#so alas not a terrible amount of effort -

[teyums]

“I only want you.” | Neteyam Oneshot

wc: 2.3k

pairing: neteyam x fem! na’vi reader

warnings: none, contains fluff

a/n: this is a one shot, meaning there will be no part 2

Summary: You had a painfully long day of helping the elders with their tasks, and all that’s getting you through is remembering you’ll meet Neteyam at your spot later. However, when you get there you find him with another girl and feel a piece of your heart break. He finds you, and reassures you that you’re the only one for him, sealing his promise with the proposal you’ve been waiting for.

Today had been an excruciatingly long day. You spent majority of the sunlight helping with tasks bestowed upon you by the elders.

First, it was picking what seemed like a harvest’s worth of utumauti (canopy fruit) that would be used in a celebration for the war party’s successful raids. You agreed begrudgingly and trekked through the mossy forest, holding three baskets that were stacked into each other.

After spending hours hopping from branch to branch, at times to the highest point of the tree, you had finally gathered a sufficient amount to return to the village. You even surprised yourself with how many you had collected from the canopies, seeing as utumauti isn’t in season this time of year—hence why no one wanted to do the job in the first place and passed it onto you.

You wobbly trudged back into town, balancing one basket atop your head and holding the other two in your hands, they were painfully heavy. Once arriving at the elder’s quarters, you attempted to set them down as gently as possible, letting out a sigh of relief once realizing you could now take it easy.

But alas, you were foolish to think one task wouldn’t lead to another like always. It seemed like today was the day for every na’vi in an authoritative position to drop their responsibilities onto you.

Without even five minutes to take a breather, you were then tasked with repairing the splayed and broken strings upon the bows of the latest warriors who had returned. You stared down at the piles of splinted, battered wood that lay out in front of you, strings tangled into a jumbled mess. You tried your hardest to contain your agitated expression and keep the twitch of your eye at bay to avoid a scolding.

God, this was gonna hurt.

It took you over an hour just to detangle the strings, receiving specific instructions that forbade you from simply cutting them loose and replacing them all anew. Something about ‘respecting the great mother enough to not waste resources’. You spent another hour weaving new string into the bows that needed them. Looping the strings into the bow nocks over and over again proved to be an even more tedious effort than picking fruit.

By the time you finished, your fingers were terribly sore. Your cuticles were reddened and bruised, a few snags and hangnails forming in the delicate skin around them from dealing with rough wood.

You stacked the bows in a neater pile than you had found them, standing up and brushing the sawdust off your legs and loincloth. Finally, after hours of what seemed like endless work, you could now focus on what your day was really supposed to be about.

Him.

There had finally been a commonality in your schedules, so you and Neteyam had dedicated the entirety of today to spend with each other. Neteyam’s training had only picked up in frequency the last couple weeks, leaving less time for the two of you to spend together. This proved to be extremely hard on you guys, but especially you. You had been cursed with the love language of quality time and right now you were terribly missing the nights where the two of you would lay in each other’s arms, stargazing without a care of what tomorrow would bring.

You shooed the thought away, a small smile rendering on your lips as you reminded yourself that the hard work was done, and now the two of you could be together. Though you were bummed that your time would now be cut short, you relished in the fact that you would still be able to spend the evening with him, just like old times.

You skipped along the battered path that housed the ghosts of footsteps from your clan, trying to contain your squeals of excitement as you neared the spot Neteyam said he would be waiting at for you.

A small pond with bountiful vegetation surrounding the perimeter slowly came into view, as well as a head of long, black braids and a pair of strong shoulders that belonged to your lover.

You felt your shoulders relax for the first time today and started towards him. You used your hand to move a large anthurium leaf out of the way, your feet stopping dead in your tracks when you caught sight of someone next to him.

A girl.

Your mouth fell slightly agape at the scene in front of you, your brain rushing to make sense of things. She stood with her back to Neteyam, a bow in her hands and her arms stretched clumsily, feigning inexperience. You watched as he used his hand to tip her elbow upwards, helping her correct her form.

Okay, calm down. He’s just helping her. Right?

Neteyam was always known for being friendly, it being both his most admirable characteristic and biggest flaw. Because of his kindhearted, always eager to help like nature, it was hard for him to realize when someone had an ulterior motive to get close to him.

“Here,” he stepped closely behind her, both their gazes set down at the pond in front of them. “Straighten your back. You need a strong form.” His hand pushed against her mid-lower back to fix her posture, resulting in her arching it and repositioning her arms to shoot the bow the correct way. It was now excruciatingly obvious that she knew how to do this from the beginning. You felt your stomach flip.

There stood Neteyam, with his hands on another girl.

Your Neteyam.

“Like this?” She questioned innocently, in which Neteyam hummed as a response. He probably would’ve noticed how close the two of them were to each other, skin nearly touching; if he hadn’t been so focused on the fish darting around in the water below them

Maybe you were hallucinating, but you vaguely recall your heart plunging out of your chest and flopping around pitifully on the forest floor beneath you. You felt the painfully familiar feeling of your throat constricting, the burn of approaching tears following suit. Your face twisted like you had smelled something rotten and you turned away, not wanting to watch any more of this.

You had already figured he would have been a little bummed when you had to move the time of your date, but had he really been so upset that he couldn’t even wait for you? How long had this been going on before you found them and why the hell was he so close to her?

You backed away silently, wiping the tears you hadn’t noticed had fallen with the back of your hand and storming back to your hut.

Neteyam hadn’t been aware of your arrival, instead, his attention was set on the girl he now noticed had been faking.

“Ah,” He removed his hand as if her body burned and stepped back, putting a disrespectful amount of space between them. “It seems you do not need my help, after all.” He says, the unamused expression on his face matching the tone of his voice.

She smiled shyly and lowered her bow, tucking a braid behind her ear. “Fine, you caught me. I actually just wanted to spend time with you.”

“So we are done here, then. If you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting someone important.” He took a seat on the rock where he had previously been resting before the girl came up to ask him for help, resuming the sharpening of an unfinished project he had brought to keep busy.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Her head tilted curiously, not quite understanding his behavior. “I said I wanted to spend time with you, Neteyam.”

“I am not a fan of liars. Whatever it is you want, I cannot help you with.” He nearly interrupted her while continuing to shave the now forming spearhead. “You may go now.”

She scoffed, more out of embarrassment than annoyance. She stood there for a second more, his eyes snapping up to shoot her a pointing stare that had her turning on her heels and hastily exiting.

He sighed to himself and shook his head, silently cursing himself for even agreeing to assist her. He knew it was hard on you, having to listen to the girls of the clan rant and rave about who was soon to be your mate. He tried his best to avoid them, but there were times like this where they would take his kindness for granted, only to run back to their friends and exaggerate what really happened. He felt terrible now that he knew her main goal was only to have his hands on her for bragging rights.

He tore his attention away from his task, peering up at the sky and using a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun. It was almost eclipse, you had told him that you would be done by now. If anything, you should have already met up with him. He gathered his things, wondering if you had made a stop home first and decided he would meet you there instead.

___________

You laid in your hammock silently, back facing the entrance as you picked at a stray hemp string to distract yourself from the immense wave of sadness that refused to stop crashing over you. The wooden steps outside your hut groaned from supporting the weight of footsteps, and an involuntary sigh left your lips when your nostrils filled with the scent of mahogany and petrichor. Neteyam.

“My love?”

The tall na’vi stepped through the flaps of your tent, and you tucked your body into itself further, successfully giving off the impression that you weren’t interested in speaking. You figured if you closed your eyes you could play it off as stirring in your sleep.

It didn’t work.

He immediately became worried when catching site of you, wondering if you had fallen sick and that being the reason you hadn’t come to him. He was across the room and by your side in an instant, taking a seat next to you to see your eyes shut.

Neteyam was observant, more than others at that. He knew how your breathing slowed a few paces when you were truly asleep, how your lips would stay parted just the tiniest bit, or even how your nostrils would flare here and there depending on how deeply you inhaled. Something was wrong.

“My love, what is the matter?” It took everything in you not to lean into his touch when you felt his gentle fingers brush the hair from your face, his digits grazing over your skin before cupping your cheek.

“I do not want to talk about it, Neteyam.” Your eyes stayed closed, an effort to remain withdrawn from the conversation.

The use of his full name instantly ruled out any other option he had been thinking of. You were upset with him.

“No, you know we don’t do that. Come on,” his large hands delicately took hold of your small frame, bringing you into a sitting position. “Open.”

Your eyelids reluctantly peeled apart, amber eyes streaked with red veins and eyelashes dewy from prior tears. His eyebrows furrowed with worry at your puffy appearance, gaze softening once he saw why. You had been crying.

“Princess,” his voice was pained, hands coming up to cup your tear stained cheeks and caress them with his thumbs. “What happened? Why are you crying?”

Your lip quivered and you felt that painfully annoying sensation creeping back in. You opened your mouth to speak but the tightening of your throat stopped you before you could respond.

He continued. “I waited for you, but you did not come. Why?”

“I saw you,” You sniffed, dropping your gaze down at the netting below you instead of his eyes. “With her.”

He appeared confused at first, his mind jumping through hoops to try and figure out what you meant. Then, his head fell to the side a bit and a deep sigh of realization joined afterwards.

“[Y/n], that was nothing. I promise. I was waiting for you, then she found me and asked me to show her how to catch a fish.” He explained, his hands now on your shoulders.

“You think she doesn’t know how to catch a damn fish? She just wanted your attention.” You spat, hating the way your voice was cutting in and out.

“I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was so excited to see you that I just helped her so she would leave. But as soon as I saw her true intentions I sent her away. It was nothing more than that, princess, I swear.” He took notice of you turning your head away from him and felt a pang in his chest. He hated seeing you like this, and it hurt even more knowing it was because of him.

“Do you believe me?” His voice was quiet and you finally peered up at him to see he looked just as hurt as you did. You nodded your head slightly, his tensed shoulders relaxing a bit the moment you did.

“Of course I believe you. But it still hurts.” A single tear fell onto your cheek and he was quick to clear it without a word, giving you time to express your feelings to him. “I cannot stand to hear the way they talk about you.”

He noticed your fingers starting to twiddle anxiously, taking both of your hands into his and holding them firmly. “But you know I am yours, only. I only want you. Those girls will never change that.”

“You don’t understand.” You shook your head and went to pull your hands away from him, but he tightened his hold. He was already one step ahead and knew how you preferred to run from conversations like this rather than have them.

“Please, help me understand.” His voice soft, warm yellow eyes pleading and seeing into the part of your soul no one else could.

“They laugh at me, when I tell them you are spoken for. They do not believe me,” You inhaled shakily, biting at the inside of your lip before continuing. “because we are not mated yet.” Your voice merely a whisper, like you were embarrassed to admit what had been ailing you.

“Oh, [Y/n]…” He pulled you into his chest and embraced you in his arms, placing a light kiss to the top of your head. He was so careful with you, it was as if he felt you would crumble to pieces.

You melted into his arms, you couldn’t help it even if you tried. He really was your safe place, and even if he had been the one to upset you, he made it known that you could always come to him no matter what. You felt him lean back and lightly pull you away.

“I had no idea you have been feeling this way. There is nothing I want more than to be with you for life, my love. I just didn’t want to rush you into it, in case you weren’t ready.” He smiled, his excitement written all over his face.

“Really?” Your eyes grew big, pupils leaking adoration and swelling in sync with your heart.

“Really.” He hummed.

The space between the two of you grew smaller as he fell in, your lashes kissing before your lips could. By the time your eyes fluttered to a close his lips were melded against yours, and with every second that passed you felt your doubts withering away— the passion from his embrace and his hands on your waist served as ample reassurance.

You broke for air, eyes dazed, bodies longing for more. “I’m sorry if I ruined our date, Nete…”

“Nonsense, you could never ruin anything.” He chuckled, pecking the tip of your nose. “Forget about that, just come with me.”

Before you could agree you were off the hammock and up on your feet, fingers laced as he led you out of your home.

“Where are we going?” You smiled.

“To tell my parents to begin preparations for our ceremony. I don’t want to spend another moment not mated with you.” He glanced down at you and gave your hand a squeeze, an elated grin overtaking his face to match yours.

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[l4long-winded]

iv. the distraction of rising temperature

summary: now that you and sherlock are at a friendlier standing, it's time to explore more of your friendship. or whatever it is (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: i am terribly sorry that this took so long. i just wanted everything to be how i envisioned it and of course, i ended up overdoing it. i have that nasty habit of rereading and editing until i have a singular part. then, i do it all again with the next and the next until it becomes far too much. i intended this series to be shorter, but alas, some things are not meant to be. please enjoy and feedback is always appreciated and encouraged!

warnings: seamstress!reader, conflicted!sherlock, reader has a nickname, flirting, fluff, close proximity, mystery brewing, cursing, longwinded descriptions, overthinking, sherlock is in deep denial, suggestive language, alcohol consumption, enola makes an appearance, off screen character death, somewhat slowburn, enemies to lovers, sherlock observes reader, a fitting with far too many boundaries crossed, sexual tension, victorian era, eventual smut (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 10,023

previously: mr. wright and jane austen

( this work has been cross posted on ao3 )

This is the second time you face the golden 221B in front of you and it’s definitely different than the first time, less animosity, about the same nerves, much more intrigue. After you received your book from Sherlock, he seemingly began to appear frequently around the building and around your shop. Only a couple of days passed by and you could recall seeing his recognizable frame through the window strolling by, through his voyages to and from his flat in which he would say nothing but give a slight nod of his head in acknowledgment. He certainly must know you found the book, but it’s clear he won’t approach unless you do so first out of respect for your boundaries. While his note conveyed his desire to restart fresh, it didn’t mean he would go out of his way to assume what you decided to do. Something about that sustained reverence is what pulled you to his door this afternoon, this being the sole amount of free time you’ve had in these troubling times. You’re steady as you breathe in and out for some extra confidence and to quite possibly shake some traveling nerves (it barely helps).

Once you dictate yourself as ready, you rap onto the door and take a single step backwards when you remember how much space Sherlock takes up on his lonesome. The last time, when he insulted you and disregarded your noise complaint, you felt rather small not just by his words, but by your stature compared to his. He loomed over you and narrowed his eyes in a way that caused you to lose hold of your convictions for just a moment, but the moment was enough for him to gain the upper hand, a shark smelling blood in the water. You’re convinced he’s not going to purposely agitate you this time around, but you also don’t want to accidentally toss him another opportunity. You’re hopeful he’ll be true to his word, not stupid enough to drop your guard. You still barely know anything about each other and strangers took advantage of people all the time.

The door comes open with a haste you’re not prepared for and you can’t help but take a half step back from it in reaction. Your hands capture themselves in front of your abdomen in efforts to balance yourself, as if the pull of the door would suction you inside and awkwardly leave you standing in Sherlock’s flat without invitation. It’s hardly a dramatized action since you feel the air surrounding whip around the rebellious strands of hair framing your face. Except, as you ground yourself and shuffle your feet, the person standing in front of you is very obviously not Sherlock, but a young woman with familiar features. Her eyes widen upon recognition of you, her head turning back to look into Sherlock’s flat for what appears to be answers.

“It’s a woman,” she calls back and it gives you the indication that you probably interrupted the two from some sort of discussion. It would explain her haste and why Sherlock’s marching over in what you surmise is in a mix of impatience and irritation. “Were you expecting a seamstress?” The girl asks as Sherlock gets closer and you can see him pause as he gains a better look at you, your eyes locking onto his despite the young woman sitting in between the two of you. From your peripheral vision, you could see her engaging in careful glances switching back and forth between you and Sherlock, an attempt present to decipher what the correlation to one another is since Sherlock’s offered silence. His gait’s suffered a stop enough for the girl to draw on her inspection and you’re not prepared for her scrutiny while seemingly under his.

“Give us a moment,” he finally utters, his eyebrows pinching together in the process of giving the young woman a simple, yet loaded, look. You may not know what’s going on here, but you’re aware of this look having been on the receiving end of one and having conjured it on your own. She seems to quickly catch on and she backs away with her hands up from the door and floats into the flat without further questions. Sherlock seems grateful for her lack of continued communication as he steps through the frame and shuts the door behind him.

“Excuse my sister… Enola’s fully prepared to insert herself into anyone’s business at any time if she becomes interested in any form.” Ah, his sister. That’s what looked so familiar about her. Well, you probably should have guessed it from how she quickly came to the conclusion that you were a seamstress. You suppose that such observational skills run in the family. That dynamic must be insufferable to be around, but you came from your own version of chaos in a family. There’s hardly room for judgment.

“She’s curious, huh? Sounds like she’s trying to mimic someone we both know.” You’re teasing, of course, teasing with an inkling of truth to your choice of words. To your amusement, you watch in real time as Sherlock exhales and musters a small smile.

“Trust me, she doesn’t want to be like me,” he replies and you ponder what he could possibly mean for a second since Enola’s enthusiasm proved to you in a shortened time frame of just how much she matches Sherlock. Your hesitation to ask about it warrants him to continue speaking. “You’re not at work at this hour?”

Somehow, he’s accounted for your schedule and you’re taken aback for an interlude. He doesn’t budge or comprehend how this information is not common knowledge so you have a feeling he’s not trying to be all knowing or superior. It’s perhaps something that just happens to him whether he’s in control of it or not. “No, I didn’t have too much to do today so I decided to take a break. I actually wanted to speak with you about something, but it seems as if I’ve arrived at a bad time.” You don’t want to interrupt him and his sister and could always return later, but Sherlock waves it off and crosses his arms.

“It’s not a bad time at all. Please,” he presses his arms forward into the air, “continue. I trust you received my informal letter?”

“That I did… Thank you for the book. I love it. I have my own copy back home, but I failed to bring it with me during the move. It’s already helped immensely.” You can’t stop yourself from beaming thinking about it. It’s been something to turn to when your brain’s overloaded or your hands are itching for relief from remaining in the same position for so long.

“I’m glad to hear it. Jane Austen’s work doesn’t get nearly enough attention. I assume it’s because people are too behind to understand.” He shrugs his shoulders because it really is an unfortunate circumstance. While she has some traction, much more than when she was alive, you and Sherlock both know why that traction isn’t grander or why she didn’t become acclaimed until later on. It’s a stark elephant in the hall, but you choose not to address it and shake your head to change the subject.

“Well, as much as I appreciate the gesture, I do hate how you’ve ruined the mystery of your name. I was going with Shoulders Holmes before you had to add your input.” Your hands come up to your hips in a mock scolding. It achieves the desired effect as Sherlock releases his arms from the hold against his chest and he stares at you with levity in his eyes. Him and his damn bluer-than-blue eyes.

“At least you had something to go off. I’ve referred to you as Lily for a while now.” The confession causes your hand to come up and grasp your charm out of habit and you want to release it the second you do, but you endure where you are as you try and study his face. It’s not the most terrible nickname since you enjoyed flowers, but it’s come out of left field.

“Not bad,” you exhale, “but my name is Y/N. Or… if you wish to call me Lily, I wouldn’t be opposed.” You grasp the charm tighter, though you’re not sure why you feel inclined to do so. You shouldn’t care so much what he would think of your name as even if he doesn’t, it’s not something you could change. His validation ought to mean nothing to you, and yet as you stare up at him, you feel relief flood your system as he repeats it to you. Warmth nuzzles across your back and shoulders and you could swear the same comes up to hug the apples of your cheeks, all because Sherlock saying your name is a new experience and sensation you didn’t know you could be so fond of. It eloquently rolls off his tongue and his tone is one of approval.

“So, we’re officially acquaintances, then? No longer mortal enemies who glare at each other from across the stairs?” You can’t help but laugh at the dramatics of the situation. But looking back, glaring at each other or refusing to acknowledge one another did seem to be the pattern you both fell into. You feel sheepish about how you acted, but from his body language, he also seems to be ashamed of his antics. His question was genuine as much as he intended it to sound as if he was joking.

“Correct, officially acquaintances. And I, your new acquaintance, have a proposal for you.” You watch as confusion flits over Sherlock’s face. The lines he does have are there from thinking, you can tell. “I want to help you with your investigation.”

This is not what Sherlock expects. His eyebrows raise in incredulity as he regards you. The movement in his shoulders tells you how he’s restraining himself, but you can’t tell if it’s from celebrating or expressing to you of his surprise. He persists in his stillness, quiet befalling the both of you as you look into the depths of his eyes and he traces them at different points of your facial structure and then different points of your body. Normally, a man gazing this intently at you would cause you to protect yourself and hide away, but you can almost see the cogs shifting inside of Sherlock’s head. He does what most don’t and that’s think before he speaks, analyze before jumping to conclusions that may be wrong. Considering how he’s done that before and it ended with you two disliking each other, you don’t say anything to properly give him his time of contemplation.

“I sense a condition of some sort incoming,” he decides on after a beat and you fidget with your hands because he’s right, you do have a condition. You didn’t come up here for just a friendly chat as you had days to mull over what you wanted to say to him and how you two could move forward from starting off on the wrong foot.

“Right,” you begin, and you know he hears that too often, “I want to help you with your investigation, but only if you come down to my shop and allow me to fit you for something. You don’t have to buy anything, I’m not trying to be bought,” you reassure him, “but I also could use some more business. What I’m implying here is that we could help each other out.”

Sherlock is still again. He doesn’t display to you much besides that recurring restraint. You don’t know how he could possibly read you and you could barely do the same to him, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. You stand taller to appear more confident in this and you wait for him to say something with bated breath. There are a number of ways he can respond and you lean more towards rejection than anything else. You wouldn’t be angry if he refused this altogether, there’s nothing obligating either of you to each other just because you’re now standing on common ground. He wants to say something, you can see it playing at his lips, but it’s difficult to dwell on because suddenly the both of you lightly startle hearing Enola’s voice through the door, “I have places to be, Sherlock!”

The impromptu rushing has you falter. You’re sure he’ll wave you away now, but he doesn’t create any rampant motions. He simply looks at you one last time before he speaks, “I’ll think about it.” That’s all you could ask of him since the task isn’t the most conventional of sorts. It came to fruition because of how you didn’t recognize his gift as a full reason to forgive him for his past behavior. There’s also something particularly sleazy about the idea of Sherlock presenting you with a gift of your liking solely to encourage your succor in his work, a light test behind asking him of this. By how he didn’t immediately leap at the opportunity, you’re guessing his heart was in the right place and cease those questions burdening you, the ones asking of his intentions and morals.

You depart thereafter with a polite dip of your head, one he mirrors before he watches you retreat to the stairs. It’s when you’re out of his sight that he enters his flat once more, his sister sitting comfortably in the chair at his desk. He needs to talk with her about areas being off limits because this is becoming ridiculous at this point.

“It’s about time,” Enola chimes, which in turn leads to Sherlock rolling his eyes. He resumes what he did before you knocked on his door and that’s tending to the map in front of him where Enola marked off new spots for him to travel to. They helped each other from time to time and she would soon be off embarking on another adventure he would wind up worrying over with the dangers of the world in his head. He’s examining the map with a comical magnifying glass, too busy immersing himself back into the work because he doesn’t want his mind to stray to you. Lately, it’s been doing that more than he could handle and such a detriment in focus must be tended to accordingly. While you hold the fabric he’s chased for ages now in your possession, he’s treading lightly since any interaction with you might further cloud his head. This is a phenomenon he’s not used to.

“You could use a new tie,” Enola says, breaking him free of his current task. He attempts to imagine she’s not sitting there to continue, at most shooting her an annoyed glare. Still, he can’t completely ignore her. There’s a reason she said what she said, why she chose those certain words, why she’s lying because she knows he has an impressive tie collection.

“I could’ve sworn I’ve talked with you about eavesdropping.” He doesn’t notice her stand until she reaches for the magnifying glass from him. He stands at his full height and looks down at her, again in agitation as he watches her continue on with his task. It’s like she knows he’s trying to corral his thoughts towards this subject to not stray away against his best wishes.

“I’m just making an observation. If you’re going to a fitting, why not?” Sherlock refrains from scoffing. He didn’t decide to attend yet and here Enola goes acting as if he has a plan set in stone to visit you at your shop. It confirms her eavesdropping, but he doesn’t want to give away any more information than that. Enola cannot know of how much you’re in his head, how he accidentally fell into a repetition of observing you from afar, how he wrote you a note and sent you his copy of Persuasion by Jane Austen. He knows his sister and she will just get the wrong idea. He knows what this may look like to her and that could be farther from the truth.

“... She’s pretty.”

It’s the last thing Sherlock anticipates for Enola to say. While she regularly institutes new ways to catch him off guard, this is not one he could have accounted for easily. His ego alerts him he could have prevented this had he just given more thought to what is lurking through her young mind, but alas, it’s too late for him. She’s said her piece and he now has no choice but to scrutinize it deeper than it needs to be. He doesn’t want to explore anything to do with that factor or anything relating, but Enola’s robbed him of his decorum and magnifying glass, left him a foreboding entity standing at his own desk with nothing to do but think back to how you stood before him just moments ago. You and your imperfect hair pinned to your head save for the defiant strands that love to dangle over your eyes, you and your fluttering lashes that you’re unaware almost whisp to your cheekbones from the length and fan, you and that cheeky smile adorning your lips when you say something teasing or sarcastic.

Enola’s observation is not unprecedented or incorrect. As much as he wants to declare to Enola that you’re indeed unpleasant to look at, he can’t bring himself to do so. You’re attractive, he’s known this already. He didn’t need Enola’s opinion on it. Especially not since such an opinion has led his head to recall the curves within your facial structure, the slope of your neck, how the lily of the valley rests right above your accentuated chest, how the corset cruelly punctuates your hips almost as if they’re beckoning in a pair of hands to rest upon them. These are the thoughts he wishes to avoid. They’re distractions to him and his work, they make his palms feel clammy, his fingers twitch on his desk as he imagines the pair of hands referred to on your hips as his own. This hasn’t happened to him before. He doesn’t know how to approach it or push the less than gentlemanly images beginning to flood his mind.

Thankfully, Enola passes him back his magnifying glass. “Earth to Sherlock,” she says and he’s centering himself back to this reality. He merely gives her a look before he returns to the map. He won’t dare say a thing. Enola’s too much like him and she would know something’s bothering him inside whether his comments were negative, agreeable, or neutral. It’s not worth fanning the flames of her active imagination.

You’re at the front desk busying yourself with checking off commissions and reworking invoices on parchment paper. Mrs. Thomas is there again at a nearby chair resting her feet before she goes home. She’s attended this shop often and you would regard her as a friend by how much you see her if it weren’t for how she’s a paying customer and how her closeness with your father wrote any of her actions off as mourning and pity in your eyes. You don’t want to necessarily see it this way, but it’s difficult not to with how she always seems to smile at you with sympathy lurking in her pupils. As much as you appreciate it, you’re tired of people looking at you with emotion rather than respect since you’re running this shop on your own. Even before, your father may have done a lot, but it’s you who’s created clothing under your former roof with your mother and sister. You don’t think that credit will ever be rightfully handed to you with how everyone cautiously addresses you.

The sad part is that each time it happens, you are hit with the painful reminder of how your father is gone. You’re already constantly thinking of that on your own and it follows you to your work since his last name is plastered on the building and sewed into the tags of the clothing you design. It’s bitter icing on top of the cake for your (his) remaining customers to come in here and talk to you about it or subconsciously bring the fact forth with how they maneuver their facial expressions towards you. Running on fumes is not easy at all and it’s harder with complex emotions involved.

The bell to your front door rings alerting you of a customer walking in. Their steps are heavy on your floorboards and there’s about three taken until you lift your head to view who’s entered your establishment. It’s those broad shoulders you’re sure you could recognize from kilometers away, his face a bit weary as he takes in the area of the shop for the first time inside instead of searching through the window. He walks to you slowly and instead of allowing this awkward gait to greet you at your desk, you round the obstruction and meet him halfway on the path. He pauses in front of you and you’re unable to suppress the grin forming on your features in surprise and disbelief that he came so soon. You thought he would take longer to think about what you offered, perhaps a few days, not mere hours.

“Pardon me,” he begins, “you wouldn’t happen to know where I could possibly be fitted for a tie around here, would you? My sister instructed me how I was in dire need of one.” Much like your own grin is growing by the second, as is his with his emboldened statement feigning cluelessness. You tap your chin in pretend thought as you look up at him, one arm tucking beneath your elbow across your chest.

“Ah, you have a wise sister. You’ve come to the right place. We have a large assortment of ties. Is there anything specific you’re searching for?”

“Whichever you deem best,” he responds almost instantly, his face leaning towards yours in the process for just you alone to hear. It’s a curious endeavor since there’s only you and him and Mrs. Thomas sitting in a chair. It’s then that Mrs. Thomas reminds you both of her presence, “I thought you wanted to commission more than that,” she booms out. She can be loud for an older woman.

You glance back and forth between Mrs. Thomas and Sherlock, then. You didn’t know that they knew each other and by the look on Sherlock’s face that crosses for a split second, he seems alarmed. It quickly passes through and then he’s impassive all over again.

“Yes, you’re right. I wanted to commission a, um…” his eyes scan momentarily, a sign that he’s trying to think fast that you know Mrs. Thomas won’t notice, but you do, “a vest” he decides. “A vest and a suit jacket.”

Not taking the hint that this is more than he’s bargained for, Mrs. Thomas laughs. “Might as well be fitted for the entire suit! Don’t you think so, Ms. Wright?”

Mrs. Thomas holds an unusual expression you haven’t seen before, a genuine and beaming smile that reaches her eyes and erases the sympathy from them that you consistently detect. You’re not sure what she’s doing, but instead of dwelling on her, you pivot to bring your full attention to Sherlock. It’s transparent to you that he’s hiding something, though you feel as if it’s more for Mrs. Thomas then it is for you. Still, you might as well have some fun with his visit. It’s not like you had a line of customers to dawdle on.

“Why, Mrs. Thomas, you are correct,” you can just see how Sherlock narrows his eyes at you in a warning, but despite this, you continue and hook one arm into his, now side by side, “Let’s do an entire fitting and then we can discuss that commission of yours, Mr. Shoulders.”

Sherlock fakes a smile at you, it’s tight lipped and you know this is not what he wanted, but he goes along and waves his goodbye to Mrs. Thomas who is finally standing from her chair to leave. She lingers watching you two disappear into a backroom.

“I did not agree to this,” Sherlock mutters, almost petulantly. It sounds foreign coming from such a deep voice.

“But here I am agreeing… Come on, it’ll be over before you know it. Remove the items on your torso besides the undershirt, please.” You half expect him not to listen, to put his foot down and ask for the tie again, but to your surprise, Sherlock blows a breath out through his nose and then he starts by ridding off his jacket sleeve by sleeve. You feel rather smug by his obedience, but you don’t wish to stop him through this, so you leave him to strip as you said as you go to retrieve your measuring tape and return with fresh paper for your pen and inkwell. When you return, you’re met with Sherlock undoing the current tie sitting at his neck. It slips free and the shirt is as poofy as a falling parachute through the sky.

“Erm… that shirt’s rather… large on you,” you don’t know if that’s the correct word. It seems as if it fits and yet it doesn’t, extra fabric bunching at his arms and waist. You tilt your head examining it and Sherlock takes a glance down to assess what you may mean.

“I’m aware,” he mutters. “I have trouble finding correct sizing and I don’t necessarily make the time to have actual appointments with tailors. Some things fit enough, nothing like a glove.” He shrugs his shoulders and it’s obvious to you he’s reserved himself to this way of dressing. For the most part, he didn’t do a bad job. He dressed elegantly and his other items seemed to fit him accordingly, but the bunched up fabric was for sure going to hinder you in taking his measurements. Because of this, you know what you have to do, and your fingers nervously wind the tape around your hands as you stare at him almost abashedly.

Noticing this, Sherlock looks at you quizzically. “What?”

“Sherlock, do you mind… removing your shirt? It’ll be easier to take your measurements that way, but if you don’t wish to, you aren’t obligated.” You’re already pushing him further out of his comfort zone and how he probably thought this would all go. You can see his hands flex at his sides, quiet as he stares forward and visibly ponders what he should do in this situation. You wouldn’t blame him if he rejected it entirely and put his tie and vest back on, strung his jacket along his arms and walked out of this invasive nature. It shouldn’t be this awkward, it never is with other male clients, but there’s a palpable energy between you that neither of you understand. Each step towards each other in any setting feels like a step too far, but always in the right direction.

He says nothing. You wish you could see past the flesh and skull in his head to truly capture what he may be thinking, but eventually, he whispers, “Very well, then,” and he starts at the cuffs. He unbuttons them gradually, and he glances at you once before he starts to tackle the buttons at his torso. One by one, they come undone, pectoral muscles displayed, a patch of hair on his chest that you had not expected to be there from how clean shaven he keeps his face. From every masculine element about him, it’s something you should’ve probably guessed. That and the swell of muscles in his arms that you didn’t regularly encounter on men around, such that bulge as he slips the white garment off of him completely. He turns away to discard the item with his other clothes, and then he’s left vulnerable standing in front of your full body mirror. He doesn’t look at himself. He keeps his eyes on you, waiting for another direction perhaps.

“Thank you. Let’s start with your arms.” You must carry this out as confidently as humanly possible even with the stature of Sherlock taking you a bit aback. Like a professional, you have him shift his arms out to measure his wingspan, the width of his back rather prominent to you at this moment since he is by no means a small man. You’re timorous as you measure around his biceps, as you catch the scent of his musk and tobacco standing this close by. You alternate between stretching your tape out at his limbs and then moving downward to write off the numbers each time. It’s an intimate affair as much as neither of you would like to admit it, and all that can be heard is the sound of each of your breathing. Not wanting this to be cumbersome, you try and find your voice literally kneeling before him while asking him to adjust his legs. Fortunately (and unfortunately) for you, his trousers are concealing him and it’s less inconvenient on you than when you tended to his torso.

“So, you spoke with Mrs. Thomas about a commission, hm?” You mark off the measurement with your thumbnail and then jot it down.

“Technically,” he admits. It bewilders you further. You stand so you can wrap the tape about his waist, one hand behind his back feeding it through. His warm skin touches your fingers. You’re face to face with his chest and neck here, but you ensure your eyes stay on the tape measure. You’re unaware of how he’s examining the top of your head.

“Technically? What’s technical about it?”

“Well, I wasn’t asking about a commission from you.” This is enough for your head to snap up. Your hands are still firmly on the tape measure around his waist, locking him in position to be this close to you, to be centimeters from this boulder of a man as he stares down at you with sincerity in his eyes. He’s literally so close that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. Those nerves from earlier are recollecting in your veins holding his steely gaze, but you don’t make any efforts to depart after his confession.

“You were asking… about my father? Why? Did you know him?” You should let go of the tape, but you don’t have the number yet to do so. Letting go just to wrap it back around him would be redundant. This isn’t any better since it’s trapping you practically against him, minimal distance between the two of you that any onlooker would confuse it as some kind of flirtatious bout, his naked torso feeding into the hypothetical guess. You stay where you are, blinking up at Sherlock who shakes his head back and forth.

“I did not. I just noticed that you were here alone so often. It made me question who Mr. Wright was. And so I came up with a bit of deception to tell Mrs. Thomas on her way out one day. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant conversation.” While honesty is easy for him to undergo, he does seem ashamed of his actions. The corner of his lips quirks for a second and it clicks for you that he knew about your father’s passing. And if he knew about your father’s passing, then it had you questioning his motives again. You want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but you hate this kind of subject.

Slowly, you look down to mark the number and then write it onto the pad of paper below. Having that be his last measurement, you detach from him and sigh out in displeasure as you look over the other measurements you’ve taken thus far. “So you got me that book out of pity,” you note, the excitement in your voice drained out from yet another person giving you special treatment you never asked for. “You asked about him because you thought he would help with your investigation since I wouldn’t, didn’t you?” You’re disappointed and you don’t bother to hide it. His cold exterior melting away so abruptly suddenly makes sense now. For a moment, you feel like a fool.

But Sherlock doesn’t allow this to last long. “Yes and no,” he replies and it leaves you puzzled. You stare at him from the side. He’s grabbing his shirt and slipping it back over himself, but he’s still looking at you in the process. “I thought that Mr. Wright may help me with my investigation, yes, but I also wanted to know if you ran this establishment by yourself. I guess a part of me knew that already, but I’ve never been one to carry out without confirmation or evidence.” He leaves the shirt open, the hair on his chest trailing down still very much visible. He conceals more of what makes him a man underneath those professional clothes, the clothes of a proper gentleman and a proper detective, but it’s not any less distracting. “Now, I don’t wish to offend you, but I did not know your father. I had little reaction to the news that Mrs. Thomas broke to me. But I knew you. I didn’t get you that book out of pity. I did it because I misread you.”

He buttons his cuffs somehow without struggling. You’re used to watching men and women alike grapple with said buttons because of the transition between left hand and right hand. You don’t think he’s ambidextrous, but much like other things about him, he’s most likely perfected it in a way where there are less steps, where there is less of a scuffle. You pay attention to this because his words are different from what you’ve experienced during your time in the city with a plethora of people coming to and from your shop. They hold weight because they’re about you, not about anyone else, but you and how you feel. It’s strange to be so known in the eyes of someone you met more than three weeks ago, but it’s also paradoxically freeing to be seen in a light free of that shame that’s haunted you since your arrival.

“I’ll… I’ll bring you that tie.” You settle on, a bit overcome with emotion in this instance from your thoughts bouncing to your father, his passing, the overwhelming “support” everyone’s extended out to you, and how Sherlock has given you what you’ve been craving for a long while now, and that’s validation and transparency. You don’t want to face him with the sting of tears in your eyes so he does appear to be confused as you walk away from him, but in your movement, you take heavy breaths to pull yourself together. It’s only when you feel secure in your features that you move to pull a royal blue tie into your hands. You’re sure it’ll bring out his eyes and he hardly uses color from what you’ve seen in his attire.

Soon, you remerge into the room, and Sherlock’s hands are politely cupping one another behind the small of his back, his shirt now fully buttoned. He’s still not looking in the mirror, the floor his choice of perspective, but with your return, he shifts his eyes up to your face and a thoughtful expression forms. He extends a hand out to you, but you raise your own to stop him.

“May I?”

He falters. You can tell he’s juggling whether he should allow you to or not, but in due time, he lowers his hands back to where they were before behind his back. It’s the slight nod that permits you to walk to him, which you do and you upturn the collar of his now wrinkled shirt for the access necessary. His pupils follow your hands with every movement and they only shut when you lift the fabric over his head to lay it around his neck. You situate both ends and Sherlock involuntarily takes a single half step forward from the light tug, his abdomen brushing against yours. Both of you hear the hitches in your breaths, and you could swear his adam’s apple bobbed from a light gulp, but neither of you choose to comment on it. You busy yourself with maneuvering the tie into its correct loops. You try to ignore how awfully domestic it feels and how your heart thuds harder in your ribcage.

“Your heart’s beating fast,” he says, that matter-of-fact tone as present as the day you met him. You forgot that your chests are pressing together and you rectify it by stepping that half step backwards that Sherlock took forward. He’s sturdy this time and doesn’t budge.

“It’s the temperature here,” you lie. This seems to appease him since he doesn’t say anything else about it, to your relief. You slip the knot upwards, one hand holding the tail, the other not stopping until it reaches his neck. Normally, you’d pull away from the client and have them view themselves in the mirror. Since this is not a normal time, you stay there in that position, your fingers against the cloth against his neck. His pulse is resting right into them and by how his jaw sets, you know he’s aware of what you’ve discovered and what you’re about to say.

“Your pulse is—”

“It’s the temperature here,” he parrots and you can’t even fault him for it because you used the same line. His wit may just hold a candle to yours. The speeding pulse introducing itself with your digits remains this way as you gaze at Sherlock. He doesn’t make any efforts to push you away and you don’t stagger backwards even if you think you should. It’s obvious to the both of you that you’re riddled with nerves and this is not an ordinary encounter nor an ordinary fitting. Eventually, you release the tie and step off to the side to maneuver out of his way. His stare follows you, but he soon removes that to walk to the mirror and view how the tie looks on him.

“Not bad, Lily,” he says.

You hide your smile behind your hand as you meet his eyes in the mirror. You were right, the tie enhances his irises. “Blue’s your color, Shoulders.”

It’s late at night, Sherlock paces the length of his floor, cautious in each step since he did not wish to alert the tenants below of his confusion and distress. Or more so, he did not wish to alert you. He’s refrained from playing his violin at such late hours in consideration of you and it’s well past the time that you’ve arrived home from work. He chose not to discuss the fabric he needs for his investigation and opted for it to occur tomorrow. He didn’t want to put a dent in whatever it was that was going on between the two of you since he usually transformed into a different person in detective mode. He’s been told he’s a pain in the ass to work with and it all has to do with the fact that he’s not a team player whatsoever, but someone who does everything by himself. He plans to get that over with when the time comes in his efforts to not completely scare you off as he has done to others in the past. You’re new to getting along with each other and he would like to keep himself from ruining it, a prophecy he holds in his head as a possibility since he is the reason for his lack of approachability. For once, for reasons he doesn’t understand, he would prefer to maintain a friendly status with you rather than antagonistic, or worse, estranged. Don’t ask him why that would be worse, he won’t answer.

Although he will see you tomorrow and he will most likely receive another piece to aid him moving forward, it didn’t stop him from trying to think about the details of the murder. They’re swarming his head all over again and he’s reliving his arrival at the crime scene to see if there’s anything he missed. This would be easier on his brain if he could just return back to the area, but of course, the police force wouldn’t be too keen on letting him reenter. Many officers hold resentment towards him and his intellect because of spite and envy and they don’t appreciate the proud aspects of Sherlock’s personality. Details stand out to him, almost perfectly outlined in paintings of what others deem as muddled colors. A man like Lestrade may display his appreciation for Sherlock’s talents and inevitable solutions, but there’s always the matter of ego to contest. A man’s ego in the fit of the “game” is fragile, especially when another’s wit and ideas are involved, superiority pouncing on what already is insecurity and vulnerability. Men in positions of power such as these hold, in Sherlock’s eyes, the most amount of emotion because they allow their arrogance and pride to corrupt their performances. While they’re in competition with Sherlock, Sherlock is in competition with himself and therefore it ensures the progression of his self growth, a means to always expand on what is already extraordinary.

But the unnerving fact of all of this despite these truths is how Sherlock’s pride still gets in the way. He stubbornly avoids the veracity of his arrogance because even if he did accept the claims of others in terms of his self-conceit, it doesn’t erase the many accomplishments he’s done up to this point. There are more to be consummated, just like this case in particular that refuses to let him sleep and refuses to let him think about anything else in his life, the basic essentials to survival sometimes neglected as a result. Forgetting to eat and nourish himself is not the ideal way to go about everything and really, nutrients would surely help him think better, but it’s how his brain is wired. It will linger on a subject until he can carve a path to the answer, until he can properly close a case and contribute a difference to the world the best way he can. This is his benefaction. Where others still trace as their purpose, he knows he’s in the thick of his own and this slump will be hurdled over as he’s done to other slumps of yesterday.

A clumsy sort of sound disrupts his current brain’s thought cacophony, knocking out of rhythm drawing his focus to his door. He’s not expecting anyone at this hour, especially not this late, so he’s bewildered to say the least. He stares at the door with intrigue, hopeful he imagined the distorting noise as he did not wish to halt his growing examination and introspection, but soon enough, the knocking continues and he knows it won’t disappear unless he answers the door as the person behind intends the impromptu meeting. He sighs his displeasure, but ultimately adjusts his loosened tie for the sake of etiquette, saunters to the door and brings it open after counting to three in his head. Sherlock’s not sure what he expected or who he assumed would be standing across from him, but it certainly wasn’t your back covered in alabaster lace, soft knots of fabric at each arm dangling from where you’ve adjusted the ties accordingly. He swallows with difficulty, especially noticing how your hair isn’t in its usual condition shapened by various tools and pins. It’s loose and free and no longer haphazardly restrained, bold in movement as you turn your body towards him upon your recognition of the door being open. He swears there’s brilliance in your eyes as they widen at him, light up in a fashion he cannot fathom correctly from how they also appear to be bloodshot, almost as rosy as the tint currently coating your face and chest.

“Sherlock!” You beam, definitely with more excitement he’s ever been confronted with in your presence, “I thought I heard you pacing. I knew I wasn’t the only one in this building who couldn’t sleep.” As you lean towards him, your hands find the left and right sides of his door frame. Your cheek presses into your shoulder as you regard him with commendation in your glowing features, innocently acute joy settling in your smile and the crinkles around your eyes. He doesn’t understand how you could be so happy to see him nor why you’re even standing here before him this late, but he does catch how you’re swaying from one side to the next on his frame he feels an odd surge of resentment suddenly for.

“Pardon my asking, but what are you doing here at this time of night? Is something troubling you?” It would explain the time and lack of warning for this visit, and he almost furrows his brows in preparation for some kind of predicament to heed, but those inclinations soon fly out the window as your palm reaches out to lay on his chest in efforts to appease the situation and dull the severity he’s approximated. He’s aware of how his heart rate picks up at the contact, but it’s hardly a point of contention or even importance because it’s occurred to Sherlock how you’re leaning not for warmth or security, but because you’re off balance. The disturbance of your equilibrium leads him to watch your body language and hear your speech pattern which sounds oddly slurred now that he’s thinking on it.

“No, nothing, nothing is troubling me,” you reassure with a pregnant pause in the air. You knit your eyebrows together as your smile falls into a thin line. “I suppose the apparent absence of company is troubling, but other than that, everything else is swell. It’s just the loneliness.” Your hand comes off his chest to wave off the worry simultaneously as your other hand departs from Sherlock’s door frame. In doing so, you stumble forward and almost fall, but Sherlock’s stature does not allow for that to happen. Seeing that he’s a force in front of you, his arms piston out to hold underneath yours, and under another circumstance possibly coupled with deep embarrassment, you would most likely lean away and apologize. Instead, you linger into his touch, weight shifting into him that is both nothing to Sherlock and yet so critically eminent to him all the same. He can smell something florally sweet coming from you and something so distinct that his conclusion of your visit is strengthened and emboldened by it.

“You’re drunk,” he conjects aloud, having already deciphered it internally. It’s relevant and obvious and sure it took him little time to figure it out, much less than the average person would take, but there’s a small portion of him that feels foolish because for a split second, for a split second he believed you were overjoyed to see him simply because he was him. Your drunken stupor’s seeking another’s companionship and there’s nothing particularly special about it being Sherlock since he was clearly the closest nearby.

“It would seem that way, but nonetheless alone!” You protest and concurrently confirm his thoughts at the same time. “You’re aberrantly strong,” you continue, your hands grasping at his tight forearms without a hint of shame. He almost slips and grins, but he keeps his impassive nature and gestures towards the hall. If he takes a few steps out, he could see your flat’s door from here. There’s not much distance to cover to get you safely back into your home.

“I’ll walk you back to your flat.” Sherlock’s willing to help you back and is fully prepared to do so, but you’re quick to rip your arms from his hold. The motion almost sends you flying backwards which then prompts him to shoot his arms out to further guide and protect, but fortunately, you find your footing and attempt to stand taller, squaring off your shoulders and raising your chin.

“You can’t make me go back there. If I see that damned sewing machine again, I’ll… I’ll put it out of its misery!”

A threat of this sort should not bother Sherlock whatsoever, especially not one threatening an inanimate object that not only he does not use, but one that couldn’t affect him directly no matter its livelihood or destruction. Yet, as he takes in your stance, your folded arms over your chest in your sincerity, drunk or not, he knows you’re not at all bluffing. You’ll break it and your sober-self will experience the consequences of such, your work no longer able to be attended to unless you replace the item. It’ll greatly inconvenience you and you have quotas to fill, clients to attend to, a business to run that he cannot authorize to be blundered due to one night of overindulgence. You work too hard and he couldn’t let you throw that away just because you drank a bit too much in one sitting.

“I suppose I could see what our other neighbors are up to. There’s bound to be someone awake, right? Maybe Mrs. Hudson is having a late night tea,” you ponder audibly with one finger coming up to thoughtfully caress your chin. You solely take one step to venture further into the hall, but Sherlock’s arm captures your waist this time, firmly planting you in your spot in front of his door frame. Before you could kick your feet out and push him away (you do neither, and make no efforts to do so, really), he levels you with his gaze and tilts his head to his flat. He feels your hands lightly grasp his arm in place at your waist. If he didn’t know the context of this situation, he would’ve guessed your arms would then wind about his neck for some kind of intimate dance. This does not happen, his mouth dry from how close this contact is nonetheless. It’s almost as overwhelming as how he had to hold still as you prodded him for measurements earlier in the day, except it’s you who’s in a vulnerable position with an inebriated dilemma and an insufficiency of clothing. Such insufficiency that others would deem improper, and worse, take advantage of, your reputation around bound to be soured due to everyone’s perception of what it meant to be a gentleman and what it meant to be a lady. This behavior is in defiance of that perception and he couldn’t enable you to make a fool of yourself, he wouldn’t forgive himself. He does not trust people.

“I have tea,” he clarifies after he realizes that there was too long of a bout of you two just locking eyes. His arm slowly snakes from where it’s encircled about your waist, but a helpful hand maneuvers to your back to further help you steady yourself. Your smile soon returns and your walking continues, this time into Sherlock’s flat.

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

One arm lays over Sherlock’s broad shoulder, the other reaching out to touch trinkets that Sherlock gingerly pulls you away from. From what he can tell, you’re in awe of what you see the more you two explore the length of his floor. He gently deposits you onto his loveseat to sit down.

“Here you are,” he says and then stands towering over you. You’re gazing up at him with the same admiration and astonishment that you did when you first entered his home and he chooses to ignore it. “Stay here and try not to touch anything. I’ll get the tea brewing.”

He’s reluctant to leave you behind seeing as his work is in disarray, his own form of organization that could easily be misshapen by your currently all-too-curious hands, but he also fears that you’ll do something worth regretting if he doesn’t entertain you and keep your attention in some way.

“Sir, yes, Sir,” you nod, one hand saluting him. “I won’t touch anything.” Normally, he wouldn’t believe someone with sticky fingers under the influence, but it’s different with you. He finds it easier to trust you when you smile at him like that and the amusement from how you then sit on your hands certainly skews his judgment.

Despite the slight nerves urging him to stay here with you, he soon finds his kitchen and pours water into a pot. He drank tea earlier so there’s not any that he can grab for you at this time at his disposal. It’s not much of a hassle placing the pot onto heat, his teapot checked for the proper leaves he would soon pour boiling water into. He wonders what preference you may have, if you favor lavender, or perhaps peppermint, or maybe something simple like black tea. He wonders if you drink some in the early hours of the morning to properly wake up, if you brew some for the sake of having something warm to drink with a fresh muffin for breakfast, if you rely on it to calm your rapidly beating heart in the plight of increasing stress. Sherlock wonders if this what you drink when you’re reading, if it’s what you nurse with cautious sips in the midst of stitching pieces together, if it’s what you turn to when you cannot sleep and you decide that you might as well find some kind of warmth in it with blankets that aren’t doing their job, and dreams that won’t make slumber any more appetizing. He wonders if it’s stopped assisting like it used to and instead of taking distance from it to rebuild its charm and tease tolerance, he wonders if it was easier to turn to wine. If it was easier to drink more and more than to sit with thoughts that won’t dare to leave you alone, if each gulp of the alcohol silenced them and buried them until the consciousness of being alive is nothing but a ghost of a whisper you cannot hear unless you’re left without hobby, task, or another human being. If you become painfully aware of how you have no one but yourself in moments like these. Oh, he wonders, he wonders. He wonders if you’re just like him.

It’s the distant sound of a door opening and closing that stops him from wondering. His head snaps up from staring at the surface of the water and immediately, he attends where he left you. When he sees you’re no longer sitting at his loveseat, he pivots to the front door and then marches over to it. Swinging it open, he glances back and forth to see if you left. Knowing that you’re drunk, you couldn’t have possibly gone far, but you’re nowhere in his sight and the thrill of panic sets into his back. It’s the creaking floorboards in his flat that drive him to step back inside, the door shut behind him as he tries to follow the muffled sound for as long as it carries, which isn’t long. Still, it leads him into his bedroom and he cautiously infiltrates the area only to find his made bed now in disorder with you settled underneath his comforter. Your hair fans out in a halo on his pillow as you bury your head into it, your eyes lazily coming open to meet his gaze.

“I told you not to touch anything,” he says, his voice quiet. It’s lacking sternness, but he can’t really be upset since he brought you into his flat with little control in your hands. He’s taking in your size in comparison to the size of his bed.

“I know, but,” you yawn, your eyes shutting in the process, nose wrinkling, a cushiony soft sigh falling from in between your lips that he equates to the hymns he’s heard inside of churches, “I got tired waiting for you. Your bed’s awfully comfortable. I think I might actually fall asleep.”

He didn’t take long in the kitchen, he knows that. However, he’s been drunk before, he understands how those minutes alone must’ve felt like centuries to your own devices. He should be shooing you out and getting you downstairs to sleep in your bed, but something in him can’t seem to do so. You look so… peaceful. It’s not like he was going to make any use of his bed himself since he planned to think all night, at most falling into his sofa for an hour or two of rest. With how much you’ve been through and how you’re constantly working yourself to the bone, Sherlock’s long acquiesced to having you spend the night here before he’s rationalized it.

“Go ahead. You deserve repose.” Sherlock comes closer to adjust your/his pillow. He doesn’t want you to wake with an uncomfortable kink in your neck or aggravate the impending migraine you’ll certainly wake with. He’s in the middle of fluffing, his wrists above your head, when he feels your hands grasp at them. Your hold is dainty, barely there, but he could feel it scorching him. He restrains himself, from doing what he doesn’t know, as he looks down into the depths of your pleading eyes, as your right thumb maddeningly strokes the sliver of skin unprotected by his shirt’s cuff. He confronts the drought in his mouth again and it travels to his throat the longer you keep your hold on him. An onlooker would surely be apprehensive to this image. His brother would absolutely lose his mind if he knew about Sherlock’s abandonment of propriety with an unmarried, unbetrothed woman laying in his bed. He would absolutely lose his mind if he knew of the thoughts mashing together in Sherlock’s head, one after the other, of how he could climb in and join you.

“Lay with me,” you breathe, almost as if you could hear those pesky fantasies clouding his mind. He grips the pillow tighter as he considers it. The prospect, as much as he wants to deny it, is tempting. Something… something in him wants to accept it. Something in him wants to settle in beside you. It’s that something, whatever the hell it is, that causes him to release the pillow from his tightening vise. He brings his hands to himself, your hold physically easy to depart from, but the willpower to pull away is what he had to muster. He feels out of breath.

“I… I-I have to go get your tea.” He points to the door and thankfully, you don’t say anything else. You just watch as he leaves the room.

What you don’t see is how his back leans into the door after he closes it, a large hand coming up to scrub down the length of his face. He’s not sure what came over him or why he even dared to consider laying with you in such a state. It’s wrong. For many reasons. The main being how you’re not sober and unaware of what you were asking for. This is not something he can do. It’s against everything he stands for. Whatever this is, whatever realm of feelings you’ve awakened within him, they have to stop. It’s unknown, thought manipulating—a distraction. Before you came in, he was busy with work. Work he has to get back to now that you’re taken care of and out of his sight. His hands clench into fists and then stretch out at his sides as he ventures back to the kitchen and pours the hot water into the teapot. He picks out the black tea leaves at the end and stares at the door to his bedroom with a tray in his hands.

He’s ready to tell you how there will be no funny business and how this is purely a friend looking out for a friend, nothing more or less, as he brings the door open… only to find you asleep, one of his pillows firmly in your arms, half of your face pressing into it. He sighs and eventually brings the tray to his bedside table. You’ll need it when you wake up.

Maybe he’ll tell you tomorrow morning.

[feminurge]

[ stumble ] + reverse!!

victoria's toy is larger in size than istar herself could carry; he is nowhere near small and the sorceress is, well, petite. though a flicker of a wrist is enough to summon enough wind to press at his sides, keeping him afloat as they gingerly walk through the back corridors of the temple, it does not mean it is a walk in the park to continue down their path. each stone, she knows intimately. a place that she would neither call home nor safe haven, but a third, more sinister thing; coffin. death usually finds her late, once all others have met their end, but if she had to bet on the place of her demise, she thinks it would be in the vicinity of these dark halls. not on the sacrificial altar, but here, away from prying eyes. bleeding directly in bhaal's guts, swimming in the dusty air of those hidden chambers.

the wizard, however, has never had the chance to walk through these tunnels, especially with what must amount to a few broken bones and bleeding wounds. (orin's knife must have made the mockingbird sing so beautifully-- victoria will be livid. if only she knew before avenging her pet. if only. but alas rules are rules and istar is not one to pass her turn.) still, she is kind enough not to press on the wounds. strange is the touch that does not harm; palm of her hand where he has yet to be hurt, not far from the thrumming orb, while the other is around his waist. holding him upward. wind softly breathing around him, a protective cushion were he to miss a step.

"keep going", she grits her teeth when he does, in fact, falter. fucking oversized wizard. "or i'll find a way to move you, dismembered if i have to." she even takes a second to think about it; a beautiful corpse. she would be moving one piece at a time, only to remake him in the most precious puzzle. a doll for vic's enjoyment. magic would animate him all the same. but alas. rules are rules. and istar suspects that victoria's illness probably spread further inane fungus in her chest: gods, she would care, were he even slightly bruised. disgusting. disgusting. and so pathetially human.

"come on. it would be… terribly… pathetic… to die here" the effort of trying to keep him upward cuts her sentence in more parts than she would normally care to pronounce. after a moment of calculating silence, she finally stops. fingers spread over his pectoral to keep both of their balance. she finally turns her head toward the man. "will you carry yourself or do i need to summon a magic hand, dear?" the nickname is all teeth, no smile. needless to say she has no desire to make it easier for him- yet the offer remains on the table all the same. what a peculiar experience it is for her to threaten with no intention to act upon whatever curse she spews.

[yymiya]

like real people do — kaeya x gn!reader

Kaeya knows best how to garner your attention. After all, the cards are stacked in his favour.

tags: gn!reader, smut, sub kaeya, nipple play, hand jobs, biting, feelings realisation, alcohol

wc: 4.2k

ao3 link

“Goodness me, is that all?”

You scoff. This is the finest bottle of wine that you own. Still, it shouldn’t come as a shock that Kaeya finds something to scrutinise with ease, even if it’s, without a doubt, more costly than what he regularly drinks. He must be trying to irk you.

You thrust the tinted bottle towards his chest. “Don’t push your luck. I have half a mind to send you away empty-handed.”

“A sore loser. How unflattering.” Kaeya’s slender fingers wrap around the bottle despite his light-hearted teasing, much warmer than the nighttime breeze when they nudge against your own. “I won fair and square, didn’t I? It would be unfair to punish me for a victory I worked so hard to achieve.”

That, he had. What he refers to is nothing more than a drunken, needless bet between friends. Alas, Kaeya swiped the pristine Cecilia from a bard’s green hat while you were otherwise occupied, earning himself your most prized bottle. You were saving it for a special occasion, but Kaeya believes this is occasion enough.

“As fair as you usually play, perhaps.”

At last, you surrender the bottle and fold your hands behind your back. Kaeya leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “Why so doubtful?” he asks, a bright eye flickering to yours. “Must I prove myself a man of integrity for you to believe it?”

“Yes.”

He takes it in stride, pausing to inspect the label with mild intrigue. “Fine. Let’s share, hm? Not only am I being fair but rather generous, too.”

It’s a piss-poor attempt to invite himself into your home, not nearly as subtle as previous tries. Had he asked another day, your answer would have been an impolite, blunt no and a slam of the door. But today, with the dying sun setting the nearest side of his face aglow with orange light, your resolve weakens.

“If I cared about the wine, I would have drained it before you arrived and given a less valuable bottle in its place.”

“By a stroke of luck, I was actually extending the offer of my company for a measly evening. I suppose it went right over that head of yours.”

“I’m not sold.”

Kaeya clicks his tongue but makes no further effort to convince you, procuring a small dagger to cut away the foil before uncorking the bottle in a few swift movements. You’re impressed, if not acutely aware of how often he has done so. Your concern is reserved for the potential spillage of wine in your doorway, gods forbid, rather than any injury he could sustain.

“If we weren’t so close,” Kaeya begins, pausing to hum thoughtfully, “I would be foolish enough to believe you consider me no fun to be around.”

“Can you blame me? You’re a terrible drunk.”

The memories of an eventful night stretching into morning with Kaeya held up between you and Rosaria are irritating ones. Most evenings, Kaeya drinks a moderate amount—enough to fool the miscreants he pries with questions, but not enough to breach tipsy.

Still, there are times when he has to be wrangled out of the tavern with the promise of a warm bed and a snack.

Kaeya sighs whimsically. “I’m really in no mood for a night of lonely drinking back at headquarters.”

“That’s unbelievably depressing.”

“Well. The bottle is open. If I were to walk home with it, not only would I risk spilling some of your precious wine, but it would be a taboo sight—the Cavalry Captain of Ordo Favonius, wandering the streets with an uncorked bottle of wine. What in the world would the denizens think of—”

“Archons, you wretched man. Stay. Just don’t get flat-out drunk.”

He grins as you sidestep to allow him into your apartment, flourishing the bottle with a mischievous gleam in his smile. Kaeya’s winning streak hasn’t yet ended, so it seems. He moves past you and into the hallway as though he knows the layout of your home like the back of his hand.

He doesn’t. The few times he has been inside, he was rat-arsed and spent the duration snoring on your couch.

“Don’t you own a single wine glass?” he calls from your kitchen.

“No,” you lie, following the sound of his voice. The sight that greets you is one of Kaeya hunched over, the bottle tucked under his arm as he searches through your cupboards without an ounce of shame. “Should’ve brought your own if you so desperately wanted to ruin my evening with your antics.”

“My, that’s no way to treat a friend.”

“Intruder, more like.”

Kaeya raises his hands as he walks past you and into the adjacent room. “This intruder will drink from the bottle like some sort of heathen, then.”

“So long as it keeps you quiet,” you grumble, chasing him in your own home—a ridiculous notion in and of itself.

Kaeya is lounging on your living room couch when you find him, his long legs crossed and hanging off the armrest. You smack at his shins but he doesn’t budge an inch. Instead, his legs are forcefully lifted and you slot yourself beneath them, promptly slumping against the soft cushions with a weary sigh.

A moment of quiet would be pleasant, but Kaeya has no intention of allowing one.

“Don’t you want any?” he taunts and waves the bottle. The liquid sloshes against the glass, alarmingly close to tipping over the mouth and staining your upholstery. “It must be rather upsetting to part with such an exquisite bottle, no?”

You cast him a sidelong glance. “You insulted it no more than ten minutes ago.”

“I was simply… surprised, is all.”

One day you will succeed in wiping that stupid smirk from his face. You scowl and snatch the bottle from Kaeya’s outstretched hand, pressing it to your lips to take a sip.

Admittedly, it’s good wine, though the flavour is more suited to Kaeya’s tastes than your own.

It must translate in your expression because Kaeya laughs, uncharacteristically hearty and whole. It startles you, presenting an opening for him to take back the bottle and taste its contents with a pleased, although inquisitive hum. “It could be better.”

You click your tongue, jolting his thighs in your lap. You aren’t quite sure where to place your hands. “Stop it, you.”

“I’m kidding, of course. I indulge in the same drink almost every evening, so this is a welcome change. A welcome change of scenery, too. The barracks are only interesting for a year or two.” 

You hum, knocking your head against the back of the couch. Kaeya is surprisingly easy to relax around, though that could instead be the lingering effects of a long day. “Is that so?”

“Typically, this is where you beg me to drop by at my leisure,” Kaeya suggests. “You know, something along the lines of ‘your presence really livens up the place, Captain Kaeya, so be sure to visit more often’ and all that.”

“Oh, how I love your sense of humour, Captain Kaeya.”

Kaeya waves his hand with a smile. It’s exactly what he does when Mondstadt’s elderly surround him in the streets, pinching his cheek and imploring him to marry quickly. “As always, I’m pleased to entertain.”

You turn to him. There isn’t a doubt in your mind that Kaeya is up to no good, though you haven’t yet figured out the specifics. 

You sigh, “Be a doll and just drink your wine, all right?”

Kaeya’s tongue prods the inside of his cheek before he feigns a stellar grin. “Why, of course. How rude of me.”

The bottle tilts against his mouth but little wine floods his tongue. Much of it seeps from the corners of his lips, down his cheek and beads beneath the distinct curve of his jaw.

“Archons’ sake, don’t let it—!”

You lurch to the side. His fur collar doesn’t absorb the steady drip of wine, instead directing the droplets to smear across the skin of his chest. There are one, two, three splashes that soak into your couch cushions before you’re wiping at his skin with frenzied movements to minimise the damage, looming over him with a displeased expression.

“Having my upholstery cleaned will come out of your pocket, you bastard man. Why—” 

Kaeya moves beneath you. Your foul mood hasn’t diminished his haughty grin, but made it wider, sharper. There’s a strange glint in his eye, and something stranger in his fingers relaxing around the bottle until it thumps against his chest and alcohol spills out, a quick torrent.

“Oops,” he muses.

“Kaeya,” you hiss, placing the half-empty bottle down on the floor. To think, you had only a mouthful each. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Nothing is offered in the way of a verbal answer. Kaeya grins, long lashes fluttering as he lifts a hand between your bodies. His glove saturates with wine as he trails a finger through the bitter liquid coating his chest.

He— oh.

Your face burns.

“Kaeya,” you whisper. “Gods, is anything you do ever accidental?”

He shrugs. “Very little.”

Your head hangs low yet you can’t escape the sight of his sheer blouse clinging to his skin. That blue vest has always done little to protect his modesty, yet as he writhes and the wine slinks in new directions, it digs into the musculature of his chest.

“Be a gracious host, would you?” he croons. Lithe fingers loosen his vest until his blouse falls open. “It’s improper to have the guest clean up, after all.”

The tone of his voice, smooth and sultry, sends your mind into a tailspin.

There have always been instances of something more. A brush of hands or his hair pushed behind his ear while he teeters on the precipice of a sweet dream, late-night thoughts and a deep, aching yearning that snags on tangled heartstrings.

Your friendship is far from proper.

And now, Kaeya is shifting beneath your hips, splayed out across your couch with his hair curling around him and his shirt undone and soaked through with wine, your wine, and—

He bares his chest to you as though there’s nothing he covets more than the warmth of your mouth and tongue.

You breathe, “I suppose this is an adequate apology.”

“Accept it, then. Properly.”

You tug on a strand of his hair, sweeping it away before its colour turns dark with wine. “A little patience would benefit you, no?”

Kaeya huffs, arching his back high off the couch, pushing his chest closer. All it does is send thick rivulets of wine spilling onto your cushions but that concern has been pushed to the back of your mind.

You smooth over his collarbone and dip beneath the neckline of his blouse, tugging until it gives way to an expanse of skin streaked with alcohol. You glance up, following his line of sight as it focuses on the hands pressed to his chest. Kaeya melts against the cushions with a pleased moan when you squeeze his pecs in your palms.

“Sensitive?” you ask, amused.

Kaeya’s head tilts. “It’s reasonable, don’t you think?”

You’re sticky with alcohol. You stoop down, pressing your lips against a scar splitting his jaw. “Apologies if this is overdue.”

“Oh, you kept me waiting, all right.”

You hesitate. He isn’t teasing. Kaeya’s humour, at times, may be straight-faced and dry but there’s a specific lilt he uses when teasing, a different one if he’s taunting.

His voice is devoid of any playfulness. 

His chin is tilted up and you softly bite at his throat. “Have I really?”

“You haven’t a clue,” he murmurs, sliding a hand up to your nape.

“I don’t, so enlighten me.”

Kaeya meets your gaze head-on, his eye narrowed. His lips form the words that he can’t quite say, and instead he pushes you down until your nose nudges his chest. “Another time, perhaps.”

The answer will make itself known sooner or later. 

For now, you pamper him. Kaeya’s skin is warm, soft to the touch, save for the long stretches of old scars and rounded burns—your lips are gentle in these areas, bruising elsewhere, cautious of tender skin. Kaeya flushes, a contented noise hitching in his throat as your tongue presses to his red-stained skin, licking a stripe between his pecs. 

The wine is bittersweet between your mouth and his skin.

Kaeya’s fingers tighten in your hair. Not enough to hurt, but each unconscious jolt of his hand puts tension on your scalp and it very nearly stings. He really is sensitive. Your tongue laves over his nipples and he shudders, rutting his hips against yours in a desperate fit.

Kaeya is typically put-together. All warm, calculated smiles and carefully selected words spoken in a tempting voice that, above all else, works. Be it crooks in the tavern from whom Kaeya needs information, or yourself, Kaeya’s charms are difficult to fight.

Yet he falls apart beneath you.

He’s been pried apart at the seams like an old doll, cotton stuffing tumbling out in heaps of mumbled, incoherent words.

“Hm?” your voice is muffled against his chest, pitching upwards in curiosity.

Gods above, does Kaeya feel it. He shivers as the vibrations course through his weakening body, his hard cock pressing against your hip. Each touch furthers his lust-fuelled delirium until he’s strung tight like a wire ready to snap.

It isn’t the wine. Kaeya has been drunk. He’s loitered in the tavern until he was bleary-eyed and uncoordinated, his tongue too slow and his mind the opposite. This is different, it’s—

“Kaeya,” you murmur, grounding. Without the pressure of your lips, his chest, slicked in wine and sweat and spit, is sensitised to the cold air. You hover above, bleeding into his vision alongside flickering candlelight and the sheen of wine smeared across your cheek. “Were you saying something?”

Kaeya’s lips twitch into a reticent smile. Your eyes narrow as he speaks, “Nothing of importance, I assure you. Don’t let it get in your way.”

“Are you sure?”

He hesitates. You don’t sound at all convinced, so he thumbs at your cheek to wipe away the maroon residue, as soft as he’s capable of being. “Positive. Now, please carry on.”

“Since you asked so kindly, of course.”

With a snicker, Kaeya’s hand falls to rest on your shoulder while you shuffle further down his body, laying your mouth on his chest once more. Little time is spent on fleeting, teasing touches, and you greedily suck his nipple into your mouth. The wetness of your tongue makes Kaeya mewl, and his hand slides to the back of your head, holding you steady as you pinch and twist his other nipple between your thumb and index.

The original objective—cleaning up, as Kaeya put it—has long since been forgotten.

In his mind, it has been displaced by the heady warmth of your mouth and the cruelty of your fingers, toying with him at your own pace regardless of how desperately, how pitifully he whines for more stimulation, rubbing against you.

Each sound coaxed from his throat sets your nerves alight. You’ve spared plenty of thought as to what Kaeya would sound like, look like, be like—whether he would quietly, obediently take it, or whether having him would be a challenge despite his mind being made up. 

Time and time before have you come undone with his name tangled and garbled on your tongue, harbouring the concern that he somehow, somehow knows. It isn’t impossible. Kaeya is aware of most, if not all things, both hidden and open.

Perhaps he does know, and always has.

The likelihood should frighten you, but you welcome it. If Kaeya is, by some twist of fate, in the know, he mustn't mind. Not with how he so willingly presents himself to your prying eyes.

“Kaeya,” you whisper again, garnering his undivided attention. You had it regardless, but his gaze is subtle and elusive, easily missed. “I want to get you off.”

“Goodness, how forward.”

“Of course. What’s the use in sugar-coating it when—” When there’s a chance this is a one-time occurrence, and you may never touch him so intimately again. “Well, when have I ever been that kind of person?”

He chuckles, preoccupied with the draw of your face. Kaeya is well acquainted with an expression that conceals secrets, the fractures of a well-crafted facade. He smooths out yours with his thumb, tracing over your lower lip, across your jaw and down the front of your throat. 

His gentle touch enraptures you, leaving you with wide, reverent eyes that, in their own way, scare Kaeya to near death.

“A few instances spring to mind.”

“Oi,” you grumble. “I asked you a question. Do I have to beg—”

“My, wouldn’t that be pleasant?”

“—because I’d sooner kick you out.”

“Ah,” Kaeya muses before a laugh bubbles in his throat—oddly lively, as it had been before. “I’m having you on, I apologise. Do as you please. I trust that I’m in capable hands?”

You prod his side. “Very capable hands, indeed. Ones that are also after vengeance for the callous ruining of my couch cushions, mind you.”

Kaeya quirks a brow. “Oh dear. I ought to be careful what I wish for, hm?”

You laugh. He really is cute when he wants to be.

A hand slips between your bodies and presses up against the bulge in his tight trousers. “Tell me which you’d prefer—my hands or my mouth?”

“I reckon you know the answer,” he teases.

“For that exact reason, you’re only getting my hands.”

Kaeya pouts. “Oh, you’re no fun at all.”

In lieu of a reply, you fumble with his corset, untangling the strings until it gives way and you can tug down his waistband. His cock pushes against his underwear, and you trace its shape with the pad of your finger, gauging how sensitive he is here. 

Kaeya trembles and squeezes his eye shut. It’s as you thought.

You wrap a palm around him, the warmth of your skin tempered by damp fabric, and Kaeya drives his hips up, forcing more of himself into your hand. Your eyes fall closed. He’s big. For a brief, hazy moment that warps and stretches, you wonder how nice it would feel to be filled by him, stuffed full of his cock, but it remains a passing thought, unspoken.

“How dare you hide this from me for so long,” you murmur instead.

Kaeya laughs, thoroughly amused and a little prideful. “If I had known you wanted my cock this badly, this chase would have ended much, much sooner, I assure you.”

Your eyes flick to his, narrowed. “Chase? I knew you were up to something.”

“When am I not?��� he whispers, tapping your cheek. 

You grumble in response, offering a vague noise of agreement. He makes a valid point, though you don’t dwell on it for long, pulling his cock from its confines and swiping your thumb over the slit. Sticky precum coats your skin.

“Desperate, aren’t you?”

Kaeya bristles. The thin material of his glove is smooth as he slides a hand around the back of yours, guiding you to stroke him in earnest. He’s tired of your slow teasing, it appears. “That might have been worth considering before you straddled me.”

“Stop pretending that wasn’t your goal.”

Kaeya scoffs, amused, and squeezes your fingers. A pained noise snags in his throat as your hand tightens around his cock in response, the slick noise mounting pleasure in the pit of his stomach.

His head lolls back to rest against the cushions as your hand blurs between his legs, steadily working him closer while you tease his chest with your teeth. Already, his skin has burst into smears of dark purple and mauve, indistinguishable from the tinted sheen of wine.

Kaeya wonders, belatedly, if the marks can be covered by his attire. That likely isn’t the case. Regardless, Kaeya guides your mouth higher, to the sensitive spot beneath his ear, and relaxes when you suck bruises along the length of his neck.

No, he doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

“You have such a pretty chest,” you speak into his skin, biting into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Then again, you’re stupidly pretty in general.”

It’s nothing more than a murmur, not the most flattering compliment Kaeya has been given, but your sincerity shocks him. Kaeya has long since grown accustomed to the prolonged but welcome stares, the occasional offhand comment… but those simply float someplace in the back of his mind.

This, however, you— you tear him wide open with a few words. 

You mumble again, an aggrieved afterthought, “Handsome bastard.”

Kaeya's cheeks grow warm. Whether it’s due to the unconscious thrust of his hips into your tight grip, or that, for a brief moment, he finds himself believing you, it isn’t clear.

“The people you bed must walk away with horribly inflated egos,” he quips.

You give him a long look that he can’t quite decipher—fair, all things considered, his vision blurs once he’s close to coming. Expectations aside, he hadn’t expected you to laugh. 

“I see you have some ideas about me, hm?”

Kaeya’s heart pounds. “Mmh, naturally.”

A whine is drawn from his throat as your hand stops all movement, constricting around his cock as you speak as though telling him to listen and to listen well. “I tell the truth to people who deserve it, Kaeya.”

There isn’t much he can say to that.

Still, Kaeya holds your gaze stubbornly. Only when your thumb rubs against the flushed head of his cock does he look elsewhere, moaning breathlessly and rutting into your persistent touch.

His voice pitches. “I’m— ngh— gonna come if you keep that up, gods…”

“Go on, then. Make a mess.”

“Quicker,” he gasps, arching off the couch cushions as his tact slips between his fingers, useless. “Please, please—!”

With a cry muffled into his forearm, Kaeya spills over the cusp of your hand. You laugh and press his weeping cock against his stomach, rubbing until spurts of thick cum land on his sweat-slicked chest, dripping back down to your fingers.

“There you go,” you murmur, rubbing harder. “How obedient, hm?”

Kaeya moans, loud and broken, as your warm palm smears cum across his chest, pinching his sore nipples between two fingers, all but cruel. His shoulders heave as your tongue runs through the pearlescent sheen coating his skin, a delighted hum reverberating through his slack limbs.

You’re hardly lucid, overcome with something warm and whole.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, sinking your teeth into his skin, marring it with deep indentations. “So, so beautiful. You’re beautiful, Kaeya—”

“Gods, be quiet.”

A startled noise is smothered by Kaeya’s lips—warm and plush and so fucking gentle that you could cry, could allow the palm cradling your cheek to thumb away tears.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tether him closer, twisting deeper when he makes contented, fucked-out noises in the back of his throat, slowly coming down.

The following realisation is a daunting one—that, in spite of yourself and your beliefs, all you have come to know and adore about Kaeya, a doubt wavers in your mind, an image of indifference and misaligned intentions.

You worry that he doesn’t feel the same. 

That his heart doesn’t fret dreadfully at the thought of you, his blood doesn’t pulse with a fondness so slow and consuming.

You worry a lot, but he’s kissing you, isn’t he?

Perceptive as ever, Kaeya pulls away. There’s a question on his lips that he doesn’t share, but his hands are familiar, honest as they soothe your warm cheeks. You have no words anyway.

So, you kiss him again. And again.

He keeps you here comfortably for a spell of time. The glare of orange candlelight sways behind your closed eyelids, drawing constellations and merging in your mind with the soft smack of lips and the pleased sighs that Kaeya breathes against you.

“Stay the night,” you request, though it sounds smaller than you intended, uncertain. Nerves twist in your stomach at the prospect of his refusal and more words spill out. “For a little while, at least. Just a while longer is all I ask.”

Kaeya shushes you, a hesitant smile growing. “Slow down. Do you seriously believe that I would walk the streets in this state?”

You pause. Admittedly, your hand is tacky with gods know what, and the thought of stained clothes and upholstery is one you don’t entertain. 

Kaeya continues, “I will be taking full advantage of your shower, thank you very much.”

“You need it.” 

His brow furrows, disapproving. “Come now. What is that tone for? If my memory serves me well, the blame for this mess is yours to shoulder.”

You sit, still straddling his hips, and click your tongue. Kaeya looks right here—dishevelled in your home, his hands steadying your waist. The simple point of contact has your heart lurching behind your ribs.

“Shouldn’t have spilled my fucking wine,” you mutter.

“Oh? But look where it got me.”

“Watch it.”

“So cold,” he laments, though his chuckle betrays him. “I like to believe we share a rather unique bond, and here you are, breaking my heart.”

Your mind fizzles out as Kaeya’s fingers, purposely chilled, inch beneath your shirt. Logic warns you that he’s intent on exacting revenge, but you turn away regardless, flustered. 

Kaeya laughs, all-encompassing and cosy and—

You really are fucked, now.

[cleavetheclover]

If VP had a ping pong table in HQ:

Agents that will play when challenged:

Cypher (mischievously, because he loves any and all games)

Sova (respectfully and out of politeness; is neither good nor terrible)

Astra (curiously, as she isn’t terribly familiar with the game)

Brimstone (if he gets a challenge at all, RIP)

Skye (to assert dominance)

Reyna (for Sage only)

Fade (to stave off boredom, is competent)

Harbor (still trying to figure out his place in the protocol)

Agents that are doing the challenging:

Yoru, pridefully

Jett, to show off that she can play using the flats of knives instead of a normal paddle (which actually came in handy when Phoenix accidentally burned a paddle)

Neon, when drunk

Phoenix, to fit in (is kind of mid)

Raze, for fun of challenge, has excellent sportsmanship

Agents who don’t play

Sage is god (this was discovered quickly and she no longer gets challenges)

Breach gets tilted easily, because the ping pong ball is super light and he cannot seem to master the precision and dexterity the game requires. Which is really sad, because he genuinely enjoys the idea of the game otherwise.

In light of Breach’s struggle, Kayo (who has a similar problem) proposed using a golf ball instead of a ping pong ball but that ended up putting a fair amount of dents in the ping pong table itself so they had to call it quits

Raze was the one who tried to get breach to play and now feels really bad about his situation even though he assures her that it’s alright

Viper does not play, but will happily watch others with amusement from the corner. She thinks the younger agents making fools out of themselves to be humorous, but more in a nostalgic sense in a sadistic one. She longs to feel the carefree joy of youth once again, but alas, it will elude her for the rest of her life

Omen tried it once, decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and hasn’t touched it since.

Chamber does not play because the movements used in ping pong are not part of the set he has spent years cultivating into perfect elegance, and he would rather die than be seen as any semblance of clumsy

“NO, KILLJOY, YOU CANNOT UPGRADE YOUR PADDLE WITH BOTS!!”

[rkrispyt]

I was curious if you still have hope for Portwell? I saw that some portwells still have hope. I personally lost all hope mainly bc r*na is so popular and I don't think that Tim won't make them endgame... It's sad that, nowadays, many ships happen bc of fanservice... You don't even have to look from a storytelling perspective to see where things are going, you just have to check what the fandom says and that's prob gonna happen... One thing that I don't get tho... If Tim really wanted for r*na to be canon since ep 1x5, why did he spend all s2 to make us not ship them? In the second half they didn't have any interactions. Gina was still annoyed with him in ep 2x11. Why didn't Tim plant some seeds for them in the second half of s2? Why is Gina most of the time the one who does sth in that relationship and when Ricky does sth, it's bc Gina asked? And the only time when he has initiative they ruin that (taking his role seriously for her (ep 3x4) and later they reveal that he didn't even read the whole script on the opening night day). I personally could never ship them. I saw potential in s1 but after that they were ruined. S3 just tried to hide the s2 mess under the carpet instead of cleaning it (Ricky still does the bare minimum for Gina and he wasn't held accountable for how he hurt her in s2, he should've apologised!!!). Idk but Gina deserves so much better... They'll prob make Ricky the best bf to her in the next seasons, but that won't change the way they got together (with Gina putting in most of the effort)... That means she is ok with the bare minimum as long as she is with Ricky which is really sad... She deserves so much more... Portwell deserved so much more... s2 Portwell would've def survived that summer... I hate fan service for ruining them...

I’m shocked to hear anyone still has hope for canon Portwell, ngl. I do not and can’t imagine ever having any ever again tbh. They not only effed them up pretty bad but the writers have lost me entirely. At this point I’d dread seeing what this team would do with them if they tried again.

To answer the rest of this ask, I will die on the hill that Gicky was not actually the plan or endgame or any of this nonsense backtracking Tim’s been doing. I can believe that when he put them together in season one it ended up intriguing him more than he had thought, but considering what they did with season two clearly it wasn’t enough for him to switch up the plan at that point to put them together or set up something in the future - quite the opposite soooooo tell me again how this was always the plan? Sure, Jan.

It’s so obvious to anyone paying the tiniest bit of attention that Olivia left, so they shifted everything to give Ricky another love interest that they thought could compete in any way with Rini and lose the least amount of viewers upon her departure. Gina was the only real option. They didn’t even do it WELL cause they cared more about doing it as quickly as possible.

I admit that during season three I don’t know if I would have claimed it was fan service, but after seeing that Tim had a version of that final scene where he jumped on that entirely unfounded and random Gicky theory about the chocolates, unfortunately, I have to agree with you.

I will never not be disappointed that this show that brought me such joy, was written so well, didn’t do all the garbage you would expect from this kind of show, and boasted about being proud that they were telling stories of good people being good to each other, has turned into such trash.

S2 Portwell will forever be one of my favorite ships, winning me over completely (as an anti and Gicky fan going into that season) because of how well they wrote it . Alas, another casualty of outside factors switching up the plan and terrible choices being made by those in charge as a result.

The Summer of Portwell was one for the books, but now, for that HEA fanfiction is where it’s at, friends!

[system-vent]

i have a couple vents about the same person from over the past week. they're also a system, these are all different stories. we have dyslexia so some words may be misspelled or i might forget words entirely. any and all names have been replaced with fake names for the sake of anonymity. the system in question will be referred to as 'yellow'.

first story. one of our innerworld managers is an introject from a new show. he was in front, he has an extremely short temper, and he can be a bit blunt. manager has specific opinions on interacting with out-of-sys sourcemates. he says that if they front of their own accord to say hello to a sourcemate, thats fine. he can tell them "cant talk right now, extremely angry and need some time, mind if we talk later?" and its done and dusted. he says its okay to ASK "oh we have a sourcemate of your introject, would your introject like to speak to our sourcemate" because if the inteoject isnt mentally stable, they can decline. but what this system did was send an alter into headspace to find managers sourcemate and send sourcemate to front. manager saw sourcemate speak and immediately removed himself from front in simplyplural (they have our sp) and when ghost told sourcemate "hey sorry manager isnt here he had to go back to headspace for a minute", sourcemate had a borderline meltdown. shouting "BRING HIM BAAAAAACK" and no amount of reasoning from anyone in front at the time could get him to calm down. his own system made no visible effort to stop him from demanding manager to come back to front if anything they enabled it. they have done this before. manager did end up coming back and just didnt add himself back to front in sp and immediately got nauseous and uncomfortable because sourcemate went "tell him i love and miss him <3". manager had never ever spoken to this sourcemate before.

story 2. yellow had recently gotten a new host during the time this story takes place. our frequent fronters are (in their own unique and distinct ways) very upbeat, friendly, easygoing, roll-with-the-flow, nothing bothers them, chill dudes. when these fronters started talking to yellow in their friendly calm way, yellow got mad at us and started being a pick-me by going "youre only friends with me because youre friends with my system. you dont want to be friends with me. im a handful. im a mess, im a terrible person." and frequent fronters naturally backed off and tried to act more cold and distant because, well, yellow isnt our friend apparently! and then for months after this he started complaining that we're drifting apart, that we dont talk anymore MOTHERFUCKER YOU PUSHED US AWAY. YOU TOLD US TO FUCK OFF AND THEN STARTED BEING A PICK-ME ABOUT IT.

3. yellow got mad at us and told us off for every alter immediately trying to be his friend, and then got mad at us because two of our sticky alters didnt want to talk to him and disnt trust him. ala he got mad because every alter wasn't immediately his friend.

3.2. to elaborate, disc and sword are at risk of getting solo frontstuck due to mental health issues they or the body may experience. if they get too anxious they will get frontstuck by themselves. yellow knows this. we told them. we asked them to be gentle with what they say while disc and sword are in front, theyve asked and expected the same of us and we obliged. disc refuses to speak anywhere or to anyone unles tea is involved in the conversation somehow or present during the convo. sword will only ever speak to or around herb, ferret, and HP. we told yellow that disc and sword will never ever be willing to speak around him due to trauma.

4. yellow called me a roseboy. femboy is a slur to transmascs as it was (and is) used to imply that they were not truely men (if i recall correctly) so no they didnt call me, an alter in a transmasculine body, they called me ROSEBOY because im a cisgender man who possesses an extremely feminine doll against my fucking will. i had met yellow earlier this month for about five minutes. i am not close with yellow. them calling me a roseboy really ticked me off because that is a joke that NO ONE is allowed to make about me. i dont even make that joke about myself. if a close friend made that joke about me, i could brush it off. i can excuse it and lightly go "hey could you not do that again" and then we move on. i am not fucking close with yellow i have so many fucking issues with yellow. he called me a roseboy to get my attention and get me to look at something he sent. i have in fact told him my backstory. he knows that i am not a fucking roseboy. and he called me a roseboy anyway.

5. they bashed on a character and claimed he "was the most basic stereotype for people with aspd" we have aspd. we hold that character close to our heart. he is a literal non human resin statue. of course he lacks empathy. we heavily relate to characters who are non-human and lack empathy. it helps us cope with our symptoms. character doesnt have aspd. HE IS A STATUE. IN A DEATH GAME. WHERE THE CONTESTANTS ARE AWARE THEY MAY DIE. they were bashing on him offing other characters and talking shit on his lack of empathy despite full well knowing both of these things. they celebrated when this character was killed off. this fucking hurt us deeply. we told him off for it, he guilted us over it.

6. (TW: EMETOPHOBIA, SUICIDE MENTIONS) YS in yellows system is a sticky alter and saw something that triggered his traumatic source memories and then proceeded to send it to us to vent about it. his cofronters did not stop him as they were panicking over something different. sword was still in front at this point, YS' vents about vomiting and the picture they saw and also sent triggered sword due to his traumatic source memories and made us nauseous because of the talk of vomit. i am a persecutor. i did not stand for this. i said "did you really have to send those? sword is nauseous, try to stop cofronters from doing that next time" and key argued back at us and tried to excuse it or something, idk i was running on pure adrenaline trying to protect swords emotional state. i gave up on telling them off because these broken records kept fucking repeating the same shit as if that makes any of it ok. i ended up saying something to the effect of "sorry for getting aggressive, im trying to protect my cofronter." they sent pretty much the same message back. i told them that i would be muting the chat so their notifs wouldnt trigger sword anymore, and then left them alone for five minutes. i come back, and YS is out of front, yellow says "goodbye, tell my boyfriend he'll move on" and caused sword to panic harder because that my friends, was a suicide note. i told them i was muting the the chat for the sake of my sticky cofronter and they sent me back a fucking suicide note. i know exactly what it was because last night they were venting about being straight up suicidal and said the exact words "if i killed myself, my boyfriend would move on". i refused to open that app for an hour straight and forced sword to look and think about other things in an effort to calm him down, he spoke to herb and ferret and HP and whatnot and got calm, i messaged yellow back and told them call a hotline and this motherfcuker said "oh i thought you muted the chat. i wasnt actually going to do it id chicken out anyway". were they hoping i was bluffing? were they trying to guilt me? wwre they expecting me to come back and apologize profusely for my crimes? for taking care of my sticky cofronters mental health?

its worth noting theyre also upset because me, Vex, and Bob werent instantly friendly with them. vex is an emotional protector, his job is to sit in front and absorb all our negative emotions and be numb to any abuse that comes our way and then sob and ugly cry about it once we are safe. vex is an extremely angry person and cries out of frusteration very easily. when he met yellow he told them he was angry and wouldnt be easy to get along with. he told them to just gently tell him if he steps out of line and he'll apologize and make up for it. they ignored it and screamed at him and us to the point where he sobbed three times in the same day for hours at a time. they never apologized.

yellow has let a raver front on multiple occaisional. a raver is an alter whos job is to be malicious and angry and mean and harmful on purpose intentionally knowing full well what theyre doing is very wrong. raver literally verbally attacked someone who had been a host at the time upon their first meeting after exchanging a single sentence. yellow has allowed this raver to guilt and manipulate and emotional harm alien to the point where alien will not front. alien does not come near front. alien sits depressed in his room all day. alien and raver have had multiple negative interactions that alien was blamed for.

yellow got mad at vex for telling off a Borderline Raver and telling BR to stay in their lane and fucking behave. we have had multiple interactions with BR. every single time has been damaging. vex was on his guard and protecting us despite knowing yellow hates him and has hated him and been hostile towards him from the moment he spoke.

we are the only person they ever vent to, even when we are mentally unstable and mute their notifications and we tell them we can not mentally handle vents right now. yellow has other friends. they do not shut up about their other friends. theyre matching icons with yellow hosts boyfriend. and yet they only vent to us. because they dont want to bother anyone.

i cannot bring any of this up to them. they have BPD. they might make an actual attempt if they think theyve ever upset us. they have stated this themselves. i have to pretend that everythings just fucking peachy! i still havent opened the conversation with them.

Sorry that this happened to you anon:( -🌐

[runwayrunway]

when germans think lufthansa nobody thinks ah yes the name the nazis gave to their airline, because the hansa name is a direct tie to something far older and that is far more suitably neutrally nationalist propaganda - Hansa. The Hanseatic League. The "earliest predecessor to the EU" and something that remains such a point of pride that formerly Hanseatic cities keep it in their name centuries after the Hanseatic league was wiped from all maps. Something that remains on modern city signs and even on car registration plates, like Hamburg giving up the single "H" to the smaller and far less important city of Hanover just so they can have their "HH" for Hansastadt Hamburg

With Lufthansa it's not so much the etymology that's the issue as the historical context. The name itself is entirely harmless but the original Deutsch Luft Hansa was a government apparatus which used forced labor of prisoners including children and was run by members of the Nazi party including several who had personal hands in war crimes. Today's Lufthansa is technically a different company but it was lead by many of the same people, most notably Deutsche Bank manager Kurt Weigelt, Luftwaffe Oberkommando Kurt Knipfer, and Luftwaffe chief of staff Werner Kreipe. This company was actually established with the name Luftag and then spent a significant amount of money to continue using the pre-war name and crane logo. (East Germany's flag carrier pre-Interflug also attempted to do this until Luftag/Lufthansa sued them into bankruptcy for it. To be clear, they also should not have done this, in my opinion.) They also seem to consider themselves to be the same company, if stating their founding date as 1926 is any indication. They've taken some downright bizarre actions when it comes to if they want to acknowledge this or not, including commissioning studies by historians and then suppressing their publication. Keeping the Luftag or Interflug name would not have changed this but the fact that they chose to continue branding themselves as Lufthansa definitely exacerbates it.

This is the unfortunate double reality in which German companies which keep the names of their Nazi-era counterparts are forced to operate. I'm sure somebody who knows more about cars than me could talk about Volkswagen or Porsche, which literally takes its name from an officer of the SS who produced weaponry for the war effort. Should they have outright changed their names? That's a bigger question than I can answer. I generally lean towards 'yes' in the same way I do for Chanel - the fact that a company is no longer literally owned by the same people it once was doesn't make the bitter pill that is branding itself with the name of someone who contributed to genocide much easier to swallow, and even more so with something inherently political like a flag carrier. Both Italy and Japan, for example, retired the brands of Ala Littoria and Imperial Japanese Airways. But there's obviously not a consensus here and I am just one person with one opinion. I find Chanel and Porsche to be far more inherently loaded than Lufthansa, but that doesn't mean there isn't a conversation to be had surrounding this topic, and people have been having that conversation for years.

This is, in all honesty, about the least of my political criticisms of the current Lufthansa. It's been the better part of a century and they are no longer literally abducting people to build their radar systems to the best of my knowledge, nor do they have any 150-year-old SS officers serving on their board. But they are still indisputably linked to Nazi Germany, which I expect they are pretty reluctant to lean into when discussing their history because if they did that would be terrible (and as far as I know of German law probably also illegal). Of the large airlines in the world this is a pretty uniquely Lufthansa baggage to deal with and it puts them in a pretty unfortunate spot a lot of the time, but as I was getting at in my post I do think there's a lot they could do that actually leans into German identity rather than being quarterlyreportcore without sticking Third Reich imagery on their planes but I can also understand why they may be hesitant to brand themselves in any way that isn't super sterile given that they have this history. It is just inherently harder to make being Lufthansa your brand than it is to make being the country that has really great glaciers your brand.

No, it's not the main thing that is associated with the name 'Lufthansa' and it shouldn't be. Yes, Lufthansa is a brand which was actively put forth by the Third Reich rather than just coincidentally existing at the same time and that is always going to be a nasty barnacle attached to the airline.

[indestructibleheart]

Fic Writer Interview

Thank you to @stereopticons, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @vanillahigh00 for the tags!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

32

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 

181,061

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I'll kidnap all the stars and I will keep them in your eyes [buddie + christopher, G, 1k] the story of who I am [david/patrick, T, 3.5k] now your heart is in my hands, I won't give it up [david/patrick, T, 2.3k] feet, don't fail me now [david/patrick, T, 3.9k] Collect Me With Your Steady Hand [david/patrick, T, 5.6k)

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to! I see comments as a way to engage with the fandom, and it means a LOT to me when people take the time to comment on my fic. So I like to at least say thank you!

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I have never written something that didn't end happily, LOL.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Hmm. I don't know if it's the "happiest," but I think the joy at the end of and we'd swear to remember it (all too well) probably has the best payoff because of how things start.

7. Do you write crossovers?

I haven't. I do write AUs based on things, though.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Eh. I've gotten a lot of backhanded compliments, but not direct hate.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I have only written one PWP (’till the gravity’s too much) and it was very recently, but I've included smut in longer fics several times. Apparently, I only know how to write smut with feelings.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I think that would be really fantastic!

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have! parallax with @stereopticons, lights like you (glow all year long) with @lilythesilly, and with mischief in sight, we're all merry and bright, which was a large group effort!

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I'm assuming this means that I've written, and I absolutely shan't choose between David/Patrick and FirstPrince. You can't make me.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have a small amount of a summer camp AU written for Schitt's Creek (featuring David/Patrick, Twylexis, and Stevie/Ruth), and I totally lost momentum on it because I don't have any idea where it's going. I'd love to finish it because I really like what I have, but... alas. That is not going to happen.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I like my prose, and I have a lot of great ideas.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I have too many ideas and have been struggling a lot lately with the follow-through... Though, to be fair, it's been a rough year, lol.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

English is the only language I speak fluently. So, I'll only include full lines of dialogue in another language if it's a common phrase I'm super familiar with (particularly in Italian or Spanish) AND/OR if I have a friend who can translate. Google is great for single words, usually, but it's terrible when it comes to actually translating phrases in a way people actually fucking talk, lol. If I want to communicate that someone is speaking another language, I'll generally do something like: "Insert phrase of dialogue here," they said, in [insert language here]."

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Oh, god. Uh... I'm pretty sure it was Twilight. We're not gonna talk about it.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

I definitely want to write some June/Nora and June/Nora/Pez, and just more of the Super Six in general. The lil New Year's thing I'm working on was supposed to just have June/Nora, but it's kinda starting to look like June/Nora/Bea, so. Oops!

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I think and we'd swear to remember it (all too well) has my best writing for sure.

Tagging some lovelies under the cut (in alphabetical order lol). If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!

@blackandwhiteandrose, @cha-melodius, @cricketnationrise, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @hippolotamus, @inexplicablymine, @jettestar, @kiwiana-writes, @lizzie-bennetdarcy, @lilythesilly, @missgeevious, @myheartalivewrites, @nontoxic-writes, @notspecialbabe, @rmd-writes, @rosedavid, @three-drink-amy, @treluna4, @vanillahigh00, @welcometololaland, @orchidscript, @ships-to-sail

[claire-starsword]

The Guardiana Magic School Run - Part 11

Again we start straight at battle since all setup and promotion whining was done in the last part already.

The Duelist is a anti-centaur arrow I think, quite useful given the amount of knight enemies in this game, but alas we don't have archers in this run.

From this line beyond is where the Laser Eye hits, I hope to attract some of the enemies and then come back before the first laser shot.

It takes until turn 3 to get somewhat close, I guess turn 5 is the laser, the countdown always confuses me a bit.

Max is already on his counter bullshit, and we attracted a priest. Would have loved to attract the pegasus knights as well but alas, that's what happens when you don't have fliers i guess. I'm still confused but i think the laser is next turn so we have to back down? Idk my brain is kinda fried and i shouldn't be playing this at such a state probably. At least everyone is faster than the enemies so positioning to protect the frail members isn't hard.

At this point you could rip away the attack button for Max and he'd still be getting more kills than everyone else.

Also I messed up and the laser is at the start of turn 6. Oh well. Good thing I don't care for the clear bonus this time.

After a whole lot of wasted time the laser hits exactly zero of our heroes and five enemies, including one of the pegasus knights, which worry me the most not just for being strong but also for tending to ambush here at the worst positions possible blocking the path, which is terribly narrow.

Speaking of, once we advance to the middle of bridge, there are only four spots out of the laser's range, so people will likely have to tank a hit. And by people I mean not Anri, I said this battle was gonna suck for her. She has the lowest HP of the team, 13. Guess how much damage the laser does. I have to get Anri to a safe spot no matter what, and I have no clue if she'll get to move away from it later.

Except "safe spot" is a very loose term here! Guess who?

It's our one-hit killing friends again! I think they reach any of the mentioned spots.

Anri, you sure you don't wanna sit this one out? Relax, grab some ice cream?

I'm taking her for now because I get the feeling every damage will count for the intact pegasus knights, but I might legit hold her back for the rest of the fight, it sucks in terms of exp but hey, I said deaths are the priority, didn't I? Time to commit to that.

Arthur gets to debut his paladin armor by finishing the laser battered priest, and I get to tell everyone to listen to the GBA exclusive promotion theme, it's so good.

Also Max decides to chill on the counters in the worst possible moment so we're blocked now. Of course he deals with the lizardman immediately but that still means he doesn't advance this turn, which means we won't be in front to protect people.

Tao finishes the knight and gets Blaze 3 for her efforts, which is wonderful.

Because everyone is faster than the enemies I still manage to protect her before she gets hit. Lowe isn't a guy I want in the front but he does have a bit more defense and HP so he should survive. Khris has also healed Max from some scratch damage that piled up, because again, I need people as good as possible to tank some lasers.

See that's not bad. And despite all my bullying, Anri does manage to finish this guy next turn, with some help from Tao. Sadly it's not enough to level her up, getting any extra HP would be life saving here.

The other wonderful thing here is that the elves can target most of the empty tiles here, plus the first three of the narrower bridge. I hate these guys so much, we have to advance very carefully. I also think this is the time for Anri to back down, I could try killing one of the enemies with her to get HP but that's not guaranteed and I'm scared.

Most people are stuck here both finishing off enemies and trying to rush past the elves without getting in their range.

Max on the other hand is just going because who can stop him. The laser is a bigger danger for him, and he might get out of blast range at this point.

Also, every time I start doing absurd things with Max I wonder if he's getting overleveled, but no, he's very on par with the rest of the team, this is just how he is. Of course it might be better to save exp for weaker characters, but eh, I don't think anyone is struggling to level up besides Anri, who is just doomed in this particular fight anyway.

Thankfully the rest of the team isn't even that far save for Lowe, Tao and Anri. Sadly however Max has been shy with the counters since I pointed them out, so he's blocked from avoiding the laser.

He's not shy on doing double attacks though, so Arthur gets a lizardman-free way out of the blast. Gong and Khris do some small healing so we can survive better as well.

Unfortunately promoting Arthur does not save him from the patented Arthur Level Up™.

oof

The first blast did 13 to every enemy so I assumed it was fixed, but turns out there was a +1/-1 variance. Anri had a chance of surviving, and a chance of not surviving even after levelling up. This battle is very mean to her.

Time to put a lot of herbs to use now.

After a lot of healing it is then time to farm the Laser Eye for fun and profit. By profit I mean, +1 HP for Arthur. The level up goes by so fast I don't even get to screenshot it.

Still, I finally get to mention something that already came up on the Marionette fight, but that I chose to not mention until a force character got the spells, and kinda completely forgot when I celebrated Tao's level up earlier. The levels 3 and 4 of damage spells were swapped between the mega drive and GBA version. In this one, level 3 is the strongest single target level, while level 4 is the AoE one with damage between levels 2 and 3. This means we're still a bit away from having good AoE, but it also means Tao just became a one hit killing machine to rival Max, honestly.

…except this thing clearly resists it despite have no magic res listed. Oh well. It's kind of a thing for machines in general honestly. You'll see how bad it gets in later chapters.

And that's it, the rest of the battle is not even worth commenting, Max tanks a lot of 1 damages, we win. We even get the clear bonus. I could have been a patient person and tanked a billion more attacks to wait for Anri to come back and train. Unfortunately I am not a patient person. Let's see how much this will bite me in the ass later. For now we just have a triumphant victory over chapter 3.

Losses: 0 Deaths: 2 The expected deaths on Narsha interludes: 0/3, the final challenge awaits

[souryogurt64]

Hi. It's really late where I'm at(it's one of Europe's capital cities, hence all the mistakes that's going to happen) and I just finished reading your essay on Gray and there is no coherent though left in my head, except reading it was such a blast. It also hurt me very badly and I cried at one point or two, but that's fine, that's how I know it's good stuff. I'd love nothing more than to have like an hour long conversation about all that you wrote, it's so interesting Nd thought-out. But it's late, my brain has been scorched completely and I had to bring out alcohol for section about mother. So I'll just let you know it's one of the cleveres, eloquent things I've ever read. This is my equivalent of that 6-hour long yt video on Victorious, only catering exactly to my needs. Also, bless your heart, I love knowing about this book but I couldn't bring myself to read it even at the gunpoint.

Thank you for reading it, I really appreciate it! I'd be happy to answer any questions you have about it lol

That book blows my mind, I know that everyone thinks that it's this like terrible whiny rockstar sex misogyny book but the amount of effort and skill that went into writing something that looked like it was that but wasnt but you only noticed if you managed to figure out like the insane 4D chess happening is just genuinely so insane it blows my mind.

i always knew there was something about it cuz on. on the first reading i was only like 14 but i picked up on the freud stuff which made me positive it was satire, and i thought a few other things about it were strange.

but i think in college when i started reading the sun also rises and tender is the night very closely the gears started to turn, i had severely lapsed in my fall out boy obsession for about four years while i was in college but i took this class called "americans in paris" where we read a lot of hemingway and fitzgerald and some other stuff and all i could think about was the book, and i remember reading tender is the night and it felt like i was reading petes book again even though i dont think pete cares about fitzgerald at all

and then i didnt really talk about this in the dissertation i just alluded to it because i didnt particularly want to include a 3 page accusation of a violation of journalistic ethics but i kind of blindly stumbled backwards into some of the stuff with his cowriter while writing the peteryan thing (and then more after the brent wilson thing). and i started to understand how the unreliable narration in the book worked because the articles were written the same way. and i was like ohhh okay and then i noticed the allusions and parentheses and it snowballed from there like that old Playstation game where you roll a ball around collecting garbage until it gets big enough to become a planet

I also know it was excessively niche and very excessively and intricately detailed to the point of being a bit ridiculous but i kind of wanted to respect the fact that its supposed to be a secret and hide the explanation of the book under a bunch of drivel about the drafting process that maybe 3 people on planet earth care about. i probably would have gotten 10-20x more clicks if i had just written about the roman a clef part but alas i have ethics

anyway i have a big dramatic work thing next week and then i am going to finish my cross stitch and listen to the beautiful and the damned on audiobook and try not to think about pete wentz. like at all. because im sick of him believe it or not. and id like to write an essay not about pete wentz. but then i will probably end up writing the verlaine/rimbaud thing

[truckreincarnation]

BSoD | Manami | 3.6 | RE:

Ah.

Harriet remembered thinking that nobody would find Frank’s body.

That Manami wouldn’t- that nobody would think to check down there eventually. Rage and adrenaline were so powerfully intoxicating. Manami wonders what it must feel like. Not once in her life had she ever gotten that angry. Enough to kill someone, and form a plan on the fly to get away with it. Haphazard as it may have been. What a feeling that must be.

Alas. When it comes to anything that matters, it turns out she’s still conflict adverse enough that she can’t even stick up for Harriet against Theophania’s tirade. Is she even wrong to say that Harriet was dodging accountability? Maybe. Manami doesn’t know any more. She doesn’t want to know anything ever again. Maybe she should never think again. The shards in her chest twist and burrow in, deeper and deeper still.

“... Meili’s dead. And Harriet’s about to die, too. We can’t… it’s already set in stone. That’s how this trial ends.”

It’s not a question, only an absent, resigned statement of facts. They were all cowards here. If they weren’t, they could curse the King to the high heavens, try to- do something, to forestall the inevitable, to change fate, avert destiny for their very first killer with any semblance of intent, however fleeting. Do something about why they were even here to begin with. But they don't. They can't.

She can’t even muster feeling appalled or betrayed. There is only a deep hurt, nestled in comfortably next to the great love she has for her friend. That love, eventually, will consume and meld with the grief. It always does. It always has. Manami can’t force herself to stand up like Esmée did. She wants to. The way she’s looking at Harriet next to her, she so badly wants to. It takes nearly all the effort she can spare to even scrawl a name, right now. 

Harriet could have kept lying, if she wanted. People were starting to look at Vee with no small amount of suspicion. If she really only wanted to save her own hide, she could have continued casting the shadows of reasonable doubt in a bid to split the vote.

But she didn’t.

That was probably worth something. Maybe.

… Haha. The King was probably loving this right now, wasn’t he.

“You’re not a monster. You’re my friend. You’re someone who let your feelings get the better of you. You’re someone who was targeted by this horrible thing nobody asked for. You’re someone who could have been any of us. You’re someone who did something terrible. You’re someone who can be forgiven. You’re someone who might not be. You’re Harriet Lazuli, and you’re everything that being her entails.” 

Manami’s eyes widen as she babbles on, not with shock or terror but desperation, tears finally spilling over. How strange. It feels like out of everyone, she’s probably cried in front of Harriet the most, whether it be from joys or sorrows. Some things never change, apparently. There’s so much more she wants to say to her right now, but she's running out of steam, fast. It’s hard to tell how much she’s trembling with the natural stutters that accompany her movement now. The way her voice cracks and wavers makes it far more clear.

“I know you’ll be back. But I… I don’t want you to go.”

[rake-rake]

@umtplex

"I care." — [ Either Lorian or Sulyvahn! Completely different auras haha ]

Send "I care" for my muse's reaction.

"Oh, Lorian... I know you do, despite my best efforts..."

Lothric's palm is cold as it moves to cradle his brother's face, always right beneath what should be normal despite any amount of fire and mantles, as though his very body rejected the idea of warmth from the very bottom. His nails, too long and thick for fingers too fragile, brush the skin right besides Lorian's eye, curiously leaving the slightest pinkish marks despite the soft touch.

"My brother, so gallant, so kind... Your heart is so large as Lothric's Wall high. To find it in yourself to care for even this wretched creature... You truly are the pride of this kingdom."

And there it is, the hint of something else, deep and barely hidden as an afterthought. His voice doesn't change, nor does his expression, but his nails dig ever so slightly deeper, to the point is now a conscious act more than an accident. Still, his hand does not move, too bright, unnatural violet holding the other's gaze.

"But alas, kindness is a terrible weakness to have, one of which I have stripped myself clean long ago. You can be kind for both of us, Lorian, for there's nothing but bitterness inside this hollow rib cage. But that is fine, they say hatred burns the hottest, the fiercest... This vessel is sure to make a fine cinder to warm the rotting cadaver of this accursed kingdom."

He lets go then, the slightest tint of red staining the tips of his nails, and leans back on the pillows of his bed with a deep sigh, tired for the effort of simply sitting for so long. Holy King Lothric... Holy, indeed, a true Saint. And they all knew what Saint's fate was, the reward for loyalty.

"We know our roles, yes? Thou art the sword of the kingdom, and this one the cinder that shall curse it to the end of time." He turns on the bed, giving Lorian his back, face hidden by snow white strands, "My kind brother... I could never find it in myself to ask your heart to care further than you do now. This kingdom, and this deranged life... the answer is evident. Now, have a good night, yes? I would not dare take more of your precious time."

[pyrriax]

🌑 💧 💥

Because I like pain

taking liberties with unspecified characters again (catLurk)

🌑: a dark headcanon

honestly when it comes to dark i don't have a good headcanon (especially because my point of reference is a quick search and that's turning up. yandere headcanons and that number, which i'm not too fond of)

💧: a sad headcanon

sylvester and pandora got really close because of their interaction during the prison arc, and that causes a rift between sylvester and the rest of the group because they defend him. i think that because of the amount of ridicule they faced they adopted a habit of being awake at night, and they spent a lot of time just trying to keep an eye on accius and pandora, since they were worried with how volatile melody was.

💥: a fighting headcanon

accius uses scythes as a weapon because he thinks there's some irony, especially because he got the scar on his face from accidentally getting hit with one. though i think they're probably a terrible fighter and can't actually do much damage despite their best efforts. if anything, i think he probably fights more with words than with actual weapons, lol.

OKAY

so i was busy yesterday :)

i was debating about actually doing this, but since i gave in and learnt world edit, i'm gonna start making at least bits and pieces of the maze in wtds :3

if my minecraft didn't keep crashing when i try to use replay then i would do a little extra thing for when i post chapter 17, but alas.

[yellowocaballero]

Hiiii i super enjoyed your fic! I love how subtly manipulative your protag was in the beginning lol. Also that part where she pondered about diamond/pearl oral traditions and how galaxy would likely record them with their own slanted perception was very sad to me :( and when she screamed at ingo abt how she'd never even Heard of the clans in the future that was super intriguing. I love how the protag has this slanted view of herself too, and how she'd like to be forgotten which probably stems from her home life, but she still wants to save her parent(s?)from the potential pain of losing her. I think that part where she wanted all her pokemon and closest friends together with no one abandoned was super telling. And when she thought she'd only ever get to have a pokemon as a helper :( her inner pov is very no nonsense and funny to me at times like when she apparently very sanely described how she would annihilate jubilife. It was also cute when she wrote that her mortality rate flying Graham was still 0 lol. How do you come up with these stories? And when you structure/map them out do you do it in bullet points or some other way? I always love your writing <3

YES HELLO THANK YOU.

I'm not much of a history person, I'm more soft STEM. But I recently wrote a book chapter summarizing the history of a civil rights movement, and it involved a loooot of oral history and taking down oral histories from people who are pretty old and aging. So much of what these really amazing old activists told me just were not written down anywhere! And there were so many amazing people and organizations that are either completely unknown or completely misunderstood, told by other viewpoints or influenced by media. It was a big honor to interview these amazing people, because otherwise what they did just wouldn't be remembered.

So that experienced influenced some of the story, haha. PLA has some really depressing implications :( One event has five different storytellers who will all tell it a different way which will all be a LITTLE wrong...but it's a huge damn shame that some of these voices will be lost. Protag wants to fix that. Kick off plot.

Re: MC: most of her characterization is done through how she interprets the world! I purposefully didn't go too deep into details and left it vague, so I'm seeing a lot of different interpretations of her character, which are all very fun and I won't deny any of them.

I think she has a stringent self-image of herself that is not very complimentary, and it's resilient against a lot of proof otherwise (Teens!). She doesn't like to inconvenience or take up space. She also did just never have an interest in becoming a battler or trainer - she grew up in the family business and expected to work there the rest of her life, and she never really stopped to wonder if she wanted something different. She's very serious and somber, but she is still a character who is written by me, so she is still funny ajlkdsf. I won't go too deep into psychoanalyzing her right now, so ask me again after the story's done!

How I came up with this story was...actually, it developed while I was playing the game, and then it got so big in my head like a rock that I had to write it just so it would go away. It's just a combination of a lot of different thoughts and a vague conviction that my MC would surely fix that terrible Diamond/Pearl situation. It is also a very affectionate homage towards all of the Pokemon fanfic I would read when I was, like, 13 - never naming her is actually a reference to my favorite fanfic when I was 13. (In retrospect, that story was BONKERS - Pedestal by DigitalSkitty? Anybody remember that one? What was UP with it?!)

How I get ideas in general is a different situation and hard to answer haha. There's always a lot of inspiration taken from a lot of different things I've read or watched, there's always a lot of joking with friends about really funny situations, and there is also a third thing that is just ??? brain go brrr I guess ????.

This 60k story was written in a week and it's a little obvious. I didn't plan or plot or anything. Very pantsed. I'm trying to remember if I even made like an outline and I don't think I did. Usually what happens is I get a certain amount in based solely on vibes, like 30 or 40 pages later I'm like 'oh this needs a plot huh', I type up like a '1-2-3' numbered outline of what happens next, I like 60% do that, and then I cut some stuff or add more scenes and then I'm done. If I'm actually "trying" with "effort" the outline is entirely written before the story, which is also '1a.->1b.->1c.->2a.' style.

Most of the outlining happens in my head, sadly. I know none of this is good advice or applicable to anybody. Sorry.

There is a nifty shortcut you can use in terms of story plotting, which is to just make your story structure extremely repetitive, so you don't have to plot a single thing. Life hacks!

Thank you for reading!!!

[venenatd]

just friends; eren jaegar x reader

summary: you and eren are best pals and have both recently be dumped. so, a plan to get over your exes is needed! what’s better than going out on the town trying to find quick fucks >:) also eren is a smug bastard but kinda has a heart of gold??

content: smut / nsfw 18+. minors dni. (choking, unprotected sex, creampie drinking, drunk sex, possessiveness ig? dirty talk, both of them want to be dominant tbh. slight size kink, oral both m and f receiving. female bodied reader) 

i am new to this pls let me know if i should add anything!!

word count: 5.8k words of unedited content 

a/n: uh so i never thought i’d be back on my tumblr bullshit at 23 but hey after years without the app i’m back. i needed to get out the h-word and this is what happened. enjoy and i’m sorry if it’s terrible lmao

“You look different” 

Frowning at the man waiting ever so patiently for you on the sofa, you look a little defeated. “Is that meant to be a compliment, Eren?”. He sighed, raising his eyebrows at you. To be fair, maybe you did. Wearing a figure hugging black dress, that definitely just hid your ass cheeks, hair styled and sprayed in place, dark lipstick and makeup on your face. Usually Eren would have seen you in sweats, always running a little late for class, snack in hand. 

“Different isn’t bad,” he offered, checking the watch that lay on his wrist, “are we ever going to get to the bar? Your plan will fall through if you’re not careful.”

Ah, the plan. Both you and Eren were newly single. In your final year at university, having managed to keep each relationship going until almost the end. Ironic. Weren’t most meant to fail in the first year? But alas, your partners had decided it was the end within a couple of weeks each other, and as you and Eren had been close since you met on orientation day, you each took to the other for comfort. You had done the crying first, going to him the minute your call with the ex had ended. Leaving wet splotches on his shirt, he had calmed you, only for you to do the same to him later. Now the crying was done, it was time to move on, and what better advice to follow than getting under someone to get over another?

“I just need to look hot enough for a guy to fuck me.”

“What a romantic you are.”

“Shut up Er-”

Eren shifted from the couch, interrupting your usual sass, “and what about me, y/n? Do I look beautiful?”. He threw in a wink with his comment, his aura of cockiness always radiating. You rolled your eyes, before studying his figure. His dark hair half pulled back into a bun, the rest draping his neck and onto a deep emerald green silk shirt, with the top few buttons loose, tucked into dark pants. A ring on each hand, fingers with chipping black nail polish, and to top it off, a thin chain on his neck. You hated to admit it and add to his smug demeanour but... the man did look good. 

“Gorgeous as always Eren,” you said sarcastically, even if it was truthful, “I’m sure there will be a queue of women who are wanting to jump on you.”

“Not if they aren’t all taken already,” he taps at his watch. Whilst the two of you had already been drinking as he waited for you to get ready, it was definitely on the later side.

“Order the uber, and we can go.”

Walking over to him and adding shoes to your outfit, you present yourself before him, a cute little smile playing on your lips. He’s staring down at his phone, quickly going through the motions for the ride. Finally, he looks up to catch your eyes. His jade pupils flick down slightly, and he hopes you miss that they land at the cleavage you’re sporting in your current get up. He flicks your nose, earning a scowl from you and a smile from him.

“You look perfect”

The club is far fuller than you both expected, dance floor and tables taken up and crowded round. Luckily, you had managed to secure you and Eren a pair of seats at the bar, and you were currently on your third..? Fourth drink of the evening. Green eyes watch your lips carefully, as you finish the vodka and lemonade. 

“So, anyone take your fancy?” he prompts, looking around at the mess of people.

Humming, you scan the area. There’s some people you recognise from class, but plenty more you don’t know. Fucking friends seems like a bad move, even in your tipsy state, so you look to the strangers faces. They don’t look like him. Ugh. 

There’s a few options though, and as you point them out to Eren they come with brief descriptors: dark hair and stubble, wide set blonde. He tuts at the options, sarcastically letting out a “sure sure, I see the appeal”. 

“And how about you, anyone you like the look of?” you ask with a sigh.

Christ, Eren thinks to himself. It’s been long enough that he hasn’t had to look for someone else. Sure there were attractive people in the world, but with her around, he hadn’t needed to give anyone else a second look. His palm moves to the back of his neck, stretching out behind him with a huff. “Let’s look on the dance floor?” he offers, clearly not as eager as you were tonight. Moving his hand back down, he holds it out for you, pulling towards the throng of people.

He looks effervescently cool like this. Shirt open, hair starting to fall from his bun. Eren is looking around at the people surrounding the two of you. The two of you had been working in circles, allowing each other an eyeful as the club goers move around the space. As a group of guys push their way from the dance floor to the bar, you get shoved towards Eren. Heels were never quite your forte, and you stumble against him, hands on either side of his chest. Grinning down at you with that smug little smile that annoyed you so much, Eren brought large hands to your waist, pushing you away a little. But his hands stay there as he continues to sway to the music, making no effort to break the contact. And so you bring your arms up to his neck, allowing his movements to carry you on time to the song. For the first time in the past couple of weeks, you feel light. Your chest isn’t constricted by some foreign weight. It’s just you and your best friend, buzzed and free.

Colours change above you, as you look up to Eren, him down to you. A playful grin takes his lips as he pulls you a little closer, you so easily accepting the narrowing distance. Your black silk meets his deep green, chest pushing into his. You carefully analyse his features, seeing if he attempts to check you out like earlier. 

Was it the alcohol making your cheeks so warm? Lit up by a purple hue, you watch his eyes return to exploring the crowd, his hand still holding on to you. His smirk falters, his eyebrows creasing together. You’re not moving in circles anymore, Eren pausing in his movements as he thinks about what to do next. He shouldn’t lie to you, but seeing your ex at the bar would really harsh the night. Under his fingers, he can feel your body tense, suddenly unsure at how close the contact between you was. 

But Eren doesn’t want you to know, he doesn’t want you to be distracted by your ex tonight. He doesn’t want to see your hurt little face anymore. The way your eyes would be red and puffy the next day. The way he would feel your shoulders heaving under his arms. You don’t deserve that. Hell, you didn’t deserve the huge amount of shit your ex had put you through over the years he’d known you. Eren would sit back and listen to you rant, support you where he could. But fuck that guy. And he wasn’t sure what sparked in his chest, but Eren’s jade orbs are trained straight back on you. His eyebrows calm, tension releasing from them. As you can turn to scope out whatever had changed his body language so suddenly, he catches your jaw. 

Beginning to slowly move again, his eyes have narrowed, taking in the way the dress hugs you, the shine on your skin from the hot dance floor. Eren couldn’t quite figure out what was intoxicating him right now. Definitely a lot of alcohol, but also a sudden… possessiveness. He didn’t want you in pain anymore. Eren wanted you in pleasure. His breath is suddenly on your neck, making your hair raise. 

“I’ve only seen one person I’m interested in tonight.” 

“Oh?” you squeak, before clearing your throat a little. The new deep notes in his voice catch you off guard. It almost sounds like he’s… No. He’s your best friend. The little looks you’d been giving each other all night were just two people looking out for one another, two people seeing each other happy for the first time in a while. Your voice is calmer as you ask light-heartedly, “and who would that be?” 

His lips are so close to your ear. 

“You.” 

“Eren-” your hands move from behind his neck, resting on his shoulders. You need to see your best friend's face, you need to know if he’s joking right now. If he’s mocking you. When you draw back, you see his face. Smug, as always. Fuck you’ve always wanted to knock that cockiness down a peg. Cheshire smile showing his teeth and his eyes looking down at you. Half lidded eyes, pupils blown. He’s not joking. Fuck.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Your breath is caught in your throat. All too aware suddenly of each of his finger pads pressing into your skin, the contact feeling like fire with the added alcohol. But, you find yourself nodding, the yes just escaping your lips before he’s pressed into them.

Large hands travel to your hip, and up your back, pressing you into him. You can feel his body, tense in exhilaration against you, hands back around his neck. One travels up to the nape of his back, tangling into his hair and pulling him deeper into you. The music is all consuming, you can feel the bass in your body, you can feel Eren against you, you can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

Eren’s hand on your back travels up, echoing your placement on him, to hold the back of your neck. He doesn’t want you to go, you feel too good. The heat between your bodies could suffocate him. His thumb puts pressure under your jaw, he isn’t even sure you can feel it. But he can, measuring your pulse racing underneath the pad. He’s smiling into this kiss, this all consuming kiss.

His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, and you’re all too eager to allow him into your mouth. Tasting the whisky from your home, tasting the coke from the club. His teeth take your lip nipping slightly, before sucking the plump of it into his mouth. You both come up for air, eyes meeting in acknowledgment of the situation.

“Wanna get out of here?”

The drive home had only served to heap tension between you. As clearly that it was that you wanted each other, you would have to wait a while longer. Your thighs pressed together, slowly inhaling and exhaling. Going through your mind was whether this was a good idea, staring out at the city passing by you. Eren was your friend. You were dating another man two weeks ago. The same man that had previously asked you if he needed to be worried about Eren. You’d laughed it off, because it was Eren. You were brought out of your thoughts when you felt him grip your leg, a little too harshly at first, before settling, leaving a gentle pattern of circles and lines on your inner thigh. It was Eren.

Just one hallway. You had to make it one hallway to get into your apartment. One hallway left to come to your senses. And just like he read your mind, Eren is once again touching you, just his hand on yours pulling you backwards. You twist just in time, his hands instantly cupping your cheeks as he kisses you, deeply and intensely. Pushing you back into the wall, you pray a neighbour doesn’t walk out now. His knee is pressing gently between your legs, and you allow it. Your fingers sink into Eren’s arms, lightly covered by the fabric yet you can still feel the muscle underneath, relaxing and tensing as he pulls you closer. 

His lips are making their way to your jaw, lifting your chin upwards, tentatively licking the bone before moving downwards still, sucking and nipping and licking your neck. A whimper breaks through. You really need to get inside. Gripping his hair, you sharply pull backwards.

“Not going to play nice, huh?” 

When did he speak like this? The playful and shit-eating grin your friend Eren always wore was replaced by something darker, his words laced with intent. 

“Don’t challenge me.” 

You were off, finally at your door, making quick work with the lock, moving in first before he followed. The door shut as you pushed Eren against it, usual doe eyes being taken over with a deep lust. Your hands are instantly at his belt, as his hands find your face once again. This time he’s grabbing your hair, making you look up at him as he glares down at you. You’re constantly challenging one another in conversation, and it’s translating to the bedroom far too easily. 

Lips are on one another again, as you leave the belt and start towards his shirt. You bite down on his bottom lip, earning a hiss from him, and you feel his hand being brought around your throat. He doesn’t add too much pressure, checking if this turn is indeed okay with you. When you push against the weight, he takes the gleam in your eye as a yes, and uses the force to push you against the next wall, finally moving off the front door. 

It’s a constant battle to get to the bedroom, both of you taking control for short bursts. Eren pulling the thin straps of your dress down, you untucking his shirt. His muscular torso is on full display, and you had never viewed it in this light before. 

Finally he pushes you onto the bed, situating himself between your legs. Your kisses are sloppy and infused with alcohol. Hands are desperate with one another, both of you needing to be closer. Are you scared if the contact ends your thoughts will return to sanity? 

Eren’s hot and heavy over you, his hands seem everywhere at once. Smoothing up your thigh, digging in slightly to the flesh when you grind against one another. His hands rest at your hips for a moment, and he’s looking down at you, still fucking smiling. All at once, he’s flipped you over his prominent hard on pressing into your ass. He’s whispering in your ear, leaving wet kisses along your neck, to your shoulder blades. Fingers take the zip at the back of your dress, slowly and carefully pulling it down, leaving licks and pecks as he goes. It’s torturous. 

You attempt to speed things up by rutting your ass against his crotch, and you think you hear a quiet moan, before his hand is brought down to the fabric, smacking your cheek. You gasp, turning your head to look at him. Eren is too occupied in taking in all of your body, his green eyes are darkened with authority and lust. His nimble fingers play with the short hem of your dress, thumb dipping beneath, before he pushes the silk up. 

You both let out soft fuck’s, as his hands grab at the plump of your ass. It’s like he’s testing the softness, the way your flesh responds to his touch so easily. He slaps at you again, earning a sharp moan from you. Eren’s leaning down, his mouth once again trailing across the apex of your behind, leaving trails of saliva as he goes. Before you can even register the new sensations you can feel a soft pressure against your clothed cunt, just enough to let you know the presence of his hand, but not enough for you to get off on. You’re mewling, once again trying to get closer to him. This time he allows it, eagerly pressing his ring and middle finger to your clit, allowing you to grind upon them. 

Seeing you underneath him like this… it’s new and strange and so fucking hot. He’s watching you desperately try and fill the need building in your core, and he can only feel his cock twitch in his pants as he sees you coming undone. If you wanted more, he could definitely give it to you. Bringing his large hands away, to the flimsy fabric that was covering you, he pulls it down, exposing you to him. His heart and dick fucking jump. His hands return to your ass, watching the jiggle as you move and whimper. Spreading you, he brings his face down, breath tingling on your most sensitive areas.

Your breath catches in your throat as his tongue, gentle at first, licks between your folds. He’s tasting you, he’s moaning into your pussy, as you write beneath him. Eren’s hands are squeezing your ass cheeks, holding you still as you try to grind against his face. 

“Patience, y/n”, he says, with a slap on your behind again. 

“Fuck you,” you hiss. 

“You will be in a minute, baby girl, don’t worry.”

You go to make a retort but he’s instantly back, licking up your slit and a deep moan escapes you. Jesus you can feel the smile on his lips as he’s back on your pussy. Eren is so proud of the sounds he can draw from you. He wonders if your ex could make you come undone so easily. 

You taste sweet and saccharine on him, and he doesn’t hold back the groan as he further works his way into you. Hardened tongue moving it’s way from your entrance down to your clit. He swipes at it, before moving away again. Kissing your thighs, kissing the skin between your holes. Every now and then he’ll move back to your clit, allowing you a moment of pleasure before he’s teasing again. “Fuck, please”. Your whines are being smothered by the sheets, and Eren wants nothing more than to hear them, loud and clear.

Eren’s ringed fingers make their way to your hair, his face lifting from between your legs. He pulls you back round, and holy shit you can see how wet you are on his face. There’s a sheen to his lips and chin, and instinctively you reach up to his neck, pulling him back on top of you. Your tongue meets his, tasting your tartness on his mouth. A hand makes it way back down in between your thighs, playing and parting your folds. Your hand in turn reaches up his neck, pulling sharply at his hair once again. “Eren. More- please” you get out in between staggered breaths. 

“Aw, since you asked so nicely” his eyes watch your expression closely as his thumb rests on your clit, his finger swiftly moving inside you. Your eyebrows raise and knot, eyes wide and lips parted. But he keeps it still as your legs shaked around his arm. “Eren, move” you demand this time. 

“Oh, that’s not so nice. I liked it when you were polite.” He starts to retract his finger, thumb gently swabbing your clit so you’ll know what you miss.

“Please, please, please, Eren, please” you speak before he even gets the first knuckle out. All the teasing was creating a tightness in your lower stomach. 

“Much better.”

You whine as he continues to pull his finger from you, until he pushes it back in, curling his solitary finger up. Your fingernails are pressing deep into the muscle of his bicep, feeling how it moves as he finger fucks you. He’s hitting that perfect spot inside you again and again, and his thumb is swiping eagerly on your clit. 

Eren can feel you fluttering around his finger, desperate for more, desperate to release on him. He adds another finger, your wetness allowing him entrance easily. He wants to fuck you so bad, his cock so hard it felt like it was about to burst. 

He pushes your hands off him, leaving crescent moon indents deep in his skin, he works his way back down. He brings the black silk with him this time, fully being able to take in your body as you’re left naked before him. Holy shit you’re beautiful. He doesn’t want to stare too long and make you shy. But he still kisses his way down, before he’s back at your pussy. 

This time he allows you more movement, letting your fingers work their way back into his hair, letting you roll your hips against his tongue and stubble. 

With his spare hand he pulls out his cock, slowly pulling at it, before he realises he can’t do that for too long without cumming before the main event. Instead he reaches up, rolling your perked nipples in between his fingers. There are so many sensations on your body, and Eren can feel your cunt beginning to tighten around his fingers. You hold your breath before letting out little moans, building towards reaching your height.

“You want to cum on my fingers?

Your back is arching, whispering “yes, yes, yes, please” as your walls are tightening around him. He quickens the pace, making sure to hit that spot inside you over and over. Thighs around his face, he can feel your slick pooling in his mouth, and coating his chin once again. 

Your gummy walls are so tight around his thick fingers, he needs you to finish, watch you fully unravel below him. Sucking and licking at your clit, he’s pushing you towards the edge. 

“Eren-” his name is strangled coming out of you, and then your moaning, undulating your cunt against his mouth, riding out your orgasm. 

His jade eyes look up at you, watching as you pull your head up to look at him, before another wave of pleasure hits you and you have to arch your neck and look back up. He waits for you to come down, letting you fuck his face and fingers. Grinding against his stubble and tongue as you let out pitiful and beautiful moans. You’re so fucking wet, the sounds coming from between the two of you should be forbidden, as you release onto him. 

Finally he withdraws, using his forearm to wipe his face. He lies next to you, allowing you a moment as he draws little circles on your stomach. Eren has never quite looked at you in this light. Sure, you were pretty, and the two of you were obviously close. But now you’d walked a line that couldn’t be undone. You weren’t over your ex, and as okay as Eren was with what had happened between you, he didn’t want you to run. He’s overcome with thoughts, looking down to your chest and the heavy breaths you were taking. All he could pray was that you weren’t pretending he was someone else. 

But as Eren is getting caught up in his own mind, you’re twisting, hand reaching to his crotch, cock having been recaptured by his boxers. Palming him, you feel how big he really is for the first time. Fingers trace the edge of his pants and underwear, and he lifts his hips, allowing you to pull them down. Shit. His dick slapped back to his stomach, precum leaking from the top of his pink head. He was bigger than you’d imagined, because of course you’d imagined it a couple of times.

Your hand looks so small around his cock, but you slowly tease him, his deep green orbs following your movements. Bringing your head down to him, you kitten lick the precum from the top of his dick. He hisses gently, and you look up at him with these big doe eyes, so fucking eager to please.

You push your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks and flattening your tongue as you begin working along his shaft. He moans just at the sight of you, your eyes peeking up through dark lashes. His hand goes through your hair, eagerly pushing you deeper around him. 

He lets out a hoarse, “is this okay?” before you put your own hand on his pushing it for the both of you. You don’t even want to come up for air, you just want him close to you, inside you. 

You were learning far more about each other than you had expected, as Eren takes back over. He pushes himself further into you, muttering a good girl that has you whining. The vibrations around his cock make his hips buck, and now you’re gagging as his length hits the back of your throat. He holds you there instead of letting you off, and your nails are sharp against his thighs.

His head lolls back as he starts to move his hips under you, moving you in turn with your hair. He picks up the pace quickly, allowing saliva to drool from you and straight to his cock. 

Your eyes prick, big fat tears forming at the corners. But you’re enjoying this way too much, the moans and gasps he gives make you moan, pressing your thighs together for some kind of friction. 

He takes your jaw in his grasp, allowing you a moment to catch your breath. Your tongue sits out your mouth, him smacking the head of his dick on it. He notices your tears then, the mascara that’s running a little. He swipes at the corner of your eyes, leaning down to press a kiss into your forehead. 

Bringing you up to him, your dripping folds sliding across his length. His lips are on your cheeks, across your jaw, licking up your neck before reclaiming your plush lips once again. You continue grinding against one another, tongues slipping in and out of each other's mouths. Eventually Eren brings his hands to your hips, lifting you up as you hold his shaft up.

Your foreheads are pressed together as he slowly pushes inside you. The stretch is burning and all-consuming, eyes pricking up again as you feel him hit your furthest wall. Eren breathes out heavily, “So fucking tight”

You roll your hips, allowing some friction from him on your clit. It helps your muscles relax a little, and balancing your hands on his shoulders you push yourself up and down, using his length for your own pleasure. Eren’s eyes don’t leave your form, watching your breasts bounce and how your eyes flutter close as he fills you entirely.

“You really did want to be fucked, huh? Look at you” he teases you, watching as you go to talk back before he thrusts his hips up. It leaves the words caught in your throat.

His pace maintains, holding you in place as he fucks up into you, feeling your cunt clench around him. There are long moments where you hold your breath, holding his cock tight within you. Then you’ll release and moan, before holding it in again. Well, Eren is all too happy to help you with that. 

One hand grabbing the flesh of your hip, the other wrapping around your throat, he pushes into you at a punishing rate. Your eyes go wide at the sudden restriction of your throat, feeling the cold metal of his ring against your pulse. 

“Who knew this about you? That you were such a slut?”

As much as he knows you want to deny it, you want to smack the smugness from his voice, he can feel your pussy tighten around him. He sees your eyes roll back a little. 

“You’re getting tighter.” 

The hand on your hip moves down, attempting to hold you in place whilst letting his thumb press over your clit. The sounds of him slapping against your wetness is obscene, and he’s only distracted from it as you whimper out pathetic yes’s and please’s. 

“You wanna cum?” he’s grunting, trying to keep the pace going until you can reach your peak.

You nod against his wide hand, still tight around your neck. “Oh you can do better than that. I already know how bad you want it, slut.”

“Please Eren, please make me cum. I want to cum, please, please, please” you can barely make out the words, your head going light and body tightening.

“Cum for me.” 

You release, and as he can feel the fluttering of your walls around him, he lets go of your throat. The sudden oxygen as you cum leaves you overwhelmed. Burying yourself in his shoulder, he fucks you through it. Cock slapping up into your cunt over and over, somehow being sucked deeper in as you coat his length with more of your own slick. He can feel your nails breaking the flesh of his back as you’re holding on for dear life, moaning his name and even a fucking thank you into his ear.

As you begin to slow, legs shake as you stay straddled over him. He flips you, Eren now firmly on top, slowly moving in and out of you. The stimulation is intense, your cunt sparking at any sensation. 

Caged between his forearms, his hair is a mess thanks to you. You push tendrils back past his ears as he leans down to kiss you once again. This kiss is different. It feels… less desperate. It feels deep and meaningful, caring even.

Your eyes meet in acknowledgment, both of you too worried to speak about the shift in tone. 

He reaches down instead, pulling your leg up and splitting you on his cock. A tongue swipes at your nipple, biting and playing with each as he gradually picks up pace again. You’re still so fucking wet it’s easy for him to thrust into you at a dizzying pace. You can feel all of him against your gummy walls. Each time he passes that special spot inside you, you moan and gasp, and it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

His thrusts were becoming more primal, holding your thighs close around his hips. Letting your sweaty bodies collide again and again, his balls slapping against you. The grunts and moans coming from his lips were so infuriatingly erotic. Eren just wanted one more from you, and then he’d let himself finish. If this was to be a drunken mistake, so be it, but he would at least make it memorable. 

Those jade eyes were on you once again, the power and dominance radiating from the immeasurable. He can see you barely being able to hold on, completely fucked out beneath him. You’re moaning and whining, hands moving over the swell of your breasts and playing with your nipples as if it’s going to keep you grounded. 

He sits up, eyes flicking down to where you were conjoined. It took so much restraint not to cum inside you right then and there. Your glistening sex was so tight around him, the wet slapping noises echo again and again. You’re pulling and sucking him in, cream pooling around his length. 

“Give me one more, y/n. I want to feel you cum on my cock.”  

You try to look up at him through heavy lids. Your friend Eren saying this is so taboo. The words he’s said tonight so far from normal for the both of you. You flutter around him, somehow your pussy still wants to be fucked, still wants to push you off the edge one more time. You can feel the coil inside your stomach tightening. 

Eyes rolling back, you can barely keep it together anymore. He’s pounding into you at a startling rate, fingers flicking over your clit again and again and again. 

“P - please, it’s s-so good.” 

Your breaths between words were quick, “you’re so big-”

“Yeah you like that? You like being so full of my cock? Such a pretty face you make when you’re all fucked out.” 

Holy shit.

Eren could tell how much words affected you, your back arching and legs pulling him somehow closer into you.

“Come on, baby. I wanna hear those moans.” he’s grunting, getting so fucking close to losing himself in your cunt. He knows what he wants to hear most though, “say my name. Tell me who’s treating you how you should be”

With that, you’re losing yourself around him again. Writing on the bed, gripping sheets in tightly balled fists. White light taking over your sight as you clench around Eren. This orgasm was the most intense, taking your body by surprise in its overstimulated state. You weren’t even making a noise, just holding on to the high for as long as possible. 

And then you shattered, whining and moaning, whispering his name over and over again. 

As you moved underneath him, Eren kept his punishing pace up until he watched you expel the last of your energy. Name forming on your lips over and over again he falters, releasing inside you. You can feel the stickiness inside you, the sensation of being filled up. Eren watches for a moment as he sees the white pearls forming around your stretched out pussy.

His chest is back on yours as he kisses your neck, shoulders, whatever skin he can. Thrusting back into you a couple of times, he finally pulls out. You feel his cum dripping out of you, but you’re too spent to do anything about it.

Eren lies next to you, both of your bodies attempting to regulate from that. 

“You okay?” 

He’s checking in, making sure he didn’t go too far with someone he genuinely cares for. 

You nod, turning to meet his stare. Giving him a drowsy smile, you’re not sure what comes next. But for now, you’re happy. Curling into his side, he puts an arm round you and lets you rest for a while. As he notices your breathing become deeper, he nestles into you, muttering something about clean up. 

Moving away from you, you can make out some noises of a tap, drawers opening and closing. In your sleepy state you feel him gently wiping at you, two glasses of water being put on the bedside table. Finally he makes his way back to you, and Eren notes how cute you look. Hot and completely fucked out, yes. But also gentle and at peace, allowing the heaviness of sleep taking over.

He rests behind you, wanting to be back in your warmth. He pulls you in closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. The fragrance of you takes over his nostrils, and he’s all too eager to move closer to your hair, pressing one last kiss at the nape of your neck. Whatever tomorrow brings, he hopes it’s not the last time he gets to be this close to you.