how rough and rugged Barou looks, he can’t wipe the knowing smile off of Isagi’s features.

“So,” Isagi continues, “how long before you miss out on your chance? A few months? Days? Right now?”

He lowers the volume on the TV and shoves another bite in. “Most likely never. If anything goes down south, that’ll be on me.”

“You’re thinking about this carefully,” Isagi observes, earning him another annoyed look. “It’s a good thing—you’re usually, uh, headstrong and tenacious most of the time.” It’s kinda a compliment, Barou thinks.

“We live together,” he emphasizes, “that’s different.”

“For how long, though? At this point it feels like you’re doing this to yourself.” The corners of Isagi’s lip raise, just a little. “Have you tried seeing if she likes you back?”

Barou scowls and absently fiddles with his hair, still a bit damp from the shower earlier. “What’s with that question? If I knew then I wouldn’t be inviting you over here, dumbass.”

A beat or two. He stares at the wall for a moment and cracks.

“If she liked me back then I doubt she’d be out right now with some random guy,” Barou hates how whiny his voice sounds. He’s not the type to openly complain, especially not with his feelings like this. With Isagi, however, it seems like he brings that side out of everyone. What a weirdo. 

The younger male simply smiles. “Maybe look into her dating history, you might be able to figure out some patterns.”

 “Like I’m some sort of masochist.”

“Well, you’re currently spending your Saturday evening watching football highlights with me, and I think that’s telling by itself.”

Barou doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t bother to say anything to that. He just shoves a spoonful of rice in his mouth and half-distractedly finishes watching a previous games’ highlight on the TV. A quarter way through, and he feels himself starting to drift off.

Isagi’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and that’s a surprising relief to Barou. The younger male lets out a small noise, sets his empty plate in the sink, letting water and soap soak it up for a bit, and fishes his phone out. A few seconds and he starts making his way towards the door, gym bag in hand.

“Rin’s asking to see me for something,” he mindlessly explains while slipping on his shoes. “Guess I’m gonna have to pass on keeping you company tonight, bud.” Isagi says this with a bit of playfulness, but he shoots him a look of sympathy when his hand reaches the knob.

It makes Barou flinch, badly. “Go home, dumbass.”

Once Isagi leaves the premises, he goes back to his own devices. Watching sporting highlights soon went stale, so he opted to watch a drama that you’ve been raving about a while back. 

It has an interesting start. The main lead somehow paraglides her way into a foreign country and the tall, handsome, and stoic—your words, not his—military officer has to take care of her.

He remembers, when you first discovered the drama, the main actor was all you could talk about. Sure, he’s your typical standard silent, tough guy trope, but you were especially smitten over him.

“The way he looks after her, the yearning and the need, it’s just—” you would wave your body back and forth, at a loss for words.

The ending credits snaps him out of the small lull and, out of curiosity, Barou browses through his social apps and thumbs your handle into the search bar. You guys are mutual friends, so this shouldn’t feel weird. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, he really, really doesn’t care much for what other people do in their spare time. Looking at his own account, there’s only two posts and both of them are cringey gym mirror selfies from several years ago. 

So Barou doesn’t really know what to expect when he looks through your recent story highlights.

There’s a picture of a fancy looking latte with an equally fancy looking cheese foam design on top. The guy’s out of the frame, but he can make out an arm with a decked out watch in the corner. Another picture and this time it features a set of flaky chocolate pastries on a square plate with red sauce paired on the side. The third picture makes Barou pause, because it’s a selfie of you and some guy. From appearance alone, the guy is conventionally attractive, but he also has an extremely punchable face. White collared button up shirt, except for the plain fact that it’s wild open and his damn chest hairs are poking out. He’s got his hands around your waist, his stubbled chin pressed extremely close to yours, looking into the camera as if you belonged to him.

He feels his head throbbing, almost full of cotton, and he shuts his phone off, tossing it onto the far end of the couch. Barou doesn’t bother to clean the dishes, at least not yet. He sets his dirty plate aside, letting it soak in the sink alongside with the other bowls. It’s not until after another hot, long shower that Barou starts stress cleaning the apartment. 

And, yeah, vacuuming the living room and running the loud dishwasher at nearly midnight is pretty outrageous and, frankly, dramatic—even for someone like him. By the time he’s done destressing, the air wafts with lemon essential oils and a hint of antiseptic scent. Eventually, after everything, he crawls under the blankets and lies still for a long time before the hint of sleep catches up.

It’s one in the morning when he hears you coming home; heels wobbling against the wooden panels, faint mumbling with a drawl, and sounds of keys hitting the small trinket bowl by the front door. He thinks maybe he should go see you, but stops himself halfway. Barou doesn’t know what he’ll do, how he’ll react, if you come back with smeared lipstick stains on your face, or if you smell like musk— like some stupid, rich casanova’s cologne.

Barou’s just about to pull the covers back over his head when a noise from the living room jolts him wide awake. A loud clatter, body hitting a surface, and he snaps his attention away. And, luckily for him, you just smelled like straight alcohol.

“I should’ve never gone out, I should’ve just…” A beat, followed by a series of painful groans.

You’re definitely tipsy from whatever drink that’s in your system. From what Barou can tell, it was strong. 

“Did you take anything else?” It’s a rhetorical question but he keeps his voice quiet, low, and observes you from the couch.

You’re half slumped over, limbs hanging all over the place and your trench coat is doing an awful job at covering up your promiscuous dress. Tired exhaustion plagues all over. Barou quickly covers you with a spare throw blanket on the side.

He tries to get you off the couch, as carefully as he can, and you nearly jump out of your skin from the proximity. Your eyes are glazed, mouth slightly dry and slack, and some of your makeup has smudged—whether it’s from the date or the excessive tossing and turning, Barou doesn’t really want to know. What he does know is that you’re close, now actively leaning into his touch, and your eyes meet, and he’s yet again faced with that strange fire rushing through him.

He swears under his breath, lifting you into his arms.

There’s a million things he wants to say, majority of them being half-ass insults and I told you so, but none of that seems appropriate. His face is only inches away from yours. Barou quickly realizes that his mouth has gone dry and his tongue feels heavy. His recent reactions towards you have been… confusing, to say the least.

You stir, hand shooting up to hold your head. “Is he gone?”

“Your shitty date?”

“Mhm,” your head droops to the side. “That asshole…”

He scoffs, and makes a mental note to personally beat up the guy who left you while you’re like this. “He’s not here.”

“Fuck, thank god,” your eyes hover on his neck. It catches him off-guard. You swallow, and a strange expression flicks across your face, a bit unreadable and different from your usual wasted self. “You were right, sorry.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s in a dream; that he’s still in university, still checking up on you in-between his classes and labs—out of courtesy from your family, and being on the receiving end whenever you get your hopes up. 

He shuts his eyes and opens them. 

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Barou hears every heavy thump that his heart makes as he carries you to your room. His eyes keep shifting all over your body, whether he means to or not. Most of it is out of concern, your face looks terribly dazed and you’re warm all over, even if you keep insisting that it was just one drink. You’ve never been a heavy drinker, no matter how many times you tried to train your lack of alcohol tolerance. He wonders if he should let you sleep in what you’re currently wearing but, after quick consideration, you’d probably feel extremely uncomfortable the next day.

You press into the warmth of his shoulder, against his neck, then exhale. “I’m a pretty shitty friend, aren’t I?”

“What?” Barou’s eyes flick down the hall, then back to you.

“Ugh,” you make a face. “You know what I mean. How I’m always so tunnel vision when it comes to shit like this…”

“Then just stop,” he feels his face tightening ever so slightly, the unfiltered words unclogging. “Everytime this happens. Why bother going through with it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” You laugh a little, and it’s half bitterness, half joy—something a little broken and somehow Barou immediately understands.

He watches, almost morbidly, the way your eyes subtly linger on parts of his body for a moment, before sighing. A hesitant, unspoken conversation stuck in your throat, and all at once, Barou wants to scream. 

But he doesn’t.

He feels flames crawling up the back of his neck when you snuggle closer into his arms. Thankfully, before he can further combust, he’s pushing his way into your dimmed bedroom. 

Barou takes a careful glance around in the dark, noting the familiar scent of you, the numerous prints that hang from the eggshell colored walls, and the small pile of clothes on your desk chair. He’s only been in your room once before, but that was just to help you settle in, so he’s never really paid attention to your surroundings. Now, though, as he lays you on top of the mattress, he notices everything in this room just screams who you are, and he realizes that maybe he should’ve said his piece earlier to avoid all of this together.

The idea fizzles out when Barou feels you tugging loosely on his wrist before letting it fall against the mattress.

“Shouei,” you call out, reaching for his hand again.

He absolutely hates the way he instantly stops and holds you, cherishing the warmth of your skin. Your fingers shakily curl around his, and Barou can’t help but squeeze back. His heart is thundering against his chest, and he’s making it painfully obvious that his breathing is erratic. 

After a moment, he clears his throat. “What are you doing?” 

His blood has rushed so high to his head that it’s the only thing he can hear, clogging up in his veins and leaving him feeling like he has to cling onto you for dear life. Barou isn’t quite sure what’s happening here, still disbelieving at the way you’re batting your eyes at him, eyes brimming with tears and lips puckered.

“Stay with me, please,” you mumble.

Barou lets out an airy breath, and hears himself saying your name. He’s so confused by all the fucking emotions hitting him right now, and it doesn’t help the fact that his voice gets so soft and tender when he calls out for you. His hand twitches against yours.

This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t—

“You’re drunk,” he finally manages to respond.

His crimson eyes trace your face in the dark, and makes out the shine of wetness on your lips when they part. You lift your eyes, and they instantly hook him in. He resists the urge to lean forward. And, just as instantly, he wants to kneel down, close his eyes, and exist anywhere but this moment.

“I’m not,” you continue and tug him closer, forcing him to sit on the mattress. Your words come out more as hot breath. He definitely smells it but, if he’s being honest with himself, you’re usually not this desperate.

Needless to say, it’s still a concerning fact. “You’re not yourself.”

You squeeze harder, brows furrowed. “I know what I’m doing and what I want.”

Barou tears away from your mouth and glances back into your eyes, studying them closely. You’re still clamped onto his hand, and he knows you’re burning on edge, too. Undoubtedly, he’s half-mast in his pants, and he’s very aware of that, as you slowly rise up, eyeing him with an expression that can only be described as hunger. 

“We’ll talk in the morning, idiot.”

“What’s your deal?”

I should be the one asking that. 

Barou stares at you for a long moment, The silence is heavy, suffocating. The bed shifts, and in that second, that quiet desperate hope, becomes even more evident. His grip tightens, just a little, and there’s that building headache pulsing through his temple. He really shouldn’t be here, entertaining whatever this is. What he should be doing is sleeping, it’s midnight and, fuck, he has to go to practice tomorrow, but you…

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I am,” his voice is rough when he answers, words dripping with heavy caution. “Even if you aren’t wasted, you’re acting like a real piece of work, right now. None of this shit is funny.”

“I’m not trying to be—I’m being serious,” you reply, but your lips are trembling.

Barou’s stomach lurches and he swallows back a groan, not the pleasure kind. “What do you want me to do?”

Suddenly, you shift restlessly, as if taken aback. “Stay by my side.”

“I know that,” he breathes in, and out. “I asked if there’s anything you want me to do?”

The moonlight creeps past your curtains and coats you in various shades of silver. It’s then, Barou realizes, that he's afraid of what your answer might be. He’s taken care of you hundreds of times before, it’s become second nature for him to look after you, but now this feels foreign—almost daunting when you’re looking just as scared. 

But, scared as you are, you lean forward, steadying your palms onto his broad shoulders. It burns his skin at contact, but he steels himself, watching your lips part slowly. Focusing—absolutely fucking focusing—on the way that they move and the damn syllables that come right after.

He feels like dying when the words finally register.

“Kiss me.”

Barou stills, pressing a palm against the mattress and clenches his jaw, running his tongue hard against his teeth. He opens his mouth to reply—and immediately snaps it shut. It’s when you make a small dip in the bed that he recovers, gears running over a hundred miles an hour in his mind. “You want that?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” your eyes wander all over his face and the intensity almost burns his skin. “It’s embarrassing enough that I’m doing it like this…”

Barou stares in awe. His throat feels tight and his chest clenches uncomfortably. “Doing what?”

A frown erupts on your face and you’re visibly frustrated, more flustered. “Why are you choosing tonight to be a dense prick? Do you need me to spell it out for you? I’m confessing to you. I like you—god, this is so fucking stupid—I’ve liked you since grade school, throughout college, and now! The dates, the guys, none of them work out because they’re not you. Do you know how many times a guy is saying some shit and I’m sitting there thinking ‘Shouei wouldn’t say that’ or when I’m trying to find a guy that looks kinda like you, and even that’s fucking impossible—that’s how much you’re on my mind!”

Your confession—honesty—hangs in the air and Barou nearly chokes on it. You make a low, undignified sound, and press your back against the headboard, looking absolutely anywhere but him. Barou, on the other hand, hears nothing but pounding in his eardrums. He’s not sure if that’s his heartbeat, or yours. There’s a feeling of tight strings tugging at his chest again, a painful ache being left behind. After a moment, the bed creaks. 

“Okay,” he breathes, and swallows around that awful lump in his throat.

“Okay?” your voice cracks embarrassingly. “I pour out my feelings and all you say is ‘okay’? This is worse than a rejection. Yoichi said the worst thing you could say is ‘no’ and—”

“Wait, that idiot knows about this?”

 “That’s what you’re focused on? Ugh, forget it, I’ve said too much already!”

“Stop,” Barou’s face contorts into a heavy scowl, taking slight offense. “God, sometimes you ramble on so much that it’s hard to take everything at face value.” 

He hesitantly presses a palm to your cheek and holds it there, watching your sudden stiff reaction. He shudders, slowly, before dusting the palm across your cheek, ears, hair, and settles it against the back of your head. He’s aware of his breathing, shaky and full of nerves. Barou moves closer until he can feel your breath fanning over his lips. 

Before he can say anything else, you lean up and press your lips softly against his. They’re surprisingly soft, he realizes. There’s no heat to it, just a plush press of warmth, a little bit of pressure, and you’re silently swearing under your breath when you pull back. 

“Oh god, was that dumb? Am I being stupid right now or what?” Your hands fly up, cradling your face. A muffled scream, then a groan. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what I was thinking! You—me, we were—argh!” Your body retracts back, knee pressing up against your chest as you begin to lean away from him, almost in disgust with yourself.

Barou begins to feel a strange surge in his stomach and gnaws the insides of his cheek. The unusual warmth comes back and, this time, it settles between his legs, but there’s more to that. It was a small, soft kiss—barely long enough to be classified as one. He watches you fidget more before snapping.

“Do you know how to fucking relax?” Barou adjusts his grip behind your head, tangles his fingers in your hair, and drags you back in for another.

This time, it’s lasting, a more proper kiss, and he feels you getting lost in it. Your hands fumble their way back onto his body, finding ground on his thighs and leaning forward into the heat. Barou makes sure that his grip in your hair isn’t too tight, but warm and full of affection, and it makes you moan quietly, mouth parting and allowing his tongue to swipe over your lips.

Hardly any words are exchanged while he kisses you, slowly becoming more frenzied, drowning in the wet heat, tongues curling and hands roaming. There’s a steady, painful throbbing eagerness between Barou’s legs, and he’s positive that you can feel it. 

It’s overwhelmingly awkward and stupid, how worked up you both are from just a bit of kissing; from taking turns ghosting each other’s jaws and necks, to hands blindly groping and snaking under clothing to get a squeeze at bare skin. You lean up again, lips tracing the contours of his jaw, and shift a hand down, curling your fingers through his sweats and around his length. A light, breathy noise slips out of him and he feels you pulling away, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from the heavy makeout session.

“I, um, take it that you like me back…?” You ask quietly, tugging Barou out of his trance. 

He blinks, feeling the tips of his ears flushing with warmth. “You really know how to ruin the mood, don’t you?”

“I-I just need confirmation, stupid!”

“Maybe,” Barou confesses, his voice wavers just a little as he speaks. His body shifts with you in his arms, palms cupping both sides of your face. When you refuse to meet his eyes, he huffs. “Look at me. I wouldn’t do this to just anyone if I didn’t like them.”

You make a low, unpleasant noise. “So, you’ve done this with others? I don’t want to think about that.”

Barou’s chest tangles over itself again and, for a moment, being with you feels just a little less daunting. His posture stiffens, then goes lax in a quick second. He could honestly ask you the same thing, whether or not some of the men you’ve matched with have showered you in affection like this but, given your behavior, it seems like you’ve been hesitant and selective. If Barou’s being honest, he’s glad it’s that way. 

“Then we don’t have to,” he surges forward, forcing his head down to catch your gaze before capturing your lips in surprise once more.

Eventually, he ends up hovering over you. You’re lying on the mattress, head semi-propped up against the pillows with half of his body weight on top of you—not too heavy, but not too comfortable. Barou’s vaguely aware of what this might lead to, with the look you’re giving him—with the look he’s giving you. He should really go to bed, or else he’s going to wake up with a migraine and a sore neck. But your cheek is nuzzled against his palm, he’s got his other hand running through your hair, soft and lazy, and he’s finding himself grinding against your lower half almost pathetically.

It’s impossible to put his thoughts into coherent sounds when your fingers work at his pants and manage to free his erection, springing it heavily against his stomach. Barou’s mind short-circuits, body jerking in reaction, with the slow, experimental pump of your fist around his aching cock. The look you’re currently giving him is mesmerizing, and it makes him feel as if he’s the most powerful person in the world.

He’s not sure how far you’re willing to go, especially since this feels like your first for everything. You adjust your hand around his length and let it run for a few more strokes. It feels foreign and electric at the same time, softer than his own hands that’s for sure. After you brush your thumb over his tip, smearing the pre, Barou immediately tries shielding himself from you, face buried in his shoulder, and swallows back a rumbling moan.

You pause, hand loosely wrapped around his base, frowning. “Is it bad? I’ll stop if…”

“No,” Barou clasps a hand over yours, squeezes, and sets a slow, firm pace. He shudders again when you adjust your position, hot breath fanning over his tip. “You don’t have to go down—”

“I want to,” you look at him with pleading eyes. “I want to make you feel good, Shouei.”

His mind goes through a whirlwind of possibilities, debating the urge to either run or dominate. Barou closes his eyes, breathing deeply in order to steady himself before he fully loses it. His cock twitches and your hand is clinging around him like a mold.

“Please,” you moan, a plea that’s both an invitation and a surrender, and it’s that damn voice that cuts through his brain fog.

You make a small noise of confusion when he pulls you back, and settles you flat against the mattress. Disappointment flicks across your face but disappears as quickly as it came when his palms make contact with your legs. He carefully watches you squirm, thighs pressing together, when he starts hiking up the dress past your waist and eventually off your body.

Barou sucks in his teeth, eyes drinking in your shy figure underneath him as he stares at your heaving chest, stomach, and plump thighs. He swears under his breath, hesitating for just a moment, before slipping a hand lower, past the barrier of your panties. 

A strangled moan catches in his throat as he discovers the slick heat from your arousal, thick fingers pressing gently at the entrance. Your face casts a wild, bewildered look and you throw your head back, hand covering the lower half of your face.

“D-Don’t tease me…”

Barou clicks against his teeth. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Almost entranced, he stares at your slick center, folds glistensing and your clit practically pulsing with need. His fingers tremble, exploring with hesitance born from innocence. The warmth between your thighs is new, intoxicating, and downright terrifying. With each careful, slow, tentative touch, the sound of his name spilling from your lips is like a sacred plea and it ignites a spark within him.

He can’t wait any longer. 

Barou groans as he rubs his padded fingers in between your dewy folds and slides in, a tight and perfect fit that draws a gasp from both parties. Your walls flutter around him almost instantaneously, paired by high pitched mews rolling off your tongue. He watches your knuckles fist the sheets as he starts his slow, stretching movements.

Your body squirms under his onslaught, thighs threatening to press closer from the sensitivity but he settles a firm grip on one of them. The sight of you under him, vulnerable and consuming, with hot tears springing out of the corners of your eyes, drives him over the edge. His fingers pick up speed inside, soon turning relentless, scissoring your gummy walls at a pace that you struggle to keep your volume low. Barou watches you throw a hand over your mouth when his thumb starts rolling over your clit in slow but purposeful circles. The scent of sex drenches him, listening to you mew and beg, his heavy cock leaking all over your thigh when you begin to raise your hips.

“Shouei,” you moan out, skin glistening and wet, flushed from the heat. Your fingers grasp sloppily against his biceps, sending shivers down his arms. “I want to take care of you, too.”

He spreads your legs even further out, applying more pressure to your core. Seeing the sight of you buckling your hips, grinding so shamelessly down on his fingers, brings him more pleasure than it should. Hearing the sighs and whines you babble out tells him everything he needs to know.

Barou raises his lips to your temple as he picks up the pace, groaning from the lewd sounds below. “Finish for me first, I don’t like owing favors,” he starts kissing your throat, tongue tracing over your sweet spots as your walls start fluttering around his digits.

Your hands land on his biceps, clutching his body as close to yours as possible while you calm down from the rush, unable to stop the way you're wailing his name right into his ear. It isn’t until Barou releases his fingers that he realizes that his sweats are now soaked from your orgasm.

“I'm sorry...” You sharply turn your head away, pleasure quickly replaced by embarrassment.

Barou carefully brushes the hair out of your eyes and captures your lips in a sweet and tentative kiss. “Was gonna get rid of them anyway.”

"Oh," you breathe out, unable to form a more suitable response.

He gets up from the mattress and manages to free himself from the remainder of his clothes. Normally, he would toss them in a hamper, but tonight he’s kicking them to the side. Mild anxiousness and anticipation claws at his throat when he formally settles between your legs and, this time, your hands are back to poorly covering up your bare, flushed out body.

Barou furrows his brows and gently pulls them aside, already reading your thoughts. “Stop, you don’t look weird.”

“But—”

He bends down, hands kneading on the flesh of your breasts while his mouth latches onto the side of your neck. You struggle to keep your voice down and squirm under his touch, again. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.”

It’s like he can almost see all the blood rushing towards your head when he pulls back. You’re nodding, shaking and quivering, and he can practically hear your heartbeat over his own.

“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” Barou’s amazed that he’s able to keep it together, that his voice is even, because your fingers are slowly guiding his cock towards your entrance.

He’s had a girlfriend in the past, though the intimacy has never gone past making out. He has a faint idea of how it should feel and what he should do, but all that thought gets thrown out when his tip presses softly against your wet folds. Everything starts to feel unbearingly hot and tight.

“I trust you,” you sharply inhale when the first few inches slide into the soft, heated space, and spread your legs wider. You shift against the mattress, a hand splaying on his chest while the other is fisting the sheets. “I trust you more than I trust myself, Shouei.”

He hisses in response to that, adjusting his length, and cranes his head back so he can avoid releasing everything right then and there. You bite back a loud moan as soon as he bottoms you out, your nails digging and leaving half crescent marks into his chest at the stretch. 

“Shit—you’re so warm,” he steadies his breathing, and reaches out a hand, caressing your flushed cheeks. He carefully dives in to kiss your lips and then your throat, biting until he nearly breaks skin.

You shudder beneath him, responding with a noise that’s in between a moan and a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already?”

Barou ignores your taunting and scrapes his teeth along the ridge of your throat until he finds your earlobe, basking in the way you’re squeezing around him. “How you do want me to fuck you?”

Silence takes over as your answer, eyes widening at his response. A small thrust and he watches you wince from the stretch. Barou slows down his movements, pulling all the way out before sliding back into the hilt. Shocks of pleasure surges through his veins, and his throat rumbles with every tight pulse your velvety walls offer him, holding your hips steady as he builds up the rhythm. 

Your moans and gasps send shivers down his whole body, arching your back as he finds the furthest point. Your grip on his chest tightens, fingers grasping, nails breaking the skin. Though, the pain is nothing compared to the binding pleasure Barou feels being buried deep around your enveloping, addicting warmth. His brain melts into a puddle, every nerve in his system heightens to a new level as you’re tightening around him.

You raise your hips higher, opening yourself and deepening the angle that he can thrust his way through. Barou’s browline pools in a thin veil of sweat as he works his way through it all, staring down at you in a silent, consumed gaze. He presses his hips forward and manages to find the spot that makes you violent and wild. The sound of his name shatters the air and you throw your head back, bliss screeching through both of your veins.

"Shouei, it’s too much," you cry out.

Barou sucks in his teeth, fingers pressing hard into your flesh. “Just breathe, you’re okay.” 

He watches your eyes widen with a shaky nod. Your chest rises and falls, eyes frantically darting from the area between your legs up to his face in an attempt to calm yourself.

“I-I know, I know,” you respond, choked out and breathless.

Any consideration for neighboring guests in the complexes are abandoned as Barou pumps into you, his core tightening as every thrust brings him closer. Your walls and arousal coat around his cock with eagerness, as if afraid to let him go.

At the sight of you, teary-eyed and a babbling mess, Barou leans down and his mouth captures yours in another searing kiss that mutes your sounds. Your fingers shoot up, tangling in the mess of his long, black locks, pulling him closer until there’s no space left—until he feels nothing but wet skin and sheer desperation.

He buries his face in your neck, his hot breaths and pants tickling your skin as he senses the incoming orgasm. Barou shuts his eyes and lets his concentration break, mind fully focusing on the feeling of you swallowing him as he works his cock deep inside of you as he could go. All he can think about is how warm and tight everything feels, the sounds you’re making, how much he loves hearing you, and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. Now, with your cries of passion filling the room, back arched in a way he can't even fully describe, it’s more than he can handle, more than he can believe.

Your walls clench violently around him, one hand flying up and tugging at his hair so hard that it stings. But he’ll take it, Barou will endure all the pain and hunger from you knowing you’re cumming hard on his cock. He lets the pain ebb away, turning into waves of ecstasy. Your name falls from his lips and fills the dark room.

Barou bites back a moan and chews his lower lip, head nuzzled deep into your shoulder blade and hips stuttering as his vision goes blurry. Pleasure overtakes him, both immense pressure and the immediate release of it exploding in his skull, and he ends up gasping for air, legs jerking and body trembling as he releases inside of you.

He holds you tightly, rocking your body and panting against your warm skin as both of you try to catch your individual breaths as the aftershocks settle through. Everything stills, all that’s left are the low hums of the air conditioner and your frantic heartbeats. Barou isn’t sure how much time has passed when he finally feels his length go limp. Gently, he slips out and catches the way you moan in disapproval at the feeling of sudden emptiness. 

He raises his head and meets your eyes, finding yours wet and half-lidded, completely fucked over. Lifting a thumb to wipe away the threatening tear, he rolls off and settles upright by the edge of the bed. The darkness strains his eyes, but he manages to find what he’s looking for. A few moments later and he hands you a few tissues from the bedside table and cranes his body.

“Are you okay?” Barou’s cautious of the volume of his voice, as if raising it an octave higher would break you even further.

Your breath hitches, wincing and moving meticulously to avoid spilling out all the contents on the sheets. “I think I am?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well,” you prop up next to him, body curling tight together like a coil, head nudging against his bare shoulder. “We just had sex.” 

The word almost slaps him in the face, making him sit up even straighter.

“We… did,” he said, slowly, and now feeling a certain way that he isn’t sure how to describe. Comfortable isn’t the right word, but it’s not exactly uneasy either. But that’s another step to think about, one that he probably won’t take today. He pauses for a moment, tongue heavy in his mouth, but pushes through and ignores the fretting in the back of his mind. “Do… Do you regret it?”

“No,” and you’re quick with it, despite avoiding eye contact. Instead, you curl your fingers around his bicep and squeeze hard. After a pregnant pause, you throw back the question. “How ‘bout you?”

“I don’t,” Barou finds himself equally as responsive, and he’s sure about a lot of things. 

He’s sure he’s going to wake up tired and sore, but definitely is still going to out perform his other teammates tomorrow. He’s sure that one day he’ll surpass Isagi. And he’s sure that he wants to be here, with you. You two are best friends and… what, girlfriend and boyfriend now? It’s a crazy thought, but it has his heart fluttering like some dumb teenage romcom. 

You simply nod, humming in deep thought, before reaching over and pulling him in for another kiss, and this time, it’s soft and delicate. Fragile, slow, and it has Barou clenching around the edge of the mattress. You’re both making quiet sounds, and he wants to keep going, but he can’t quite subdue that little bubbling jolt of fear in his head. And, because you’re stupidly observant at the strangest times, you pull back.

“We should… probably talk about this, right?”

“We should,” he agrees but, as soon as he glances at the time, exhaustion hits him like a freight train. Barou shudders and he allows gravity to take over, collapsing back onto the cold, wet mattress.

“Hey,” you shake him, enough to rouse some of the tiredness away. “Don’t crash here tonight, everything’s covered in sweat.”

He scoffs and turns over, relishing in the mild comfort. “You’re starting to sound exactly like me.”

“C’mon, Shouei,” he can’t exactly see you from this angle, but he imagines a big pout plastered over your face. “I mean it, let’s sleep in your room. This is like a sex bed…”

“Don’t call it that,” Barou cringes. 

“I mean, technically it is. Y’know, couples get twin beds in hotel rooms all the time for that purpose and—”

“If we move to my room, will you promise me that you’ll be quiet and get some sleep?” Barou can slowly feel bags forming under his eyes.

Your weight shifts above him and you make a small noise of approval. “Sure, but no promises.”

© 2023 DOOBEAN. do not copy any of my writing and translate/repost.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Emily: “I’m really sorry Vaggie didn’t feel comfortable coming back here. If there’s anything I can do to change that-”

Charlie: “Probably not! It was kinda a sign of her endless love for me that she visited haven again at all!”

Emily: “Oh! Oh that’s nice!!”

Charlie: “Which I NEVER would have asked her to do anyway, if I’d KNOWN the truth about her history up here!”

Emily: “Right. I’m so sorry about that too, by the-”

Charlie: “I mean, I’m not the kind of girl who askes her girlfriend to go spend an afternoon sitting across from the people who ripped off her wings! And her eye! And left her slumped against a dumpster looking half dead!”

Emily: “A… dumpster?”

Charlie: “Making the woman you love relive all that without even rEALIZING it would be pretty fucked up, wouldn’t it??”

Emily: “V- very.”

Charlie: “IT HYPOTHETICALLY COULD MAKE SOMEONE FEEL KINDA TERRIBLE AFTERWARDS, DON’T YOU THINK?”

Emily: “I’m sure it did!”

Charlie: “H Y P O T H E T I C A L L Y”

Emily: “Could! I could see that, yes, if it HAD happened, that would’ve been…”

Emily: “…”

Emily: “Are you- um, is she, errr.. doing better now?”

Charlie: “SO much better she’s doing SO great these days!!!!”

IN HELL

Vaggie: (lying face down on the hotel lobby floor) “I promise I won’t stop helping you morons when she dumps me. I won’t let her dream die just because I was dumb enough to think I could be part of it.”

Angel Dust: “That’s nice toots.”

Vaggie: “Thanks.”

Angel Dust: “Not sad or stupidly gay or anythin’.”

Vaggie: “Thanks.”

Cherri Bomb: “Sad? Angie, it’s perfect!” (takes picture) “I’ve been thinking this place could use a new rug…”

Niffty: (stepping on vaggie) “Squishy!”

Husk: “Get the fuck off her.” (at vaggie) “You, get the fuck UP.”

Vaggie: “Why.”

Alastor: “Hmmm, because this is PAINFULLY pathetic to watch, even for me?”

Vaggie: “Guess I’ll be here forever then.”

Angel Dust: “Vag-GAY c’mon, ya girlfirend’s not gonna dump ya. What’s the competition even!?”

Vaggie: “There’s an angel up in heaven who's helping Charlie work towards her life long dreams as we speak, and she's taller than me, got more wings than me, not as stabby as me, and also not a mass murderer or a liar or missing an eye.”

Cherri Bomb: "Hey!"

Vaggie: "No offence to the other one-eyed ladies here, but it's different when you've got a fucked up empty eye socket."

Niffty: (sighs dreamily) "I bet losing it hurt soooo baaaaad..."

Vaggie: "Never telling my girlfriend why I'd actually lost it or how it made me look like the deranged murder angel I was, even while she tried kissing it better for me, ended up hurting way worse."

Angel Dust: “That's a point….”

Angel Dust: “...alright, so Charlie’s PROBABLY not gonna dump ya-”

Niffty: “Oh that’s a weird sound!” (giggling) (bounces on vaggie) “I think she’s dying~”

Husk: “If you fucks kill her, I’m telling her demon princess girlfriend and pouring myself a drink to go with your fucking tormented howls.”

Vaggie: (muffled) “what if she’s my ex-girlfriend”

Husk: “…I’ll pour you a fucking drink and listen to your tormented howls.”

Niffty: “ME TOO I’LL LISTEN TOO!”

Alastor: “Dear one, perhaps if you were NOT standing on her skull and compressing her WRETCHED cries into the floor, we could be hearing them already.”

Niffty: “Whoops~ Heheheeh~”

Cherri Bomb: (recording it) “Damn, that groan’s been going on for ages… Bitch has some lung capacity on her.”

Angel Dust: “Point one for Vag-gay! Probs as good eating out as ya are at HOLDING out on ya girl!!!”

Vaggie: “uuuughhh…uaauuugghhaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaahhhhrrrgh..” (whimpers)

Niffty: “Okay.” (GIGGLES) “NOW she’s dying~” (bounces)

IN HEAVEN

Charlie: “Everything’s totally fine I have NO idea why you’d even ASK!”

Emily: “You’ve spent the entire time up here staring at pictures of Vaggie on your phone?”

Charlie: “I’m allowed to look at my girlfriend!”

Emily: “While crying and sniffling into your sleeve?”

Charlie: (sobbing) (desperately patting down her jacket) “SHE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHICH OF MY POCKETS HAS THE HANDKERCHIEF IN IT, OKAY??”

Emily: (smiling) “I think you two are going to be just fine.”

Charlie: (BLOWS NOSE LOUDLY INTO JACKET SLEEVE, which catches on FIRE)

Emily: “…..not your clothes, though. You might need a new set of those.”

[allthegothihopgirls]

alfred, who writes in a journal every day unbeknownst to the bats.

alfred, who's journals aren't marked by a period of time, or his own age, instead by the names of those he looks after. when dick is first adopted, and he knows this change is permanent, he puchases a new journal, despite his existing one being only 2/3 full. this one has a simple 'richard' written with a gold accent on the cover, a change from the last 8, titled 'bruce'.

alfred, who somehow makes journaling more of a logbook, albeit still personal. he's writing about himself, sure. memories of old friends, his travels, stories he's heard, things he has experienced.

but he mainly writes of them, the things they do, how they act. their character quirks that they haven't even picked up on yet themselves. the things he wishes he could tell them as a parent, instead of butler. the things they should know about those who've come before them. the regrets he has, and changes he's making. how they've molded him into a new person.

alfred, who will take all this information to the grave. until then, they stay packed in their respective boxes, some dustier than others, in the back of his wardrobe in the manor.

the contents of those journals aren't specific to each kid. everyone's within those pages. in tim's there's a lot about jason, and damian's has a lot about bruce. nothing's overly invasive in them, and the furthest it strays from the truth is when sometimes alfred admits to believing a different set of events to whatever he's been told, and even then he's probably right.

jason, who receives his journals prematurely. there's only 2, there should have been more. it's painfully obvious the cutoff, how it wasn't supposed to end there, but still it did. he receives them post-resurrection, convinced he doesn't belong in the world. his memories of robin growing fogged and becoming twisted.

he reads them and he cries, maybe it's because he forgot how much good there was in those times, or maybe it's because that's the determining moment in his new life where he decides that he really deserves and wants to live, because his existence runs deeper than being the robin who died.

frankly it's quite jarring for jason, to read about himself from another's perspective. as much as i love the idea of him and alfred getting along the best out of all the kids, he definitely distances himself for a while to process everything. he slowly creeps back though.

no one else gets to read their share until alfred's gone, and when they do it goes unspoken, no one pries to know anything outside of their dedicated journals.

jason, after hesitance and much internal conflict, drops off his own on dick's nightstand one night. receiving them back, two weeks later, is a silent affair face-to-face.

tim, similarly, on no one's accord but his own, gives jason his, to keep. he says something about how he doesn't think they were ever about him, and they seemed much more like a sequel. he also apologises, and mentions how he almost felt like he was intruding on something. but he understands now, he doesn't clarify about what.

[cursedvida]

While Noa is rumored to be Ceasar's descendant, I have this wild theory that Mae might be a descendant of Will Rodman, the human who raised Ceasar. Well, it is speculated (and kind of confirmed) that Will dies after the pandemic in Rise, in my personal headcanon I want to think that Will was able to survive the and goes into the underground bunkers. Probably with time, he starts a family, but he wouldn't tell them about his life with Ceasar and keeps it as secret he takes to his death, and the later generations would ignore their special connection about the apes and their history with them.

I know that this is a crazy thing to imagine, and I firmly believe that the new characters do not have to be related to the characters of the past trilogy to give meaning to their stories. However, I like to think that Noa and Mae were meant to meet each other by fate binding what had been severed between Will and Ceasar, apes and humans.

Well, I have always assumed that Will died without descendants. It is never specified when exactly it happened, but I assume that his girlfriend probably died as well.

The truth is that this theory never crossed my mind because I assume that the humans who hid underground probably belonged to the wealthiest classes or the intellectual elites in various fields. That is, the people who could pay for a place to save themselves from the virus and the people who could contribute to technological and scientific development. So, I have really assumed that Mae probably descends from some mega-rich family of the time, probably. xD

[inkdrinkerworld]

autistic!reader getting overwhelmed/overstimulated at a party w dealer!remus’ friends so remus ditches the party to comfort them (i love your writing sm btw❤️)

You’re not sure what exactly was the tipping point that sent you from mild discomfort to overt discomfort and agitation.

You’re at a party with Remus, sitting in the living room with your phone in your hand as you scrolled through your photos and a couple random apps to pass the time it took Remus to sell to all his friends here.

Usually, you’re good about bringing your ear plugs, and they’d work but even though you don’t have them tonight, you know they’d have been useless.

You can smell an acrid mixture of beer, white rum and weed. You can feel the bass shake you down to your bones and whoever’s sofa this is, it’s the lumpiest thing you’ve ever sat on and the moment you became aware of the lumps there was no use in trying to forget it.

You want to go home but you don’t want to ruin Remus’ night. As inconspicuous as you can, you send him a text.

Going outside to get some air, the smell of alcohol is too much.

Remus texts back, Don’t go out by yourself, I’ll meet you at the door in five minutes.

Maybe you should’ve been clearer, you’re not sure if you can hold out for five minutes.

“You look like someone just told you they imprisoned another orca.” Sirius creeps up on you, making you jump where you’re sitting.

“Sorry, the smell in here is horrid.” Sirius laughs, always having been a fan for your inability to lie. You don’t need to be sheepish around him, come to think of it, none of Remus’ friends mind some of your less than sociable traits.

“Did you phone, Moony? You know he’ll take you home if you aren’t having a good time.”

You shrug, “What if he’s having a good time?”

Sirius doesn’t want to be the one to tell you, because he’s sure you’re somewhat aware already; but Remus could never be having a good time if you weren’t. It’s like your emotions are linked and if you’re not enjoying yourself, Remus will simply rearrange the Earth, till you were.

Sirius is saved from having to give you the rundown, when Remus appears, sponging a kiss to your forehead.

For someone who’s been selling weed and smoking it for as long as he has been, Remus never really smells like that burnt, sweet smell his weed has. He smells like citrus fruit and clove. Spicy and tart.

It grounds you, gives you something else to focus on. Something that’s familiar, fresh and grounding. It settles the itch in your veins and allows you to relax a little.

“Ready to go?” When you look at him, Remus has your bag on his shoulder and your jacket in his hands.

“Home?” You ask, Sirius not even bothering to hide his smile as Remus nods.

“Yeah, figured it was getting a little much. We’ve been here longer than I thought we’d be too.”

It’s just like your boyfriend, to make it so that what you want, to go home, doesn’t seem like it’s being forced on him. In truth, Remus would like to leave too, and he wasn’t lying. He’d only planned for you both to be here an hour or two.

“Are you sure?”

Sirius pats your knee as he leaves, knowing you’re both going to be headed home.

“Positive, dovey. C’mon,” Remus leads you out of the house, watching your shoulders drop as soon as the crisp, cool air of a coming spring fills your lungs. “Put on the sweater, baby. Don’t want you to catch a cold.”

You smile a little to yourself as Remus helps you into the sweater. “Thanks Remmy.”

You’re thanking him for more than just the sweater, but Remus rolls his eyes. He tips your chin up, nose bumping your own before he kisses you.

“Let’s go precious girl, we might be able to stop at that pizza place you like if we hurry.”

[imaginespazzi]

I have a head canon where Paige has a realization during the overtime video with Jaden Owens that she wants to be with azzi forever and she’s ready for more commitment. Right when the video cuts off Jaden says “it’s like your sharing your life with your best friend”

Can you write a one shot where Paige has this realization after she says that and then she talks to Azzi about it? I’m obsessed with the way you write pazzi!

This is maybe shorter than you wanted and written in about the span of an hour (so unedited) but I kinda fell in love with this, so hopefully it's at least a little bit like you'd hoped for:

“It’s like you're sharing your life with your best friend”

It's been almost half a day since the podcast had filmed and Jaden's words are still echoing through Paige's head, as she lies on her hotel room bed, staring at the bright lights in the ceiling. That nagging voice in her head, exasperatedly telling her you already do share a life with your best friend, sounds a lot like Caroline, Paige thinks. It's not wrong. In between sharing closets and friends, and hopes and dreams, and spending every second they can together, the lines have merged so much that Paige's life feels a lot like PaigeAndAzzi's life.

All her life, Paige has been just a little bit scared of committing to anything except the ball in her hands and the court underneath her feet. She'd made as much clear in the podcast today too when the topic of marriage had come up. In the moment, she'd stuck to her default, that she needed more time, the same line she's been repeating to Azzi for god knows how long. Then Jaden had said those ten words, like it was the most simple thing in the world, and it had felt like Paige's whole way of thinking had come crushing down.

“It’s like you're sharing your life with your best friend”

And it should scare Paige, the realization that she already has that, something so deep, so powerful and yet so fragile, but instead she feels an unprecedented surge of calmness, her constantly moving body, suddenly finding a sense of stillness. If there was ever a feeling she could capture in a bottle, she thinks it might be this one, this feeling of knowing, she's found forever.

It takes about three rings for Azzi to pick up the facetime call. She's leaning against her headboard, hair pulled into a bun, eyes glimmering with sleep. Despite being clearly tired, the smile she has for Paige, just for Paige, is dazzling. And maybe that's why Paige isn't scared. Because if that's the smile she gets for the rest of her life, really it's all she could ever want.

"I thought you'd be out and about in town," Azzi says with a knowing grin.

"Nah," Paige shakes her head, "that's not the life for me anymore."

Azzi raises a questioning eyebrow at the phrasing, head falling back against her pink pillow, "is that so? No more party P?"

"Think I'm ready to settle down. Two kids, a suburban house with a big yard, all of that stuff you know?" and even if she says it with a joking smile, Paige knows that, that's the truth. Maybe not right now right now, but that's the future she wants and she wants it with Azzi.

"No pets?" Azzi asks, playing along as she squints at Paige through the phone.

"Well, I thought Stewie was a given," Paige says slowly and even through the scratchy connection, she hears Azzi's voice hitch at the meaning behind her words.

"Stewie-," Azzi bites her lip nervously, "you see all of that with Stewie?"

"Duh," Paige rolls her eyes dramatically but her heart is beating rapidly, "I can't imagine a future without Stewie. There's no house or two kids without her. Do you think-," it's the blonde's turn to chew at her lips as she stares intently as the brunette on her phone screen, "do you think Stewie would want that too? A life with me? Forever?"

It's been a long time coming, and Azzi has been ever so patient, maybe more patient than Paige had deserved. Maybe, maybe it deserves better than a long-distance facetime call and a conversation disguised using Azzi's dog's name but something about this moment feels right. And Paige wishes Azzi was here next to her, so she could kiss her feelings into the younger girl's skin, mark her with the words you're my forever.

Something wet shimmers against Azzi's eyelashes as the softest smile adorns her face, "I think Stewie would want that a lot. I think she's wanted it for a really long time actually. She was just waiting for you."

"I'm sorry I made her wait so long," sincerity is etched into every syllabus as something a little bit like guilt pools in Paige's stomach, guilt at having denied both of them the chance to just be happy.

"You were worth the wait."

[heich0e]

"don't stick your fingers in there!"

touya turns away from you furtively, his pointer finger caught between his lips. there's a mischievous lift at the corner of his mouth that you catch just before he turns his back to you that tells you he's not even a little bit remorseful, save possibly for the fact he's been caught.

you sigh, but the sound is just as fond as it is frustrated, and open the kitchen drawer at your hip.

"here."

touya turns around again to look at you, his finger still in his mouth though you're sure the frosting has long dissolved on his tongue. you hold out a teaspoon towards him, with a little dollop of the frosting from the mixing bowl balancing upon it. he blinks a little, surprised you're offering him any when he'd just gone to such great lengths to steal some, but accepts it nonetheless.

"thanks," he says, taking the spoon from your grip into his own, your fingers brushing lightly as the utensil changes hands.

touya's tongue peeks out from between his lips, licking away a small corner of the frosting on the spoon rather than sticking it all into his mouth at once. it's cat-like, almost—though it doesn't surprise you all that much, when so much about him is. you watch as he savours his little treat slowly.

"is it good?" you ask him, wiping your hands off on a towel—you'd been rinsing off some dishes when touya had initially stuck, and droplets of water still cling to your skin.

"mm," touya hums affirmatively. "'s sweet."

you laugh a bit. "it's frosting, that's sorta the point."

you pick up the offset spatula in front of you, scraping some of the fluffy white frosting from the edge of the bowl. you feel a familiar weight against your back, suddenly; a pair of arms slipping around your waist where they seem to fit so naturally.

"what's the cake for anyway?"

touya's voice is right by your ear when he drapes himself over you like this. his breath is warm against your cheek. if you turned your face towards him, you'd be so close you could probably still taste the sugar on his lips.

your hands pause in front of you, setting the spatula aside.

"touya," you say quietly, your voice a little hurt. "do you know what day it is?"

all at once touya seems to stiffen—petrified by unexpected panic he's forgotten something important.

"ah, uh—fuckin' wednesday right? no, wait—"

you turn in his arms, pressing your face to his chest.

"tomorrow's your birthday, dummy."

touya's hands—hovering momentarily over your back since you'd turned around to face him—drop to rest gingerly against your shoulder blades.

"oh," he says. simple. plainly. "i forgot."

no one's ever made him a birthday cake before. at least not that he can remember. maybe when he was really little, and things weren't as bad at home—but he can't be sure if those faint recollections he has are real memories or just things he dreamed up to make the truth sting less.

shouto made him a birthday card once, though. he remembers that. it was right after he learned how to write his own name—that's all that was actually written on the card, 'SHOUTO' scrawled in bright red crayon on the inside since he didn't know how to spell anything else, but there was a crudely drawn picture of a cake too. that's the closest touya remembers to getting a birthday cake.

that was the last birthday touya spent at home.

(he still has the card, all these years later. he sometimes wonders if shouto remembers it, too.)

touya holds you a little bit tighter, his eyes scanning around the kitchen of your little apartment over the top of your head. it's nothing fancy. a bit cramped. certainly humble. then he looks at the cake—waiting to be decorated—on the counter behind you.

it looks delicious.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head. so light you might not have felt it at all.

"thanks," he says.

you peek up at him.

"for what?" you ask, blinking at him curiously.

he smiles a little, and you notice for the first time there's a little smudge of frosting at the edge of his mouth. there's a little blush sitting high on his cheeks too. he looks younger like this. boyish in ways you're not used to, but that make your heart squeeze tight in your chest.

he laughs. "for letting me try it."

[bunnliix]

When Eight Becomes Nine - Chapter Four

I have so much motivation for this series currently, so y'all are getting a bunch of updates for it hehe

Pairing: Ateez x 9th member!reader Summary: Y/n meets Wooyoung, the other omega in Ateez, and Hongjoong gets what is coming to him, via an angry Seonghwa wc: 2k AU: a/b/o Genre: Fluff/Angst Nets: @newworldnet warnings: Yelling, physical violence (slapping), Angry Seonghwa, Angst, Hongjoong is having a time in this chapter, anxiety, lots of playfulness between Wooyoung and other members, mentions of anxiety and being overwhelmed, I think that's it? masterlist

Y/n couldn’t say anything as Seonghwa pulled her behind him as he took her to wherever Wooyoung was within the building.

“I’m sure you’ll get along well with Wooyoung-ah. He’s so friendly, and he’ll enjoy having another omega to play around with. I can’t believe you’re the only omega that made it to this point. And because of that, I’ll give you my number, so don’t hesitate to call me if you need help, okay? I want to make sure you’re okay, us omegas have to stick together. Plus, between you and I, I want another omega in the group, we’re way outnumbered by the betas and alphas in the group. But don’t tell anyone I said that, they don’t need to know.” Seonghwa kept going on, and she just kept humming and nodding at the appropriate times, as she was a bit overwhelmed, but she kept her scent under control, not wanting to make the older omega aware of how she was feeling.

It seemed to work, as he didn’t seem to notice her nerves. Only moments later, they arrive at a door, the idol opening it and pulling her inside.

“Wooyoung-ah! I brought you a friend!” Seonghwa called out to the younger member, who looked up at him.

“What poor soul did you kidnap this time, hyung?” Wooyoung said, trying to see who was behind Seonghwa.

“She’s not a poor soul! Look, one of the auditionees is an omega! So I brought her here. She’s the only omega in that group, surrounded by a bunch of alphas and betas. I couldn’t leave her alone with them, not when I could bring her here, so she can have some quality time with her own subgender.” Seonghwa told him, his told hinting at the tiniest amount of scolding for the younger omega as well.

“Did you agree, or did hyung drag you here?” Wooyoung asked y/n, directing the attention onto her, as she realized Wooyoung wasn’t the only one in the room. 

“Yah!” Seonghwa interrupted her answer by an offended yell.

“I’ll take that as the latter is the truth. I’m sorry for Seonghwa-hyung’s stupid actions, I swear he usually isn’t this stupid.” Wooyoung apologized, quickly running away with a grin on his face as the elder omega let her hand go in favor of chasing after the younger man.

It was at that point that she realized exactly who else was in the room, as San and Yunho came up to her.

“Y/n, right? How did Seonghwa hyung meet you and bring you here?” Yunho asked her, his head tilted, really making the fan comparison to a golden retriever much more obvious.

“Seonghwa-ssi found the group of us out in the hallway across from the studio, and when he found out I’m an omega, he brought me here to meet Wooyoung-ssi.” She explained, her voice a bit quiet as she felt a bit out of place.

“Ahh, that makes sense. Well, come on and sit down with us, they’ll be occupied for a while.” San interjected, before guiding her over to the area the two had been sat down at, alongside the last two remaining members she had yet to meet.

“Jongho, Yeosang, meet y/n. She’s one of the candidates for our new member, and the only omega candidate as well.” San introduced her.

“Ah, that’s why he brought you here. Seonghwa-hyung always latches on to any omega he finds.” Jongho commented.

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Yeosang, though I think you already know that.” Yeosang said, a kind smile on his face that made y/n blush slightly, as she could feel her cheeks heat up.

Yeosang really was a fairy prince, she couldn’t believe how pretty he was, he looked even more ethereal in person.

“Come on, sit down here.” San instructed her, pointing to the empty chair that he had been sitting in prior. The beta had moved onto the couch with Yeosang and Jongho, slightly squishing the two on the couch that was definitely not meant for three people.

She sat down, still nervous at casually sitting around with half of Ateez like it was nothing.

“Don’t be nervous, it’s okay. We’re just normal people.” Yunho told her after noticing her nervousness, a soft smile on his face as he looked over at her.

“Ah, it seems that the others have kidnapped you.” Seonghwa said from just behind her, making her jump in her seat. Wooyoung scoffed at Seonghwa’s actions.

“Give her a little warning, huh? Let’s not scare a prospective member. I’m sorry for Seonghwa’s actions, y/n. That’s your name, right? I’m pronouncing it correctly too?” Wooyoung once again apologized for his hyung’s actions, though this time he was more sincere, not as intent on getting on the elder omega’s nerves.

She confirmed that he had pronounced his name correctly, thanking him for asking. The slightly older omega smiled and waved away her thanks, saying it was the right thing to do, as no one likes their name being mispronounced. He moved to sit on the arm of the chair she was sitting in, looking down at her. “You’re pretty cute, y’know that? I’m sure you look prettier with a blush on your face however.”

His words caught her off guard, and she couldn’t look at him, instead choosing to hide her face in her hands, to the laughter of everyone else. Which only served to make her hide her face even further. Thankfully, Seonghwa was her savior once again.

“Okay, let’s not laugh at her, I think it’s only making her hide more.” The eldest member lightly scolded the others, and y/n felt safe enough to look up once again, only to find Wooyoung had moved to squat right in front of her.

“Hi.”

“Hi?”

“Let’s go!” He told her, grabbing her hand and dragging her out of the chair, and soon, out of the room. “Seonghwa-hyung is about to go murder Hongjoongie-hyung for his actions, so I’m taking you far away. We’re gonna go visit our dongsaengs!”

Back to the Seonghwa and the others…

The four men watched as Wooyoung dragged the other omega out the door behind him, and they chuckled at his actions, absolutely expecting for that to happen.

“Well, I’m leaving now as well. Someone needs to scold our captain.” Seonghwa informed the other four.

“What did he do now?” Yeosang questioned.

“He was rude to y/n and the other auditionees. He kicked them out of the studio, which is unacceptable.” Seonghwa told them, a frown on his face.

The four men weren’t surprised at their captain’s actions, though they were surprised Mingi didn’t try to stop him.

“Well, I’m off now. I’ll come back later. Keep an eye out for the two omegas, yes?” He said, to which he received nods in return.

Seonghwa set out to scold his pack alpha, disappointed in his actions. He was an omega on a mission, and he wouldn’t be dissuaded from his goal. He quickly reached the studio where the two remaining members of their group had sequestered themselves, and by the time he returned to the area, the auditionees had disappeared, most likely taken to wherever they were staying. He pushed open the door, the force behind it making it almost slam against the wall, which caught the attention of the two men inside.

“Seonghwa, darling! Why are you here? I’m surprised that you came all the way over here. Did we forget something today? I’m sorry if we did, Mingi and I got really invested in this new song we’re preparing for the comeback next year.” Hongjoong rambled, maybe already knowing that he was in trouble.

“Sure. It’s definitely not because you yelled and got upset with the auditionees for something they didn’t know about, and who are innocent bystanders caught between your valid dislike of KQ decisions, and the company’s decision to bring in a new member. No matter how valid your feelings are, Kim Hongjoong, it doesn’t excuse that you got upset at people who have nothing to do with the situation.” Seonghwa told him, moving closer as he did so.

“I don’t want a new member, we’re fine as we are now. They should know that they’re not joining a group that wants them. If they know, then at least they won’t be coming in blind.” Hongjoong tried to defend his actions.

Seonghwa was fed up with his excuses, and slapped his pack alpha. The slap was enough to make Hongjoong’s head turn to the side,and the action shocked both of the alphas in the room. Seonghwa had never done that before, no matter how angry he had gotten at any of them.

“You made them stand out in the hallway, and I know you, you gave them the most difficult songs, just so you could see them not live up to your standards, knowing that none of them have been through idol training. So that you could falsely justify that none of them fit as a part of Ateez. So don’t try and justify your actions. I thought that you could put your frustrations aside, and not take them out on innocents. But I guess I didn’t know you as well as I thought I did. Because this is not the Kim Hongjoong I know, nor the pack alpha I know.” Seonghwa said, as he stared down Ateez’s captain with a look of pure disappointment in his eyes.

“I can’t stand to be here. Apologize to the group of auditionees if you want me to talk to you again.” Seonghwa told him, before turning around and walking out the door, ignoring Hongjoong’s pleas for the pack omega to come back.

“You fucked up, hyung. And now you have to fix it. You were right, none of us are happy to get a new member. But at least the others are hiding their feelings, and at least trying to be welcoming. Instead, you never hid your distaste for this whole situation. Sure, maybe they now know that you, nor the rest of us weren’t informed about until yesterday. But now you’ve gone and basically told them that they’re not wanted, that they’re never going to meet your standards for Ateez. I’d bet a good few of them are Atinys, and you really just went against everything you’ve ever said to Atiny. I wonder how many of them will leave Seoul at the end of this, not trusting a word we say, ever again. How many of them you may have just ruined Ateez for. Good luck fixing this hyung.” Mingi lectured Hongjoong, before getting up and leaving himself.

Hongjoong stared at the door as it closed behind Mingi, leaving the alpha in the room by himself, and suddenly everything felt like too much. He only wanted to protect his members. Ateez was his baby, he’s worked on every song and concept and he resented the company for forcing another member on them. For forcing him to now have to change the lore, the line distribution, to have to change it for every single title track. And they’re so close to their next comeback, how are they supposed to refilm music videos, re-record songs, on such short notice? He leaned over the desk, his head in his hands, and he felt tears fall. He had disappointed Seonghwa, Mingi, and probably the others too. He’d have to figure out a way out of this mess, and fix everything. He realized in that moment, just how much he had fucked up.

Hours later, after never hearing anything from their pack alpha, Seonghwa made the trip back to the same studio. Inside, he found Hongjoong in the same chair he left him in, his head laying on the desk and evidence of dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He sighed, leaving the studio temporarily, coming back with a blanket from Hongjoong’s personal studio and laying it over the alpha’s shoulders. He still didn’t want to talk to the man, but he wouldn’t leave him alone like this.

“Chan-hyung, can I ask you for a favor?”

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[thewertsearch]

You reflect on your prior experience as the team's ectobiologist. It seemed like you were doing something so important at the time. Finally everything made sense. This was why you were here. But what was the point? You are all clearly going to die the most pointless deaths possible. [...] You are no ectobiologist. If only there was some other title more befitting of the true discipline you practice, and the death sentence given to whatever you do the disservice of creating.

Oh, I get it. Karkat's the CarcinoGeneticist, so his universe spawns a session with a tumor.

The Tumor was described as a mutation, so it might literally be a form of cosmic cancer. Perhaps Sburb sessions are part of their host universe's body, and the kids' frog has faulty cells.

And what about the OTHER twelve wigglers you spawned? Who were they? Probably further proof this was all meaningless and random. Could it be that they were the true heroes meant to be sent back to play this game, while your team was the superfluous crop?

That would be the ancestors, the troll Guardians that Eridan mentioned. It seems they might have an actual role in the story, especially if they really are the ancestors who were giving Aradia orders.

Sollux is up, but his glowing eyes are gone, presumably indicating that his psionics are offline. I was relying on him to turn the tide against the murderers, and losing his support is a pretty serious blow. Let's hope it's temporary.

EB: so… what about jack? […] EB: are you still planning on killing him? […] EB: it is much better than killing friends. AG: Yeah, you're right. AG: And to tell you the truth, part of the reason I wanted to kill him was to protect them. It's not just a8out glory you know.

I don't doubt it. It's always been apparent to me that Vriska does care about the people around her. The problem is, every time she tries to express that affection, it comes out in weird, fucked-up ways.

At best, she comes off as rude and confrontational.

At worst...

...let's not talk about it.

AG: 8ecause if I don't do it, then who will? EB: well, we have a plan to defeat him too, so there's that. AG: Yes, I know a8out your plan. AG: I guess two plans are 8etter than one, right?

Not always. In this case, I'd argue that a single collaborative plan would be better than two unworkable ones. If you don't rendezvous with Karkat soon, there's every chance that Gamzee will get to him before he's done helping Jade.

Then, once Jack's reduced you to atoms, we'll have zero plans.

[brilliantblasphemer]

ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏɢ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ

ao3 | gender-neutral reader | no use of y/n | ghost and reader are lowkey toxic and decidedly a bit weird | cw: violence (minor), implied rough sex, no communication, unreasonable amount of em-dashes used

[i]

It’s a tale as old as time—he comes home and only feels comfortable enough to lay down to die in your presence. Docile with snarling teeth, like something sick waiting to be put down. You will not hold him when his body succumbs to injury. You will not pet his ears and dirty blonde hair in comfort. Instead you tug on it when his mouth isn’t greedy enough, when he needs to be eased into using his hands for something other than violence.

(His devotion will be the death of him, but it will not win him yours.)

You’d liked the routine at first, no matter how cruel—he’d return, sometimes together with you, and you would keep him from dying. It made you feel important, wanted. For a while that was enough, an exchange of mutual interest.

Now he comes home, and every time you find that you are overcome with longing for something you have never encountered.

(An end?)

(… no. Oh god, no.)

You are Sisyphus pushing the rock up a hill, and soon enough his blood is on your hands; his blood which trickles down his pale torso red-hot and much too fast and knocks the air right out of your lungs.

He’s bleeding out over your bathroom sink, and you are helpless against the implication that there will come a day when it does not stop, when all of your needles and gauze will be rendered utterly useless.

Your hand only shakes sometimes, but each time you apologise profusely to Simon, who does not realise you say it for your sake rather than his. Deflection comes easily to you both—which does not mean your heart doesn’t squeeze together in agony a little more when he dismisses your pain with a quip.

“’s not like I was a beauty to begin with.”

“Yeah, well, if I’ve gotta bury you, I’d at least want my handywork to look nice from the coffin,” you joke back weakly, not apologising for the shake in your voice.

“That’s a fuckin’ waste then, love, don’ you think?,” he laughs, and the tightness in his baritone raises the hairs on your arm.

“Really? You don’t want people to gush over how wonderful your burial was, with an open casket and all that bullshit?”

“Won’t ‘ave one,” he shrugs, much too casual for your taste and it has you halting in threading your needle through shredded skin.

“Why not?”

Simond hesitates to answer, and you are almost glad that he doesn’t. Think the painkillers might have finally kicked in, but when he does speak again, it is clear and cut, matter of fact in a manner that causes you to freeze.

“’cause I’ll be cremated, sittin’ in a right pretty tin above your bed,” he sounds almost proud of the sentiment, “Recon I’d be more useful that way.”

You wish you didn’t ask. The bile in your throat is easier to swallow down than the objective truth—there is no version of him that would give up on his life for you; just as there is no version of you that could make him.

So you scoff, tell him: “What the fuck makes you think I’ll keep it?”

If Simon sees right through you, he musters the rare amount of grace not to mention it.

Later, when the painkillers do kick in, you excuse yourself from your own bed to retch into the kitchen sink. Tears obscure your vision as your hands shake too much to find purchase on the counter. You spit bitter bile into the stainless-steel basin and you forget to wash it off the sides before crawling back under sheets too warm for the season.

Fear has made a home in your ribcage for some time now, occupying a space that once held Simon and before him had never been considered empty anyway.

You hold him through the night and ride him in the morning, his face obscured by the crook of your neck, and nothing changes.

The rock rolls back into the valley; the story remains as it always does—his blood on your hands; his blood trickling down his pale torso red-hot and much too fast.

(You want to tell him you are sacred of the ending, but you don’t. He wishes you would.)

[ii]

The sink is thoroughly scrubbed by the time Simon wakes up. Still a little dopey, his eyes crinkle against the mid-day light flooding your kitchen. It’s a good look on him, the repose still lingering in his shoulders.

(You note, immediately, that it is just as unfamiliar. Terrifyingly so. There is no good reason for you to know him like this—even less for you not to. You feels like an intruder in your own home.)

The cup of coffee you hand him has already gone cold.

[iii]

“Wouldn’t even get my urn, would you?”

(War never leaves his shadow; he tears through the silence with the precision of a trained killer. Grabs an end and pulls. You try to wish for something, but he is too fast.)

The tea in your mug has been steeped for too long, the bitterness provoking you to partake in Simon’s attempt at casual cruelty, “Suppose I wouldn’t.”

A grunt emits lazily from the back of his throat. The acknowledgement is all you need to set your cup down on the table and wonder how the fuck you even ended up here. It makes your skin crawl, the way he so carelessly picks your concern apart.

(An attempt to ease your worried mind, you try to not lose sight of that, but it is so ill-mannered and deluded that it creates a sting in your chest. Like you can’t breathe whenever he lies next to you, like you can only breathe when his death is the topic of ridicule.

No, you’ve got that wrong, surely.

As does he.)

“It’d end up with ma’ next of kin,” he adds, looking at you expectantly. His point eludes you despite it. So you add, helpfully;

“It would.”

“Want you to have it instead,” there it is.

You think that is all, that this is about his ashes on your shelf again, so you shake your head in disbelief, grin a little as irritation floods you for a short second.

“I told you: I don’t want it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?,” barking out a laugh, you are cut off by your throat threatening to close up, “That stupid tin belongs with your family, which clearly, I am not. So they’ll be the ones to get it.”

“Wha’ about you then?”

“I’ll be wherever they send me, and I will never hear a thing about your death unless it is by chance, and it’ll be fine.”

Droplets of spit follow the end of your sentence but you are much too fed up to be embarrassed about it. No one knows he’s spent the past year sleeping in your bed, drinking your fucking coffee. The silence festering between you like a nasty infection is more than enough proof that no one ever will know. Wide-eyed, his hands starts drawing shapes on your kitchen table.

You aren’t family, never have been. When he is gone, the only evidence that the two of you existed will be you.

Simon’s chest expands in a way that has you worried he’ll tear out his stitches all at once—sucking in air like he’s preparing to force the words out of his mouth by breath alone. You feel cruel watching him do it so intently.

(The kitchen floor is polished wood; it holds memories. You don’t want to remember him dying here.)

[iv]

“Marry me,” he says, at last. A statement, not a question, made from far behind that skull-plated monstrosity with as much detachment as any of the other pieces of conversation that you have to rip free from his massive frame.

(Spat out at your feet like he had chewed the meat of the words and decided that maybe today, you deserved the bones that even he could not swallow. He looks proud of it, too.

God, you’ve never see him without that mask.)

“Marry me,” he says, and you slap him square across the face.

[v]

You don’t see him until two days later, and he wears too much eyeblack then for you to tell whether you’d done any damage aside from scratching your hand on the cheap Halloween-aisle plastic of his mask.

The urge to stroke across his cheekbone is strong, if only to jab a finger or two into a hopefully cracked bone. The image of him writhing beneath the relentless ministrations of your hand is what you will think about later, alone. When he moves his hand to brush a stray hair from your face, you are already gone. He understands the hint. He does not honour it.

(For all his staring, he never sees you leave. Wistful thinking, perhaps.)

[vi]

He’s not menacing so much as he is just haunting.

(A dead man walking, unsure of where to go. So he lurks around, stays where he feels most comfortable, and it is not the notion of home that draws him in but the familiarity. He does not care that it means he’s simply grown docile towards his wounds. That ripping them open was always for his joy, not yours.

Bitterly, you note that you had liked this about him; in the beginning at least, when you still considered this to be kind.

This—whatever it even is; whatever it was supposed to be.)

[vii]

He corners you by chance, when you are taking your laundry to the washer with whatever strength your body can muster that late into the evening. One might call it impressive, how he moves with a kind of agility no man his size or weight should have, yet you are only agitated at his massive frame blocking your view.

“You’re overreactin’.”

The willpower it takes to bite back the mean laugh bubbling in the back of your throat should earn you at least two medals and a fucking raise. Instead, you are forced to make do with Simon towering over you.

“Apologies start with ‘I’, usually.”

“… ’m trying,” he grunts, and your eyebrows draw together almost as quickly as he admits it. He sounds pleading in your ears, disgustingly so. You distractedly wonder why he doesn’t just look for some doe-eyed rookie to fuck instead, but the genuine sparkle of hope in Simon’s eyes requires most of your focus.

(It isn’t enough; you hope he knows that.)

“Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t you think it’s a shame then? That you try, and this is the best you can do?.”

(You don’t just mean his dogshit attempt at reconvening; you hope he knows that.)

[viii]

If he wanted to threaten you into submission, into forgiving him, he’d do so outright.

(Has done it before, and the way your thighs clench reminds you that you liked it. Liked the way his hand had shoved you face first into the pillow while the other made fast work of bruising your hip. Short and hard; fingers squeezing around your throat until the lack of oxygen made you forget that his monstrosity extends beyond a rough fucking.)

But he just hovers behind you now, as if to catch your gaze by coincidence.

Look at me, it screams, please just fucking look at me.

You make it a point not to.

[ix]

“You look lovely today.”

The trick is old, but Simon refuses to learn new ones. You know how this goes by heart: he pretends to be nice to you, and you fall for the bait—not the compliment that is, but the invitation to get angry at him.

(By now you are aware that it is just a game to him. Gets rid of your scorching anger, the one he thinks is a joke anyways, to make way for his cock shoved deep inside you between dirty rags and a stinking mop.)

Your back is turned reflexively towards him to mask the expression of vitriol that flits across the planes of your face as his tone registers in your ears.

The cadence in which he talks sounds off, strained. Raw and raspy in a way you have hardly ever heard from him. Motherfucker.

He has the gall to sound tortured.

“Didn’t mean it, a’right?,” he tries again, different tactic this time, but the hope remains. You cannot recall when he had been so shy, so soft, last. Like ancient parchment about to rip. Like a bomb about to blow.

Didn’t mean what? Demanding you marry him at the off chance that his pathetic mortal remains might get a top-shelf view watching you have a wank after he perishes in some off-the-records campaign?

You don’t want to have this conversation, not when he pretends that it isn’t is fault you are in this position in the first place.

He’ll just fuck you and consider that enough of an apology. You will let him and neither of you will feel any less guilty.

(You want to scream, and cry, and tell him that he is just as hopeless as you are because how else would you even begin to describe what you feel for him if not as the dreadful absence of hope; and you don’t. There is no way out—no story in which the rock will not tumble down some other hill again, even if you manage to cross this one. His ashes are the shape of your likeness. You like to think you’ll toss them somewhere quite before they collect too much dust.

Had he asked you in the beginning, you would have said yes, doesn’t he know? You would have said yes.)

You sigh, washed out and weary to your bones.

“Move, Ghost.”

He flinches at his callsign, and you file away this memory, too, like all the ones of him recoiling from a different sensation.

You look at this sorry excuse of a man as you leave and you say nothing more.

[x]

(You know what comes next.)

[xi]

He sits at the edge of your bed with his hands uselessly dangling over his lap, waiting. His feet are planted to the ground perfectly parallel, a degree of accuracy he usually fails to exercise when he leaves his boots next to your door.

(One of the laces is flaked with rust-coloured dots. He still wears them inside the house. You’re not sure there ever was a moment when he took them off.)

Rigid back, steel-spine; the painful strain right beneath his shoulder blades doesn’t deter Ghost—your doorstep is the only place he dares lay down. Simon does not move.

[xii]

Dogs that bite get put down, and he thinks this is your way of breaking the news to him.

Given all the times he should have died in this place, Simon should have guessed sooner that you’d abandon him when it came down to it. He does not resent you for it.

He only resents you a little.

(Even dead, even dying, he still wags his tail at the noise of a key jingling before being put into a lock. It’s just the neighbour.)

[xiii]

You don’t come home that night.

(Or any other night.)

a/n: not proof-read or edited, parts of this i am not happy with but fuck it, for something that was made in almost its entirety at two in the morning this isn’t too bad. also fun fact, the numerals can be rearranged in almost any order and still make sense :) i think

[brucewaynehater101]

Hear me out for mixing Emperor Tim and Spider Tim. Spider Tim does not want any of the Bats to know about his spider form, but Young Justice knows all about it. It started because Greta asked him about the magic she could sense in him and Tim telling them that he had some "thread based magic" and took a few strands of his silk to wrap around Cassie. She had to genuinely try to break out of just 5 loops of this hair thin thread. They ask him why he doesn't use this all the time and Tim simply shrugs, "I can't make a lot of it. The older I get, the more I'll be able to make bur for now? I'm stuck with only a few dozen yards a day." This isn't quite true. He can currently make about 50 yards but it will grow with time.

Months later, they run into a magician who casts an anti magic barrier around them, canceling out Tim's Glamor and he immediately transforms into his spider form. He looks back at himself and then yells, "you rat fucking bastard! Do you have any idea how rude it is to out people as non human who aren't ready to come out yet?! I'm gunna fucking *eat* you!" To which, he does. They do a Q&A as Tim devours his meal in the saftey of Bart's space ship. Tim tells them about how dangerous poachers are to him and why, how his mom is the best ever and what normal spider demon parents do, why he's actually eating the guy, and when someone asks about his civilian ID, Tim says, "I still can't tell you but bow you've seen why. You know what I am. I just told you how much of a problem poachers are. If word gets out that I'm a Spider Demon and one of you guys slip up with my civilian name, it's not just me at stake. It's my mom and her siblings and my cousins and my siblings who I've never met. Our families don't meet up because of how dangerous the poachers are,how they could and would decimate our entire population at the drop of a hat. You think they don't use truth spells on us to try and pry who our family members are out of us? You think they won't use those same spells on you guys to force you to tell them who I am so that they can hunt down and exterminate my family? I can't risk that, even if I trust you guys with this form. But... I can tell you guys that you can call me Tim." Having such a good explanation for why he cant tell them beyond "Batman said I can't" should let up a ton of tension in the future and make when he does eventually tell them all the sweeter.

Tim decides that when he's visiting his planets, he doesn't have to worry about Earth Based Poachers so he uses his spider form. He has to admit that it feels *really* nice to stretch out his limbs for so long and also climb up and down walls. Plus! None of these people know to fear spiders! He doesn't have to worry about looks of disguste or hatred simply for what he is! His citizens still think he's adorable and sweet and small.

His spider form does *not* help with the problems with the GLC because the moment the humans see a picture of him, they are all reeling back. John will never admit that he has a phobia of spiders. Kyle freely says, "it looks like it's a spider demon. There was rumors of one running around back on Earth for a while. I never saw it but if it is, then it's extremely dangerous." And Hal pipes up, "I saw it once and that is definitely the spider demon that was running around. I didn't get to see it for very long, but I was hunting down a magician and saw it fighting that thing. It was horrifying, that thing chopped the guy up with its front, scythe like legs and after it killed the magician, it ate them! And then it vanished. But how did it get into space and become the leader of this empire?"

Hal did see Tim do that. What he didn't see is that fact that the magician was a poacher who was planning to also go after the other Bats thinking that they were definitely creatures too. Of course Tim wouldn't allow his family to be hunted like that by someone who would tell them his greatest secret. So he made sure they couldn't and had a nice snack in the process.

Tim deserves to snack on that magician. That was rude af of them to do that to him (although I doubt they cared and they can't care now that they are dead). Do magicians taste differently? Like static or something?

I'm also curious about how YJ treats Tim's OG form. I bet he oscillates between severely unbothered (it's who he is, why should he care?) to being self conscious (Bats and others have expressed their dislike of spiders and his form could cause him to be taken out by a poacher). He just flips between these two depending on various variables.

I'm also curious about Tim killing and the No Killing Rule. How will Bruce react to this?

I do like the addition you did for GLs. I wonder if they try to reach out to John Constantine about the spider demon taking over the universe. I love Tim and Constantine interactions, ngl