#I have a gender-ambiguous face and the day after I cut my hair I already got mistaken for a guy

[totally-sapphic-posts]

Went to the hairdresser, asked for a cut that went to just above my shoulders, gave reference pictures and everything… tell me why my hair is now a pixie cut 🧍

I need a new hairdresser. Third time this year she cut my hair way shorter than I asked 🫠

[yoonpobs]

together | myg

pairing: min yoongi x singlemother!reader

genre: fluff, very soft fluff, domesticity

words: 5, 007

summary: min yoongi is a good man but even a better father ... figure

“Baby … what did we say about boundaries?” You crouch down to reach Jihoon’s eye level and the mini you—as said by your friends—simply ignores your oncoming lecture by staring at his feet.

“Limits …” He mumbles softly and all you want to do is hug him and tell him he can do no wrong but motherhood is tough despite all the online blogs telling you that they’re with you. You loved your baby, you really did—but God decided to fuck with you by making him the reflection of yourself when you were younger and you heard nightmarish stories from your parents from when you were growing up.

You run your hand over his hair soothingly because as much as he was like you, he was still only two years old and his own person, fluff and bread arms. You knew not to restrain him with furrowed brows or raised voices but instead with the patience your parents always taught you to have and the compassion that you wished you were naturally blessed with. But life had a funny way of taking away things from you.

Well—your ex-husband was never really taken from you—he left you, and instead of feeling shambled and distraught you were made of such resolve that you merely blinked when he packed his bags after he said he was cheating on you. The only sweat you broke was realising that Jihoon was only three months old when his dad left without sparing him another glance.

But your baby grew up and so did you. Your job at office paid well enough for you to live comfortably with Jihoon and hire nannies to look after him whenever you couldn’t; even though you tried your best to always be with him so he wouldn’t grow up resenting an absent mother. But you worried like anyone else would because while your friends and family would say you were doing an impeccable job, your self-sabotaging tendencies nagged at yourself by saying that he needed a male figure in his life.

He mumbles a soft apology, so respectful with his big eyes and you smile at him. You knew he meant no harm when storming into your office and scrambling off with important documents because he was still impressionable and curious about nearly everything. Your heart dropped when you realised your reports were pretty much incoherent with the way he doodled over them but you knew not to blame him.

“Forgiven Hoon.” You kiss his forehead.

His eyes turn into tiny slits with his toothless smile and your heart clenches at the little human you created and love dearly.

“Love you mama.” He plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek before waddling off to his playpen where his toys are laid neatly. If there was anything he inherited from you; it’d be your meticulous tendencies.

You sigh, leaning into the wall of your kitchen as you watch Jihoon with fond eyes as he plays with his dolls and figurines, dressing them in dresses and pants just like how you taught him that gender had no look and that everyone was different. Obviously, explaining the concept of social constructs to a two-year-old is not a conversation any parent would have with their child but you believed that these fundamental core values of humanity were important to his growth into his toddler stages and eventually adulthood.

“I can’t believe you squeezed that cutie out of your vagina.” Taehyung snorts, sneaking up behind you and you don’t flinch because you’re way too used to his unwanted comments and sudden appearances.

“I am 90% cute so it’s only right that my child inherits that from me.” You retort, eyes still trained on your baby boy.

Taehyung looks over at Jihoon who directs a mini-play of a loving family, and your heart is still sad at the prospect of his adolescent years only being with you.

“You know … hyung is asking about you,” Taehyung says and you immediately still in your position, hands freezing in your pockets because you know exactly who he’s referring too and you weren’t exactly ready for that conversation, especially with your older brother.

“He says he misses Hoonie.”

You sigh, turning your head to face your older brother and you can only muster enough emotion to look fine with his statement but you simply looked constipated with the way your face scrunches up.

“We’ve been busy …” You mutter.

“Jihoon is two-years-old and the only thing he’s busy with is trying not to give you a heart attack every time he nearly runs into the wall and you literally work from home now that your boss is some progressive liberal that tries a new system every two days,” Taehyung says dryly, pinning you with a deadpan.

“Stop offending me by insulting my son!” You whine.

“That’s my nephew too.” He rolls his eyes as you punch him in the shoulder.

“That has a name and it’s Jihoon you bitch.”

“Mama said beech?” Jihoon tilts his head in a curious manner and your expression morphs into one of mortification as Taehyung cackles in response.

“Stop. Laughing.” You hiss but it’s no use because your brother has never once listened to anything you had to say throughout the last twenty-nine years of your life.

“You—” Your snide is cut short by rapt knocks on your door, and you see Taehyung’s grin widen. You know that look intimately because it’s the expression he wears before he pisses you off or embarrasses you.

“He’s here!” He sounds delighted as he skips towards the door. You want to pull his back by his collar to ask him what the fuck he was talking about but he’s quick with his hands and the door is open. Your mouth falls and you nearly get whiplash with the way that you stare at your guest.

“Y-Yoongi.” He was possibly the last person you wanted to see and you had no idea what he was doing at your apartment at night on a weekday.

Then you see Taehyung’s pleased expression and put two-and-two together.

“___, hey. Taehyung said you needed help with Hoon tonight?” He offers a tilt of his lips because Yoongi was not an expressive man by any means. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a good heart; that was far from the truth of the enigma that was Min Yoongi.

He was a good person and an even better friend. Although the two of you had tip-toed on the line between friends to something more than that, he never explicitly said anything about his interests to you. And you didn’t want to pressure him by saying anything because even though he was in his thirties and still very much single with a stable job as a surgeon at the top hospital, a two-year-old son is rarely what a man that appealing ever wants when looking for a relationship.

That was why you stopped replying to his texts or inviting him over to hang out with Jihoon anymore because Jihoon adored him so much and your poor heart couldn’t bear to see the two boys interact without an ugly flower called hope bloom in your chest. He only ever knew who you were because he and Taehyung were co-workers and probably only tolerated you by association.

You loved Jihoon and wanted the best for him. Even if that was Min Yoongi—you needed to protect your heart too.

“I did?” You tilt your head and Yoongi automatically notices the habit that you and Jihoon share. Taehyung is somehow next to you already and you know that because he stomps on your foot and shoots you a glare when you hiss.

“I did.” You cough.

“Mama?” Jihoon peeks his head through the divider between the kitchen and the common area, and his eyes immediately light up when he sees Yoongi hovering by the entrance.

“Yoongi!” He squeals as he speeds as fast as he can with his little feet towards the man in his scrubs who shoots your son with his gummy smile.

“Hey, buddy.” He picks your son up effortlessly and you know you’re staring but you rarely ever see men who are this patient let alone this good with children.

“Close your lips,” Taehyung whispers into your ear.

“I’m—that’s not what was happening …” You mumble, a blush appearing on your cheeks as you look away from the hugs and kisses that Yoongi gives Jihoon.

“I meant your other ones.” Your brother says dryly.

“Kim Taehyung—!” Your arms are already reaching for his neck to strangle him but Yoongi calling your name snaps you out of your anger.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Your head snaps to Yoongi who now has Jihoon on his hip while he plays with the material of his scrubs. You hate how your heart flutters at the domesticity of the question and how Yoongi looks so much like a father to your son and a husband in your home.

You realise the dangerous daydream you’re falling into and shake your head to snap out of it before you hurt yourself even more.

“Us? No, we haven’t. Tae and I were planning to order in at our favourite place.” You tell Yoongi with a small smile.

You see the hint of a frown marring on his face but it goes as quick as it comes as he stalks towards you.

“Actually—” Taehyung cuts in before Yoongi can say anything, “—I have a … thing.”

He points his thumb towards the door and you curse him in your head so much that you hoped sibling telepathy was a thing so he could hear what you felt about him right now.

“You … do?” Yoongi asks.

Taehyung shrugs, as ambiguous as ever before ruffling Jihoon’s hair and offering a fist bump and a kiss before he approaches your door.

“Taehyung—” You grit.

“Bye, buddy! Yoongi.” He acknowledges the two other boys but not you and you know it’s because while Taehyung loved to annoy you, he knew you were a handful and quite literally the spawn of satan when you were angry and you weren’t just angry but livid.

“Get back here—!” And he’s gone before you know it, and even Jihoon mumbles a soft bye Tae samchon after he’s gone.

You sigh, resting your head against the frame of the door that was now shut in your face, stuck in your own house with the man that you’ve been helplessly pining over that looks way too at home with the way Jihoon plays with the softness of his black hair.

You turn around, closing your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

When you open them, Yoongi has an eyebrow raised, placing Jihoon on his high-chair. And you don’t know why you found that act so hot but you couldn’t even set your own son down into that chair without him making a fuss but he only giggled cheekily when Yoongi did so.

“What for?”

He doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely confused. You purse your lips and walk towards Jihoon who was simply babbling to himself and grab a cloth to wipe at the appearance of a new stain on his shirt which you suspect he got from his playtime earlier, and you internally groaned at the fact that he probably found some food and decided that it would be a good addition to his play family.

“I know it’s really busy at the hospital this time around and Taehyung basically scammed you here … with us.” You fiddle with your fingers after you pick up a toy on the floor and pass it to Jihoon to keep him occupied as you have a much more … adult-esque conversation with Yoongi. While you made it clear to Jihoon that he didn’t necessarily have a father in his life because you owed him that much, you tried to steer far from conflict and turmoil so he wouldn’t have to grow up knowing only the lows of life.

Yoongi just … stares. And it’s unnerving because you could barely read the man in general and he was looking at you with a blank expression that only causes your anxiety to settle further into your bones. You’re thinking of about a million different ways to apologise or to spontaneously combust so you could save yourself from the scrutiny of Yoongi’s eyes. But before you can say anything and embarrass yourself, even more, he speaks.

“Do you think I don’t enjoy spending time with the two of you?” He frowns, and that’s the most expressive you’ve seen him throughout your entire friendship with the man. The fact that the first time he’s ever shown any explicit emotion around you is one of … disappointment … only makes you realise how far out of his league you were.

“N-No!” You shake your head, flustered at his tone. When you look at him, his face is much softer; a type of expression that shows longing but you aren’t quite sure why it’s there.

“It’s just … you’re busy, Yoongi. You’re a hotshot doctor at the best private healthcare facility in the city and you’re here spending the last night before the weekend with some pathetic single mom who still—by the way—can’t decide on how to brush my teeth just because it doesn’t feel right.”

Yoongi blinks at you, then he looks over at Jihoon and you’re confused for a second because it seems like he’s dismissing your mini ramble, but instead, he reaches out to Jihoon’s hand and bends down so he can look Jihoon straight in the eye.

“Hey, bud?” He calls out to Jihoon and your son looks at Yoongi with all the stars in his eyes.

Your heart softens at the interaction and notices how the way Jihoon doesn’t pull away when Yoongi reaches out to carry him in his arms again.

“Yoongi!” He squeals, squeezing the man’s cheeks between his chubby fingers and you can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm and the way that Yoongi resembles a cat.

“I need to ask you something.” He whispers as if it were only the two of the room and you stand on the opposite of them with your arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Your son bobs his head up and down in agreement as he waits for Yoongi to ask him his question.

“Yoongi …” You trail off but he pays you no mind.

“Do you love your mama?” The question surprises you and your mouth opens and closes, and your emotions are all over the place because the question makes you feel nearly inadequate. The way that he asks the question prompts you to wonder if it seemed like what you were doing for Jihoon just wasn’t enough.

“What is this even about?” You snap, eyes narrowed at Yoongi but he still ignores you.

Jihoon nods his cute little head eagerly without a moment of hesitation after Yoongi asks his … what you would say—preposterous question.

“I love mama with all my heart. She’s the best!” Jihoon giggles into Yoongi’s shirt as he leans his head against his chest. You don’t know why his words make you choke up when he tells you he loves you every day but the reassurance that your son does indeed love you makes you feel like you can do anything. It was also probably the fact that you noticed Yoongi smiling fondly between the two of you.

“Do you think she’s pathetic, Hoonie?” He throws your words to your son and you scowl at Yoongi who is still keeping his act of ignoring you very much alive.

“Pathedic?” Jihoon tilts his head again and you almost coo at the slight lisp he has when he asks.

Yoongi chuckles warmly and offers you a small smile as if to tell you that you’d see soon enough before repeating himself to your son.

“Bad.” Yoongi settles.

Jihoon gasps in his tiny little way and frowns, looking over at you with a cute crumpled expression that makes your heart swell even more. The urge to hold your son increases tremendously but you were still confused and curious as to what Yoongi was getting at.

“No no no! Mama is the best, didn’t you hear?” Jihoon squabbles.

You bite your lip to refrain from smiling so wide and choke back the tears that well up.

“Mama always cooks yummy food and never yells at me! I always see other mama’s yelling at their babies but mama … mama loves me too, right?” He rambles off and you sniffle.

“Love you a lot, Hoon.” You say from a distance and Jihoon is satisfied with your answer.

You turn to look at Yoongi and sigh.

“What is this about, Yoongi?” You sound stern and he acknowledges that. He knows the situation is much more serious than what he perceives but he can’t help but observe how the furrow of your brows resembles a squirrel. The comparison makes him want to laugh because you were so cute even when you were angry.

“I have one more question.” He tells you.

You don’t say anything but watch the way he leans in closer to Jihoon with eyes more serious than you’ve seen before.

“You want to see mama happy?” Yoongi whispers so softly that you almost miss it.

Jihoon nods.

“Of course. Mama always makes me happy. But she looks … lonely.” Jihoon frowns a little and you can’t help but have a tear fall. Your baby boy was young but observant and had a heart of pure gold. You didn’t need anyone but Jihoon but—

“What do you think if she gave you a papa?” Yoongi asks and the question stills your entire body. You don’t even see the way Jihoon lights up at the proposition and you also miss the way Yoongi looks over at you once to gauge your reaction.

“Will you be my papa Yoongi?” The question is what snaps you out of your reverie to realise the situation you were in and the allusion of Jihoon’s question.

“Jihoon! You can’t just—say sorry.” You squeak but Jihoon doesn’t pay you any mind because his attention is all on Yoongi who is smiling as wide as he possibly can.

“Only if your mom says yes, Hoonie. If only she knew how much I liked her.” He tells Jihoon but he’s looking at you. Your eyes are wide at the confession and your hands fall limp by your side; not knowing how to respond to Yoongi’s sudden confession.

It wasn’t anything spectacular, and it didn’t cause butterflies to erupt like it was in the movies but the confession was so wholeheartedly Yoongi that you felt so … comfortable. A surprising yet welcoming emotion.

Jihoon looks over to you but you’re looking at Yoongi who looks at you with soft eyes.

“Say yes mama!”

Yoongi stands up from his position to walk over to your frozen state until your hands rest on his chest unconsciously. He looks down at you as his arms wrap around your waist to pull you flush against his body. You blush and avoid his stare when he tries to catch your eyes. You know Jihoon is watching and that makes you feel all the more flustered. It was like you were back in high school and you were ‘canoodling’ behind your parents’ backs.

“Y-Yoongi …” You try to push him away but he reaches his hands to wrap them around your own.

“I’m sorry but you can’t run away from me this time ___.” He teases.

You flush and look away.

“I wasn’t … running …” You mutter.

He chuckles and shakes his head that you feel strands of his hair against your forehead when he leans in closer to connect your forehead with his own.

“Okay.” He agrees. He doesn’t put up a fight and you hate how even when you’re the one that’s flustered he can make you feel … safe. Calm.

“I like you, dumbass. I would go as far to say that I’m in love with you but I know how scared you get so let’s settle for the baby steps first, yeah?” He says so casually that your eyes bulge out of your eye sockets comically.

“You c-can’t just …” You blubber, “Say that!”

Yoongi scoffs.

“I like you Kim ___.”

You punch him in the chest but he doesn’t even flinch.

“No you don’t …” You whisper.

You don’t look at him but you can feel his frown.

“And who are you to tell me how I feel?”

You sigh.

“Yoongi … I don’t know if you heard what I said earlier but you’re … you … and I’m just some other girl that you know because of Taehyung and I’m a mother of a two-year-old. You could literally be with anyone you wanted and I just … you don’t like me. You just—can’t.” You exasperate.

He frowns at you, forcing your chin up to look at him with his index finger. You burn even redder at how close you were.

“I love you. I love Jihoon. And you need to get out of your pretty little head because I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I don’t know where you’re getting this weird picture of me being with anyone I want because I don’t want anyone. I want this—I want in, in this little family.”

You feel yourself choke up, and Yoongi notices so he holds you closer until your head is against his chest.

“I’m emotionally constipated half the time I interact with anyone but you just … you make me feel alive and things that I generally don’t feel on a daily basis. You and Hoon are the only things that keep me going with all the surgeries and stuff. I’m in love with you and it’s all your fault and Hoonie wants you to be happy as much as I do—so please: stop running.”

“Why are you running mama?” Jihoon asks and you remember your son is watching it all.

You flush but don’t move from Yoongi’s grasp. He thinks of this as a step forward because all you do is turn your head to look at Jihoon and offer him a smile through your tears.

You and Yoongi hear Jihoon’s whine and you see him reach his arms towards you as a gesture for you to carry him.

“Mama why are you crying!” He cries.

You feel Yoongi release you and you immediately reach out to Jihoon like it was second nature because it was. Jihoon was the only thing that kept you going when people would give you odd stares as a single mother especially when you were starting to look into preschools for your son. All the superiors would question your legitimacy and income when you were earning more than the average working man. You were always very particular about who you allowed into Jihoon’s life because he was young and got attached easily. But Yoongi made it so … easy. Just like he was that missing piece in both your and Jihoon’s lives.

“I’m okay bubs.” You kiss Jihoon on his cheeks as you hold back your tears.

“Don’t cry, mama.” Jihoon frowns and puts his thumbs between your furrowed brows just like you would always do when he was starting to sulk. You chuckle and hold your son closer to your chest, feeling all the more comforted.

“I’m serious about this ___ …” Yoongi steps closer to you and wraps an arm around you and Jihoon and the action feels so utterly domestic. You feel safe and content within his grasp.

“Yoongi …” You look up at him through your eyelashes and Yoongi has always been entranced with your beauty. It was never just about how beautiful you looked when you were a mother to Jihoon but the energy you carried around you was contagious and he’s immediately lightened up in your presence. He was patient with you because he knew you were serious about Jihoon and that he was your number one priority.

“No, please … listen to me ___.” He cups your cheeks while Jihoon is looking between the two of you with keen interest.

“I know you’re scared because of Jihoon and that’s valid. But I don’t want you to think that you’re not enough for me for superficial reasons because the truth is I probably won’t ever be enough for you and you’re here being the woman of my dreams. I respect your decision if you aren’t ready for a relationship and I won’t push you but I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere just because we aren’t together because I rather have you next to me as a friend than lose out on you forever.”

You had always been a crybaby and Taehyung was probably the reason why you cried all the time as children since he always had been the more rambunctious one between the two of you while you were far timider. But Yoongi knew that under all the times you shed tears because you were touched is a strong-willed woman that could withstand nearly anything in this world if it were for her son.

“And I know that I’m not over my head thinking this but … you want me too and it’s okay if you do but you don’t want a relationship. I respect you as a person, a woman and the mother of Jihoon. I just don’t want you to push me away.” He whispers so softly when he looks into your eyes.

“Mama …” Jihoon whines and you look down at him for a moment when he gives you a glare that doesn’t look so intimidating because of his bread cheeks.

“Yoongi is fun! Can he be our daddy?” You know his choice of words didn’t necessarily entail that context for you in particular but you blush anyway because he was just two. Yoongi senses your flustered state but squeezes your cheeks in between his hands and you feel coddled. It was a new feeling, one that was almost unfamiliar with how long you’ve been deprived of a significant other’s touch.

“I—Yoongi … I really don’t know what to say …” You mumble.

Yoongi smiles at you, comforting and homey all at once because Yoongi was a lot of things but never pushy.

“You don’t have to say anything. I don’t know if you realised this but I’m basically Hoon’s dad whether you like it or not because he and I spend more time together than I do with my colleagues at work and I work overtime all the time.” He teases.

“Jihoon really adores you.” You agree, biting on your lip as your mind races for the hundredth time this hour.

You liked Yoongi. You really did—and somewhere along the way, like turned into something more … dangerous. A territory that you usually reserved for Jihoon because you only had the capacity to care for one boy in your life but Yoongi smuggled his way into your heart and here he was causing a hurricane in your stomach.

The words he spoke were so truthful and genuine that you can’t help but believe that against all odds in the universe, Yoongi has somehow chosen you. You were the one that was afraid. He has always chosen you. That enough is shown when he makes his way after tiring shifts just to lay on your couch and play with Jihoon in times where all he could do was babble incoherent words. He chose you when he made surprise visits with the homemade stew that you knew he knew your son and you loved. He chose you when he invited you and Jihoon to spend Chuseok together because you mentioned just spending it with your son than with your family. His parents adored you and were even more taken with Jihoon.

He has always chosen you but now it was your turn.

“I love you.”

You say those words without much further thought because you’ve always felt it. Three words have never felt so safe on your tongue to utter into the atmosphere and you feel the same after the truth is out there. You always knew how you felt and you knew that Yoongi was smart to observe your feelings too, which was why when you finally said it he just looked … content. Happy—like he was in a place that was so familiar and comforting that he didn’t need to react any differently.

“I want—I want to be with you.” You clear your throat, “If you’ll have me.”

You look so shy and young—because you were. But you had that childlike innocence that he’s only ever had the pleasure to see when you would play fight with Jihoon. He feels his chest swell with pride knowing that he was the reason you looked like that and felt the way you did.

“Hmm … should I?” He leaned in closer until his breath was on your cheek.

You knew he was teasing you but you still can’t meet his eyes, and Jihoon simply giggles at the way Yoongi squeezes him between your chests in a way so comforting that Jihoon feels like it’s a warm hug from a blanket.

“Don’t tease …” You grumble.

Yoongi runs his hand through your hair and pulls your head closer to his to give you a gentle kiss on the lips. It was nothing seductive or implicative but so Yoongi. A kiss to show you he wanted this and that he felt whatever flurry of emotions you felt. A kiss like he was coming home.

He pulls away and you see Jihoon frowning between the two of your through your redness and shock.

“I wanna’ kiss too!” He whines, and you and Yoongi both look at your son with the stars in your eyes, then lock eyes with each other; and you do what comes naturally next.

You both kiss your son on the cheeks.

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x reader - Part Four (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I think the previous parts have had a female reader, but I left it ambiguous/gender neutral in this one, even in the nsfw bits, mostly out of habit.

It's 8000 words, with a bit of angst, a good dose of fluff, some recognition of unhealthy attitudes, and a slightly messy nsfw scene at the end...

Hope you enjoy!

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Gilvas waited until you’d closed the matching panel at the other end of the secret passage, and then turned away.

While you worked on the catalogue, you couldn’t shake the vulnerable look on his face as he’d told you about his late wife and as you’d stared at her vivacious features in the portrait. In the nine years since her death, he’d become a shadow, haunting this creepy old mansion and drifting from one day to the next, and it broke your heart. Gilvas was clearly a gentle soul, though his fuse was short at times, but you had begun to suspect that it was more of a defence mechanism than a character trait.

As evening billowed around the stone walls of the enormous house at the end of the day, with an awful lot still swirling around your mind, you nearly walked straight into Naril who was loading his last pile of autumn leaves into a wheelbarrow by the back door. He called your name just in time and you sidestepped with a bashful grin.

“So is it true?” he asked almost immediately.

“Is what true?”

His ears waggled and he laughed as he dumped the leaves into the barrow with a little flourish. “You and the master…?”

“Me and the master what?” you snorted, crossing your arms. “You make it sound like we’re school kids caught snogging behind the bike sheds! He showed me the portrait of his wife and told me a bit about her, that’s all.”

Naril shook his head expressively. “We’ve had people here on the estate before, you know? None of them ended up strolling the corridors with him.”

“How’d you know about it anyway?” you asked instead, resisting the urge to flick him in fond reprimand on his large ear.

“Chiara came in and started talking to my dad about it. I couldn’t believe it, and neither could they. The master doesn’t ‘chat’ with anyone…”

You shrugged. “Well, if he’s happy talking to me, I’m happy enough to listen. He seems nice, once you get past the way he likes to bark at you.”

Two days later, while you were stooped over the working version of the catalogue, scribbling something down in the margins of your cataloguing notes, the shadows moved in the recesses of the library, and Gilvas emerged. You looked up and smiled. “Hi,” you offered.

He nodded curtly at you and began to pace.

Setting your pencil down a minute or two later, you asked, “Everything… alright?”

Gilvas turned, apparently on the point of snapping something acerbic and defensive at you, but he caught himself in time and paused, throat working. The dark red birthmark on his neck moved and shifted like ink in water. If asked, you’d have said he was nervous. “I… I was wondering if you would take tea with me on the terrace today.”

You froze. Of all the things you’d been expecting from him, that had not been it. “Uh…” you began artlessly.

“Or not. You don’t have to,” he blurted, turning away. “Stupid idea anyway.”

“Wait,” you laughed, relief washing through you. “Wait. I’d love to. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

If you’d been surprised, it was nothing to the expression on Chiara’s face when he summoned her to the library with a little bell pull that you’d not spotted before.

“You… You want to take tea… You want to take tea outside…?” the harpy repeated, looking unsteady on her clawed feet.

As if he’d just realised how unusual it was, his expression went blank, his four ruby eyes going dull, and he seemed to deflate. Gone was the intimidating, sharp-edged lord of the manor, and in his place you saw a vulnerable, shattered widower, with no one to talk to and rusty social skills.

Reading her master well enough, Chiara schooled her features into something resembling their usual sternness, and she nodded. “Of course. I will have it set up for you and…” she looked at you with her golden eyes and you tried not to shrink away. “For the both of you.”

“Thank you,” you said, and she nodded, departing.

“I think I gave her quite the shock,” he muttered, half smirking.

With a snort, you said, “We’re just going to have to find more ways to surprise them.”

“Them?”

“Your staff,” you said. “It’s clear that they all respect you, and they enjoy working here - well, obviously I can’t speak for all of them, but I have supper with Mr. Ambleside and his son almost every night. I don’t get the impression that they’d object to seeing a bit more of their mysterious master from time to time.”

“It’s been so long,” he croaked. “I… I’ve hidden myself away up here. I… I don’t remember — I mean…” he broke off and you noticed how glassy his eyes were.

Cautiously, you approached him and laid your hand on his foremost right leg. It was smooth like glass, and cold. It felt extremely brittle, though you knew the chitin was pretty tough. Your eyes nearly drifted to the empty stump on his right side though, and you suppressed a shiver. It wasn’t that tough. He shuddered and you nearly retracted your touch. “Sounds like you could use a friend to take tea with every now and again…” you said gently.

“I’d like that,” he said. “If… If you could bear it.”

“Bear it?” you repeated. “Please. I wouldn’t have accepted if it wasn’t something I didn’t already want to do.”

Gilvas fixed you with a piercing red gaze, making the blood-dark streak of his hair and the swirling birthmark stand out in vivid detail. “No,” he mused slowly, his legs and spider body relaxing a little into your touch like a great machine coming to rest. “I don’t suppose you would.”

Tea on the terrace became a daily fixture, weather permitting, and on the first day it was rained off, he asked you into a small drawing room on the ground floor that you’d never been in before.

Four and a half months into your stay, he leaned over the table and poured you another cup with shaking hands. He always shook, you realised, though the tremors worsened when he grew agitated or emotional. If Naril was right, he was about ten years older than you, and while at times he seemed youthful and almost playful when you got him talking about one of his interests - mathematics was a particular favourite of his - there were times when he seemed stiff and tired, and much, much older than you; and older than he truly was. He carried the weight of his grief around with him everywhere, dragging at him like chains, rattling in the quiet corridors of his mind and reminding him of his heartache. He never went too long with a smile on his face, the expression often shattering or sliding off his face to leave a brittle mask behind.

“Gilvas?” you asked as he set the teapot down on the tray with a rattle. “Everything alright?”

“You’re too perceptive by half,” he grumbled. “I wanted to ask you to dine with me tonight.”

“Oh,” you breathed, taken off-guard.

“You sound disappointed,” he said a slight huff to his tone.

Conflicted, you said, “It’s Naril’s birthday. He’s celebrating with the rest of the staff and some of his friends tonight, and he asked me to join him…”

“Then you must go, obviously,” he said. After a pause he added, “Naril is the one who tends to the gardens, is he not?”

“Mmm. He’s a firbolg.”

“My father always hired firbolgs for their way with nature. I’d forgotten that Ambleside has a child. How old is he?”

“About my age, I suppose?”

Whether or not he was aware of it, Gilvas’ face shuttered at that. With a sigh, he shifted his already vague gaze to the huge patio windows beside you and stared out at the gardens beyond. It had been raining earlier, but it had cleared up now to leave broad puddles flashing in the sunlight on the terrace. “I think I will go for a walk through the gardens this evening before sunset…”

“You want some company?” you asked, but he shook his head.

“No. Thank you.”

Naril’s party was just rowdy enough to be fun without straying too far into unruliness, and you stayed up late in the kitchens, laughing and joking with him and his father, who, it turned out, had quite the sense of humour with a few glasses of wine in him. Eloise, the maid, also joined you, and a few friends of Naril’s who lived in Starfall Springs. The laughter continued long into the night, until his friends from town announced that it was time to head back just shy of one in the morning.

Waving them off at the end of the night, still buzzing with the unusually vibrant evening, you and Naril turned from the upper gates and walked back to the house. In the dark, the firbolg could see much better than you, so he let you loop your arm amicably through his to stop yourself stumbling on the uneven driveway.

Just as you stepped back into the kitchen, he cracked a good-natured joke at your expense, recalling a moment from earlier in the evening, and you nearly fell about laughing. “Oh my gods,” you wheezed as you clung to his arm to stop yourself tripping up the step. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the plosive consonant with a chuckle. “You’re far too easy to tease. I —” he cut off suddenly, expression falling. His eyes were wide and he was staring at a point on the far side of the kitchen.

You looked up and found the hulking shape of a drider standing silhouetted in the dark doorway. “Forgive me,” Gilvas said stiffly, jaw working. “I came for a brandy. I thought you’d all turned in for the night.”

You blurted, “Gilvas?” at the same time as Naril whispered, “My lord?”

“Forget it,” he said, turning abruptly in the wide doorway. “I hope you enjoyed your evening together.”

Even after the door slammed behind him - the gesture leaving a sour taste in your mouth - neither you nor Naril spoke.

Finally it was Naril who broke the silence. “I’ve never seen him before…” he murmured, awestruck at the encounter. “He looks dreadful. Perhaps he is sick after all?”

“He doesn’t look as dreadful as he looked three months ago,” Chiara’s unexpected voice said tartly from the pantry to your left where she’d apparently been occupied, stowing away the remnants of the uneaten food.

You swallowed. “Well… I… uh… I guess I’d better head back. Thanks for tonight,” you said, hugging Naril briefly. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry I didn’t have anything to give you… It’s not as if I can go into town or anything from here…”

“Couldn’t you ask your friend to pick you up,” he said. “You know, the one you phone every Friday?”

Despite having phoned Damien every week since arriving, you’d never even thought of asking him to drive all the way out here and pick you up for the weekend. He’d probably do it though if you asked. “I guess I could…”

The idea took root in your mind, and as you took your break the next day, you used the house’s landline to call Damien’s shop since he’d be at work too.

“Hey!” he chuckled. “You don’t normally phone today. How’s things at the Spookville Court?”

“Don't call it that,” you scoffed. “It’s fine. Listen, I haven’t got long, but I was wondering if maybe you’d be free this weekend…? I know it’s not exactly a short drive, but I’d kind of like to get out of here for the weekend…”

There was a pause while he checked his calendar. “Sure,” he said. “I can pick you up on Friday night if you like?”

“You don't have plans?”

“I was gonna grab a beer with Sarrigan since he’s in town,” he admitted, “But maybe if you can get away early, we could go together?”

“I don’t see why I couldn’t…” you said. No one was monitoring your hours after all, and it wasn’t as if you hadn’t made huge inroads into the project already.

You grinned and practically flung yourself at him when Damien’s truck drew up outside your cottage on the far side of the courtyard. The wide expanse of gravel sat on the side of the house with the servants’ entrance, and was overlooked by the back of the mansion.

“I missed you!” you laughed, letting the colossal orc spin you easily in a circle. “You still smell like chocolate,” you said as his immensely long, black plait caught you in the face.

“Just proves I’m sweet,” he joked, and you groaned, smacking him in the chest with the back of your hand as he set you down.

“That was a bad pun, even for you.”

“You ready?” he asked.

“You don’t want to stretch your legs first? You’ve literally just got here.” He shook his head, but did nip inside your apartment for a drink of water and a bathroom break. While he was gone, you leaned against his truck and looked up at the trees above you. The height of summer was fading to the bronze of autumn now, and a few coppery leaves rained down around you like confetti, spiralling through the air that promised a change of season soon.

“Ready?” he asked, swinging your overnight bag easily into the truck and helping you up the enormous step into the cab.

As you drove away, you glanced up at the house and caught the glint of sun on a window as it closed on one of the upper storeys, but you soon forgot about the house as Damien began to regale you with stories of your friends’ antics.

With Widowsweb Court in the rear view mirror, you sighed and settled into the comfy seat, letting Damien talk as the house dwindled to nothing behind you. It felt good to be away from the limited confines of the estate, but as you looked forward to a weekend in Starfall Springs with your friends, something nagged at the back of your mind, like a caught thread pulling in the sleeve of a favourite sweater…

Your whole weekend in Starfall Springs was like the first breath of fresh garden air after a day spent in the dusty library of Widowsweb Court.

Damien had taken you to the Inglenook Inn that first night, where he, Sarrigan, their respective partners, plus a mothman named Merritt whom you’d met a few times before, and a couple of your other friends were gathered, and the lot of you talked late into the night. There were a lot of questions about Widowsweb Court, but you mostly focused on the work and describing the house and gardens to them. Somehow it felt disrespectful - an invasion of his privacy - to talk about Gilvas much.

As you left the pub to walk back to your modest apartment at the north end of the town, Sarrigan caught up with you. As he scuttled up to you, you were struck suddenly by the difference between him and Gilvas. Sarrigan Silkfoot’s silver-banded fur rippled in the moonlight, ruffled by the night breezes, where Gilvas’ spider body was black, hard, and shiny as black lacquer, and where Gilvas’ legs moved like articulated, curved daggers, Sarrigan’s were chunky and muscular and unbelievably fuzzy, ending in a little hooked and almost dainty talon. Gilvas’ legs ended in wicked points, sharp and slender as paring knives, and his fangs probably carried a deadly venom, where Sarrigan’s smile held only jollity. Gilvas also had no mandibles, where Sarrigan’s hardware clicked and chittered with his emotions.

“Listen,” he said as he fell into a near-silent step beside you. “I know you’ve not got any reception up there at Widowsweb, so I haven’t been able to get in touch by text or whatever, but I just wanted to ask you - away from the others - how it’s going. With my family’s history with theirs, I did some digging into the Widowsweb estate and the family…”

“You did?” You weren’t sure whether to be offended or curious, but in the end, the latter won out. “What did you find?”

“Just tragedy. Lately anyway. Earlier generations seem to have done ok, but… you should look him up.”

“Who, Gilvas?”

He nodded.

“You mean the fire?”

Again, he nodded, shuffling nervously. “The police think he started it, but they could never prove it.”

You scowled, horrified and hurt. “Sarrigan, I’ve met him. He doesn't seem like the type to murder his family - and his unhatched children too?” You shook your head, appalled, stomach roiling. “He’s devastated… rarely talks about them, and when he does… he’s close to tears. I think he lost a leg in the fire too.”

Sarrigan’s handsome face remained harsh and he clicked his mandibles pensively. Finally, he sighed. “Just… be careful, ok? The articles I found all said he had a nasty temper, and that since his wife’s death, he fired all the staff and turned into some kind of recluse…”

“They’ve got the last bit right,” you said, “But not the first.” He did have a short fuse though. “Thanks for looking out for me, Sarrigan, but I’m not worried.”

He nodded once. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

You shook your head and parted from him with a warm hug. “I appreciate it, but trust me… Gilvas isn’t some cruel, violent lunatic. He’s an isolated widower who’s never learned how to move past his grief.”

To your relief, Sarrigan seemed to take you at your word, and left you at your door looking happier for having aired his anxieties, and in turn having had them laid to rest.

The remainder of your weekend passed without incident, but you couldn’t get Sarrigan’s words out of your head. If he’d been painted by the press at the time as some kind of violent monster, it was no wonder that Gilvas had hidden himself away on his estate and never spoke to anyone.

On the Sunday of your weekend away, you met up with a few friends at Damien’s cafe for breakfast, and spent the better part of the day while the sun was out browsing the marketplace. As you passed a carpenter’s stall, your eye was drawn by a number of carved, wooden puzzle boxes. The satyr who had made them was demonstrating how one of them worked to a small crowed of fascinated onlookers, and when he finished, finally sliding the last section of wood free, the lid sprang open to reveal the empty chamber inside, and everyone applauded.

Fascinated, you realised what a tactile thing the boxes were, and suddenly thought of Gilvas. With his reduced sight, he relied a lot on his sense of touch. On a whim, you bought one and had it wrapped neatly in brown paper by the satyr. Thanking him, you headed home and packed up, bringing with you a few new clothes and a few more things to occupy your evenings.

Bouncing back up the driveway in Damien’s truck that evening, you couldn’t miss the looks the orc tossed you sidelong, and as you drew to a halt in the courtyard again, he stayed put in his seat and asked, “Are you really alright here? It’s so remote…”

“It’s fine,” you said. “I love the work, and the people are kind. I promise I’ll ring you the moment I’m unhappy, but for now, I’m honestly loving it. I’ve never had a better or more fulfilling job, Damien. I can’t believe I’ve got so little time left really…” You paused and sighed. “I almost don’t want to leave.”

He bowed his head and backed off, though not without pulling you half into his lap for a bone-crushing hug first. “Take care, OK?” he grunted before releasing you.

“You sure you won’t stay for some supper?” you asked as you slithered out of your side of the cab and landed on the gravel. “I bet you’d love Naril.”

“I can’t,” he said with a regretful grimace. “I need to get back to prep the shop for next week. Another time?”

You nodded. “Drive safely.”

For the entire week following your return to Widowsweb Court, you didn’t see even the slightest glimpse of Gilvas.

There was no trace of his having been in the library at all, and the secret panel at the rear of the room stayed firmly shut. You didn’t think it was your place to go wandering the corridors again, and although you continued to take a mug of tea out onto the terrace every afternoon, it was hardly the spread of High Tea that you had shared with him every day for months. The whole place seemed empty without his presence now, reminding you of your very first week there, when every shadow and doorway had loomed ominously large before you.

Finally, at the end of the week, you ran in to Chiara on your way back down and you paused to let her past with an armful of linen. “Chiara, is… is Gilvas around? Is he alright?”

She narrowed her eyes and tutted softly at you. “None of your concern,” she snipped at you before bustling off.

You stood there, mute and surprised.

It definitely didn’t sound like he was alright, but what were you to him, really? You thought of the box stowed away in your room, waiting for the right time to be brought out and given to him, and suddenly felt foolish. You’d known him for a matter of months. He was a lord, with land and a title; he had a whole household full of things already, and you were just there to reorganise his library. He’d probably already forgotten about you.

You worked solidly through the morning again the next day, but didn’t feel hungry enough to go down to lunch. You continued on through the day, pausing only to sip from your water bottle before heading back up the ladders time and time again with armfuls of books. It was exhausting. There was no trace of the webbing he’d used to catch you, and since there was also no sign of him, you made sure to take extra care going up and down.

With a sigh you finally set down the last of the hagiographies at eight o’clock that night, and put your hands to the small of your back, grunting. Dusty, tired, stiff, and still oddly demoralised, you thought you heard the creak of a door from the back of the library, but you’d barely dared to hope before the main doors opened and Naril stumped in, looking terribly out of place and awkward in his gardening overalls. He had mud on his trousers, but his boots had been scraped clean.

He sighed your name in obvious relief when he spotted you. “You ok?” he asked.

“Fine, why?” you frowned as you turned to face him, still with your palms pressed to the small of your back.

“You didn’t come to lunch, and you missed supper as well. I was worried about you.”

You smiled and dropped your hands to your sides. “I’m fine. I just… haven’t felt like myself lately. Thank you though.”

An awkward silence hung between you, and he scratched the back of his head. “Right. Well, there’s… uh… stuff in the larder and fridge if… if you get hungry. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been crushed by a ton of books or something.”

With a chuckle, you said, “This isn’t The Mummy you know? People do actually secure their bookshelves…”

He laughed briefly and headed for the doors again. “Seriously though… Are you sure you’re ok?” he asked, ears waggling.

“I’ve… I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“Ok,” he said, green eyes wide and glassy. “Well, you can always talk to me. What are friends for, right?”

“Right. Thank you, Naril.”

He nodded, and left.

In the silent stillness of the library, you sank with a heavy sigh into one of the nearby chairs and let your palm cradle your chin, with your elbow planted on the wood of the table. When had this place started to feel so sad again? It was as if the gloom was seeping back into the fabric of the place like a sponge soaking up ink.  

About a minute later, a familiar movement caught your attention and you looked up to find Gilvas standing beside a bookshelf. He was tilting his head in that way that meant he couldn’t see you in the dim light, but he knew you were still there.

“I’m here,” you said quietly, hardly daring to move in case he scuttled away.

Locking onto your voice, he moved with expert familiarity round the library and came to a halt near your table. The only light now came from a lamp one shelf over. “I… I overheard…” he began stiffly. His red gaze sailed right over your head, so it was clear that he couldn’t see you, even this close up. “Is… I mean… Are you alright?”

“Could ask the same of you,” you said wryly, eyeing the dark shadows under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” He looked dreadful again, as if he’d hardly eaten anything in the interim.

“Been better, I suppose,” he said. “The firbolg said you haven’t eaten today… is that right?”

“Mmm.”

“Should we raid the kitchen together?”

You smiled. “You haven’t eaten either I take it…”

He shook his head.

Standing, you swayed as a head rush washed over you and you let out a tiny grunt of surprise, grabbing the back of the chair.

With a scowl, he stepped closer. “Alright?” He steadied you, his hand finding your waist and lingering there.

“I missed you,” you breathed unthinkingly as you stared up at him.

Gilvas froze and then let out a rough exhale, withdrawing a few paces. “You did?”

“Mmm. I have something for you too, from Starfall, but it’s back in my room. I… I’d started to think I wasn’t going to see you again…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his fingers curling briefly into fists at his side. “I… I rather let the melancholy take over again.”

“Why?” you asked, stepping closer to him. His ear followed you and he narrowed his eyes. You got the impression that you’d just stepped into his limited field of vision and he could now make out your silhouette in the shadowy library.

The lord of Widowsweb Court gave a bitter, brittle laugh and turned away, legs moving in sequence like a windup toy. “I think I misled myself,” he said eventually.

Your brows knitted and you closed the distance between you, laying your hand boldly on his cool, obsidian foreleg again. As before, he shivered, but he didn't pull away. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose I got carried away - this past month in particular,” he said in his rough baritone.

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, that cut-glass edge returning to his voice. “You don’t know what it was like before you came here; before you —” he stopped himself but then took a breath and continued in barely a whisper, the consonants softly articulated. You had to lean in closer to hear him. “Before you brought the light back to this place.” His voice cracked as he added, “And you took it with you.”

“Gilvas…” you gasped, shocked by his tone.

“I know,” he growled. “It’s inappropriate of me, and melodramatic. You were only gone for two days. But it’s the truth. I got so swept up in spending time with someone again — in… in enjoying myself — that I somehow forgot that you have a whole life outside of our brief interactions here, beyond these walls…”

“Naril's birthday…” you breathed and he nodded. He’d stumbled upon you and Naril sharing a laugh and a close touch at his birthday and had assumed from the physical closeness that there was something more than friendship between you. That had been the last time you’d seen him.

Then he shook his head in disgust and sneered self-deprecatingly, “It’s as though I became a teenager again - spoilt and sour and… everything I loathe about myself.”

He backed away out of your grip until his huge carapace nudged against the shelf behind him and he went still again. Trapped between you and the books, he breathed heavily for a moment through his aquiline nose. Your heart was beating in your throat but you kept quiet.

“I have a nasty, possessive side,” he said, scowling. “I’d almost forgotten about it, but as — I hesitate to call it a friendship… I’m not sure what we had between us — but whatever it was grew, I came to think of you as… mine. And then I saw you laughing with him and… I remembered that you’re not mine at all. I have no right to make those kinds of disgusting demands or claims. You’re not mine — you’re not anyone’s but your own person. I forgot myself, and I hated myself for it.”

He was jealous.

Gilvas was jealous that you’d been laughing with Naril that night. Despite the anguish on his face, you had to smile. When he heard you chuckle softly, he growled at you again, deep and rich and animalistic. Defensive. That was all it was; defensive bluster.

“It’s true that Naril has come to be my friend here,” you said, moving carefully closer to him now that he couldn’t back away any more. “But I thought about you all weekend while I was away. I couldn’t get you out of my head. When my friend Sarrigan —”

“— Silkfoot?” he interrupted with a sneer. “‘Sarrigan’ is an old Silkfoot name…”

“Yes. Sarrigan Silkfoot is a friend of mine,” you said carefully, noting the lingering displeasure in his features. “He’s currently dating a human, and my best friend, Damien, is also very much in love with a human. If you’re worried about what previous generations of Silkfoots thought about relationships between species, you needn’t worry. The current heir to the family - Sarrigan’s older brother - has even recently married a human. Things have moved on since the founding of Widowsweb…”

His chest heaved and he sank lower so that his pendulous spider’s body was only a few inches above the ground, and his torso and head were almost on a level with yours. “I’ve hidden myself away too long,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

Taking a final step over to him, you stood in the space between his deadly front legs. It felt suddenly intimate in the extreme, and you reached your palm out and laid it on his chest. He flinched, but let you talk.

“Sarrigan told me a bit more about the papers said… about the circumstances of the fire… about what people believed at the time…” you said carefully, and Gilvas’ face darkened dangerously. “But I got to know you before I’d heard that, and I can’t believe you would have started it. I can’t believe anyone thought that of you.” You placed your left palm to mirror your right and felt the way his chest heaved with emotion as he listened. “You’re a good person, Gilvas. I told my friends that, and they believed me. And I think you’ve suffered alone for long enough.”

Gilvas’ expression shattered and he leaned forwards and drew you into his arms. “I don't want you to leave…” he whispered into your hair as he held you close. He smelled like books and sandalwood, warm and comforting, and you let your arms snake around his waist.

“I don't have anything else lined up for after I finish here,” you said without letting go. He was gently inhaling the scent of you, you realised, and you let him hold you, drawing comfort from the warmth of your body. “And I told you there’s a lifetime’s worth of work to do on this library…”

“I could renew your contract,” he said. “Or… Or you could… No. I don't want you to feel… obliged…” he said, swallowing thickly and drawing sharply back from your embrace as if you’d burned him. “If I’m paying you —” his face buckled into a sour grimace and he lurched slightly further away from you. “I don’t want to pay you to stay here…” he spat as if the idea thoroughly disgusted him.

You laughed. “I own my apartment in Starfall. I could rent it out for some income, and come and live here with you. That way… there’s no imbalance…”

“Yes,” he nodded breathlessly, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. “Yes, that’s… that’s good. And if you still have your apartment, you can… I mean… there will be somewhere for you… if… if you decide…”

“Stop,” you said. “Don’t push me away again.”

The drider took a huge inhale and nodded. Then he licked his lips nervously and said, “You know, we were going to raid the kitchen before we went down this path. You shouldn’t make any rash decisions on an empty stomach.”

“An excellent point,” you said with mock seriousness. “Let’s go.”

Over a rather strange and cobbled-together supper of leftovers scrounged from the pantry, eaten at the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen, Gilvas stayed almost completely silent. At first, you thought he was just concentrating on eating, being particularly careful about his movements since he didn’t see as clearly as you did, but after a while, you discovered the crinkle in his brow and noticed the tremor in his fingers again.

“Wait here,” you said, pushing back from the table and touching the back of his hand briefly. He was always so cold.

“Where are you going?” he barked, tense.

With a giggle, you said, “Trust me. I’ll be right back.”

And with that, you vanished out of the back door and scuttled over the gravel to the little apartment above the old stable block where you’d been staying for the past few months. Minutes later, you returned to find him exactly where you’d left him, scowling at his food.

He looked up sharply as you reentered, and you watched his shoulders drop with relief a split second later when he figured out that it was you.

“Here,” you said, holding out the brown paper parcel to him, touching it to the back of his fingers in case he couldn’t see it.

In moments, it was obvious to you that he couldn’t, because his fingertips trailed along the edges, looking for a way into the parcel. “What is it?” he asked warily, shifting his head from side to side.

“You’ll find out. I saw them being made in the marketplace, and I think with your sense of touch you’ll probably have an advantage over someone with sharper vision…”

At that, his frown deepened, though not from discomfort. He was openly curious now, and he got to work on the wrappings, abandoning them to one side. “A box?” he murmured when he’d run his fingers all the way around it. Watching him, you suddenly felt a thrum of desire go right through you. You wanted him to do that to your body, to explore you by touch, and you barely bit back a moan as the force of it swept through you.

He paused and turned his face towards you expectantly.

“Yeah,” you croaked. “It’s a puzzle box. It’s all inlaid with different types of wood, and there are a few panels and sections that you have to slide in the right order to open it.”

At that, his face cracked into a gorgeous, open, delighted grin and your heart slipped sideways in your chest at the youthfulness it lent to his features. “I used to love these as a child,” he said. “Thank you.”

He moved then, obviously not having been sitting on a chair like you, and found his way faultlessly around the kitchen to where you were seated opposite him. The little inlaid box lay to one side on the table while he took your hands in his and squeezed your knuckles fondly, earnestly.

“Thank you,” he rasped again.

You raised your chin and he let go of you with his right hand and brought it up to cup your left cheek in his cool palm. His thumb traced an arc across your skin and you shivered, exhaling and breathing hard. “Gilvas…” you whispered, want burning inside you inside you like a flare. You didn’t want to push him or rush him, but if he didn’t kiss you in the next three seconds, you thought you might just wither up and die on the spot.

Mercifully, he leaned down, tilting your chin upwards to meet his lips. His kiss was soft, his lips cool and hesitant, but the moment you let a little moan of pleasure escape you, he deepened the kiss. His long fingers scrunched in your hair and he closed his red eyes with a flutter of long lashes. His two forelegs rose up slightly for balance as his body rocked downwards and he pulled back with a gasp, chest heaving again. “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely, looking suddenly shy.

You grinned and stood. “I want you too…”

Gilvas led you through the house, pausing with endearing frequency to kiss you breathless against almost every spare surface that wasn’t covered by paintings or suits of armour or priceless vases on precarious pedestals, and finally he backed you up against the double doors to a bedroom on the fourth floor, and picked you up so that you had to latch your legs around his waist at the point where his humanoid torso met his spider’s body. You ground yourself against him as he kissed you over and over, his long hair falling around your face in a black and red curtain.

With one foreleg, he delicately pushed the handle down and nudged the doors open. Still holding you, he drew your top off over your head, discarding it to one side as he carried you across the room and deposited you onto a massive bed. It bounced and flexed beneath you, and as you looked around you discovered that it was not a bed, but a thick and intricately woven web slung between the two perpendicular walls of the far corner of the room. You leaned back into it, feeling the soft silken strands flex slightly beneath you, and looked up to see Gilvas’ silhouette in the darkness of the room.

The moon shone through an open window to your right, painting fine silver highlights to the gleaming lacquer of his carapace and needle-like legs, and in the moonlight, you saw that he was dripping webbing onto the floor from the gland at the tip of his spider’s abdomen. You knew enough about driders to know that when they got really aroused, they often leaked webbing like this. Male driders did not mate the way many other beings did, but that didn't put you off. You wanted him - his pleasure, his ecstasy, his noises, his joy…

It did make him suddenly nervous though, as if he’d only just realised that you might be expecting him to penetrate you, and with his anatomy, he couldn’t.

“Gilvas?” you asked, reaching up for him where he still loomed hesitantly above you. “Come here… let me take care of you…”

“I…” he began, but he let you draw him down onto the soft, smooth webbing. His legs ended in those dazzlingly sharp points, and he seemed to dance across the webs like a circus performer on a high wire. He lowered himself down atop you and you kissed him again. His hands skated over your hips and he drew the rest of your clothes off to abandon them beside his bed.

Seeking friction, he carefully slid his slick abdomen against your legs and shivered, moaning. “You’re so warm,” he whispered, head bowing forwards as he rested on his elbows, one on either side of your body. “I can’t believe how warm you are… it’s… it…”

“Does it feel good?” you asked, raking your fingers through his long hair and he nodded wordlessly. “Can you roll over?” you asked.

“Oh gods,” he gasped, clearly aroused by the idea, and nodded.

It wasn’t the most elegant manoeuvres, but once he was on his back with his legs curled upwards like a black, clawed hand, you sat in the gap where his one missing leg should have been, and ran your hand over the smoothness of his underbelly. In no time you discovered the slit in his lower body that was leaking slick, pearlescent fluid all over himself.

“Oh!” he yelled, spine curling and legs twitching as you traced your fingertips around the softer inner walls of the slit. Where the rest of his body was cool and hard, there he was almost searingly hot, the inner walls silky and slick. “Oh gods, oh gods… oh gods…” he chanted in time with your motions, his whole body twitching and making the webbing rock beneath him.

The tendons of his neck stood out in glorious contrast beneath the watercolour birthmark as he clenched his jaw and rammed his eyes shut, lost in the sensations. His fingers scrabbled at the web of his bed and he rocked and shivered and arched into your touch as you worked him closer and closer. You knew he was going to make a mess when he came, and you felt your whole body flush hot at the thought of finally getting him to let go of all his tight control and insecurities, to give himself over to the simple, honest pleasure you were offering to give him.

The thought of that was almost enough to make you come yourself, but you focused on him until he growled softly.

“I want…” he began but cut off as you grazed a spot inside him unexpectedly with a fingertip that made him bellow wordlessly. “Fuck…” he hissed when he’d recovered, head lolling back again, and you grinned at the curse on his aristocratic tongue. “Wait…” he panted. “I want… I want to touch you… before I… before you make me…” he growled again in frustration. “I’ll only be able to… to… come once… please… let me…” Hearing him lose control of his words like that in the face of his arousal only made it all the more endearing.

“You can touch me,” you said coyly without changing anything, but when he genuinely snarled, sounding more like a werewolf than a drider, you laughed and leaned closer to him.

His cool fingers dug into your arms as he tugged you tight against his body, pulling you down to lie atop him along the length of his belly and humanoid stomach, and you ground yourself against him for a little relief. His hand slid down your body, down your side, and before you could think, he was pleasuring you. “Let me,” he hissed when you tensed a little, revealing his venomous fangs as a flash of white in the dimness when you tried to pull back to finish him.

“But I wanted to make you come,” you pouted, and he actually laughed at that, four red eyes closing and crinkling softly in the corners with genuine amusement at your disgruntlement.

“Too bad,” he groused. “I want to watch you first.”

“Fair enough,” you grunted as he caught you just so and you rocked against him. “I’m so close…” and you really were. His touch was relentless, demanding your pleasure in return for the sensations you’d just given him.

“I know,” he snarled right in your ear, teeth - the non-venomous ones you hoped - just grazing the shell of your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

And with that, you came unexpectedly hard, crashing into your release and clinging to him. He eased you through it and when you lay panting and spent on his chest, he moved his hand to his mouth and cleaned himself luxuriantly, obviously enjoying the taste of you on his skin.

After that, he seemed softer and more relaxed, and when you’d recovered enough to get your legs back under you and return your attentions to his body, he finally seemed to have allowed himself this connection to another person. His body heaved and rocked rhythmically, his legs knocking nonchalantly against each other as he spasmed and moaned, and as he grew wetter and slicker around your hand, and his inner walls began to clench and shiver in a distinct cadence, you knew he was getting close. He was also giving you the most delicious sounds; gasping and cursing, grunting and even wailing softly at times when you slowed your touches to a barely-there whisper against him.

Eventually though, he began to rock against you in earnest, and you felt his release coming as a rapidly-building wave, gathering momentum until it finally ripped through him like a wildfire. White release gushed from his entrance and covered your hand, rolling down the sleek, shiny carapace to soak into the webbing while his body heaved and convulsed with pleasure. He made no sound, his face contorted in a rictus of pleasure as he gave everything he had to you, his hands gripping the webbing as he released in messy waves all over himself and you.

Finally as the pleasure faded to something gentler and less intense, he lay back, motionless on his bed, muscles completely slack, face soft, breathing quiet.

“Gilvas?”

“Mmm?” he hummed without moving.

“You alright?”

“Mmm.”

Weak and completely spent, he lay there unmoving for a long time while you gently trailed your fingers around his still clenching slit as aftershocks of pleasure rippled through him. Eventually, you wiped your hand clean on the webs beside him and shuffled up to lie beside him. He still looked absolutely exhausted and drained, and you sat there a long time just watching him.

After a very long time, he mustered the energy to open one arm to you and you nuzzled in against his bare shoulder. His breath hissed softly through his slack jaw and he pressed a shy kiss to the top of your head. “See why I wanted… to make you… to make you come first?” he whispered, words heavily slurred and indistinct.

You nodded and shifted to drape your arm across his chest and draw idle patterns over the bare skin of his white torso.

His skin was starkly pale in the moonlight, and as you stared at him, you realised he’d probably relied solely on touch for the whole time you’d been in the room. You smiled and pressed a kiss to his jutting collarbone, making him inhale sharply.

He was still too thin, still obviously not taking care of himself properly, but, you thought, if he’d trusted you and let you in to this extent, perhaps you could both take care of each other now.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he whispered after another long while of silence and closeness in the dark.

“Just thinking how good this feels,” you said honestly. “And how I could lie like this forever… Or at least… until you’re ready to go again.”

He snorted, taken off-guard. “Won’t be for a very long while,” he said bashfully. “Driders don’t recover quickly. Not the male ones, anyway.”

“I’m in no rush,” you said, laying your cheek back down on his cool skin and shivering as goosebumps rippled up your body.

He fumbled around on his other side and drew a large blanket up and over his body, careful to avoid the mess on his carapace, and let you snuggle up beneath it.

You’d have to wait for the dawn to go again though, because you were asleep in his arms in minutes.

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Maybe we'll get to see more of them in the future, but for now, this four-part story is over. Thanks for your comments and enthusiasm for the cranky spooder boy!

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I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

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[threeamfics]

Here it is, my very first self-indulgent fic on this site. I prefer writing in first person POV but I’m gonna tag this as a reader fic since I tried to make it possible for anyone to self-insert. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6k

Summary: I used to loathe Baron Zemo. I never thought my feelings could change so much in a single day.

Tags: angst, fluff, gender ambiguous MC, first person POV, soft Zemo

TW: blood, mentions of suicidal thoughts

The Monster, the Once-Was Father

Zemo laid there on the hard floor, struggling to breathe. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to help him. He was a murderer, a manipulator, a criminal, a heartless monster.

But only an hour ago he’d been telling me what his son had looked like. Zemo had described, in loving detail, the silly things his son would sometimes do. I’d seen a rare smile on Zemo’s face while he lamented those times from before the disaster in Sokovia. It forced me to recognize the man beneath the monster, as unwilling as I was to see it.

So now, despite the many reasons I still had for hating him, I reached out to help him. It was not “Baron Zemo, the monster” who I reached out to, but “Helmut Zemo, the once-was father.” I did my best to keep this in mind as I pressed my hand against the bullet wound in his abdomen to temper his blood loss.

“Breathe evenly,” I instructed him under the sound of more gunfire. The anarchists who’d shot him seconds ago wanted their killing blow, but I kept myself crouched low on my knees behind our makeshift barricade. Sam and Bucky were elsewhere, hopefully searching this empty building for a way to flank the anarchists. None of us had anticipated this ambush.

With his eyes squeezed shut against the pain, Zemo nodded, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Keep doing that,” I said to him. A bullet skimmed the top of our barricade. Instinctively I bent myself lower, closer to Zemo. My hand felt warm with his blood. “But we can’t stay here. When I say run, you need to run with me. Understand?”

This time Zemo opened his eyes and looked at me with resolve when he nodded. I knew then that this hadn’t been his first time getting shot in combat.

I looked down at his wound. It was off-center, possibly non-lethal so long as the bleeding could be stopped. But there was nothing I could do about that in the middle of a firefight. I knew there were medical supplies in the car, but I had to get down there first. I silently begged for the distraction we desperately needed.

Then the shooting stopped. I heard one of the anarchists shout, “Behind us!” And the shooting began once more, but the bullets flew in the other direction. Sam and Bucky must have successfully flanked them.

I grabbed the lapels of Zemo’s coat and began pulling him up, forcing a pained growl through his clenched teeth.

“Run!” I commanded him. In an instant he was on his feet, as was I, and we raced out of the room before the anarchists could notice. I led our escape and looked back now and then to make sure Zemo was right behind me. I hadn’t expected him to handle himself this well with such a bad injury, but then again, nothing about him could be considered predictable.

We made it through a few corridors and halfway down a set of stairs before Zemo finally stopped to let out a guttural moan. I skidded to a halt and turned to look up at where he stood on the steps. He was hunched over the bannister, his features twisted in agony.

“We can’t stay here,” I gently urged.

Zemo looked like hell, with his cheeks reddened and his hair disheveled. “Give me a moment,” he managed to say between gasps for air.

I looked around to make sure no anarchists had caught up to us yet. “We may not have a moment. And the sooner we get somewhere safe, the sooner I can stop that bleed.”

Zemo didn’t move. He stood there, breathing heavily, quaking. With a soft sigh I climbed the stairs to stand at his side, and I ducked underneath one of his arms. He watched me, bemused.

“Come on,” I said, anchoring him to me by his arm around my shoulders. I tugged him forward, giving him no choice but to comply and lean his weight against me. The descent down the rest of the stairs proved difficult enough that I slipped my other arm beneath his coat and around his waist, where I grabbed him by the belt to steady him. Zemo placed his free hand upon mine there, perhaps out of reflex, or maybe as plea to not let go. Both our hands were slick with his blood.

Eventually we made it outside, where the sun beat brightly against the paved streets and sidewalks. It was out here that I realized Zemo’s blood had run down the length of his leg and was dripping off the cuff of his pants, leaving a trail behind us.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“What?” he rasped. Then he followed my gaze. “...Ah.”

I needed to get him somewhere safe without any anarchists tracking us down. Everywhere I looked, however, there was only wide open space, and in very public view.

And then I heard Sam calling out to me. I patted Zemo’s arm as a signal to let go. He hurriedly shifted his weight off me, allowing me to slip away, and I rushed to meet Sam and Bucky as they made their own escape from the building.

“Zemo was shot back there,” I explained, breathless, “I need to—”

Sam interrupted by tossing a set of car keys at me. “Go,” he urged. “Take him. We’ll be all right, I promise.”

I caught the keys, but I hesitated to leave. That car was the only escape we all had. “I can’t just—”

“I’ll send you the coordinates for our next safe house,” Sam cut me off again. The resolve in his eyes was apparent.

I looked at Bucky, who jerked his chin in the direction of the car. “Go on. We still need the information Zemo’s holding hostage from us, so don’t let him die.”

They were giving me no choice but to leave them. They could handle themselves, I reminded myself, but it still wrung my heart to turn my back to them. They ran one way, and I ran the other, back to Zemo, of all people in the entire world.

When I returned to Zemo, he was lightly swaying where he stood. I stopped long enough to look at his face. He’d become alarmingly pale in such a short time. His hair, normally so tidy, now hung loosely above his eyes, dampened with sweat. I tried to hold his gaze, but he seemed barely able to focus on me.

“Take this off,” I told him, pushing the fur-collared coat off his shoulders, knowing it would only be in the way later. As Zemo shrugged it down his arms, I noticed a handgun tucked inside the shoulder holster he wore underneath the coat.

I frowned at him and said, “When did you get your hands on a gun?”

Zemo only answered with a frail but roguish smile. I shook my head, vexed by him. He was unbelievably crafty. Gathering his coat in my arms, I told him to shed the holster, and I collected that from him, too.

“Into the car,” I commanded, leading him toward it by the hand and steadying him each time he stumbled. It was a miracle he didn’t collapse until after he’d crawled onto the backseat, where his body finally gave out. I tossed the coat and holster to the floor of the car before circling around and practically throwing myself into the driver’s seat. And then we were speeding away.

I drove us toward the outskirts of the city where I knew more condemned, abandoned buildings would be. Occasionally I glanced at the rear view mirror to check on Zemo. He laid in the backseat, too tall to fit comfortably, and though his face was turned away from me, I could see his fists clenched white-knuckled against the pain. I pressed harder on the gas.

The few minutes it took to reach the outskirts felt like forever. I pulled up to the first dilapidated building I saw, some sort of old storefront. Hopefully there weren’t any other unfortunates already using it for refuge. I yanked a medical bag out of the glove compartment and threw it over my shoulder before leaping from the car.

“Come on, round two,” I said after wrenching the back door open. Zemo didn’t respond. I reached in to grab him by the front of his maroon sweater, and he weakly groaned as I pulled him into a sitting position.

“Just a little further,” I pressed. My hands were on his shoulders, tugging him, trying to coax him from the backseat. I could see where his blood had soaked into the seat’s fabric.

Zemo ran a trembling hand through his hair. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and sweat glistened on his forehead. I took hold of his face between my hands.

“Zemo!” I shouted, and his dark eyes locked on mine at last. “On your feet, okay? Just a bit further!”

It was then, as I noticed all confidence had vanished from Zemo’s face, his eyes fraught as they stared into mine, that I realized just how vulnerable he looked, and how concerned I actually felt for him. He could die here, and I didn’t want him to.

“Come on, just a little further,” I urged again.

Zemo swallowed with difficulty and nodded. Slowly, carefully, he slid from the car to his feet, and I ducked under his arm to guide him again. I could feel his entire body shaking against me as we hobbled our way into the building.

The storefront had evidently been some kind of café once upon a time. A handful of tables and chairs remained scattered around the room, each one layered in dust from disuse. It was all I could take note of however, for we only made it a few feet inside before Zemo’s legs gave way. He slid from my grip and collapsed onto the hardwood floor.

Falling to my knees beside him, I dropped the medical bag, ripped it open, and spilled its contents to the floor. With quick hands I separated out the supplies I knew I would need and brushed aside the rest. Then I turned back to Zemo, who was still on his stomach, breathing hard against the floor.

“Work with me,” I instructed as I tugged at his shoulder. He obliged and pushed himself onto his back.

“Apologies,” he whispered up at me.

I almost dropped what was in my hand. He was the one dying, and yet he was apologizing to me? For a minor inconvenience?

I banished the thought. There was no time for that right now. If Zemo lost any more blood, there would be no chance of saving him.

I untucked his sweater to reveal his pale, taut abdomen, and the wound that marred it. The bullet had pierced him to the right of his naval, just below his rib cage. Hopefully it would leave no debilitating damage.

“The bullet is still inside,” I explained, keeping my voice as steady as possible. The medical kit came with two syringes of localized anesthetic. I held one up to him. “This will dull the pain a bit, but it’s still gonna hurt like hell.”

I watched Zemo’s face for any signs of fear. His eyes only hardened, and he nodded for me to proceed. After uncapping the needle with my teeth, I injected the anesthetic into the muscle of his side, though I must’ve jabbed a little too hard since it earned a wince from Zemo. I took note to be gentler.

Blood continued to pour from the wound. There were no towels in the medkit, so I hurriedly removed my own sweater and pressed it against Zemo’s skin to soak his blood. The cold air around us easily penetrated the thin fabric of my undershirt, but I barely noticed it.

“You don’t want me to live, do you?” Zemo suddenly spoke. His voice rasped with pain and fatigue.

I had to stare at him for a moment before I could form a reply. “Obviously I do. Why else would I be saving your life?”

“You’re saving me out of an obligation to Sam and James.” Zemo studied the ceiling now, avoiding my eyes. “And of a moral obligation to preserve life in general. But if you could discard all of that, and only act on what you believe is the logical choice, then you would let me die for what I’ve done.”

I didn’t want to discuss this. He was wrong about me, that was for certain. But the things I’d been wanting to say to him ever since meeting him in Madripoor, when Bucky had first asked for my help, came rushing to the forefront of my mind. I’d been so intent on saving Zemo from this damn bullet that I momentarily forgot everything I hated about him. And now, he just had to go and remind me.

“You tried to destroy the Avengers,” I nearly growled at him as I grabbed a pair of forceps. “And you did it because you decided on behalf of the entire world that it was necessary.”

“It was,” Zemo insisted. “Power corrupts. It blinds. They could no longer see their own flaws, and because of their power, those flaws became dangerous to the very people they were trying to protect.”

I removed my blood-soaked sweater and plunged the forceps into his wound. Zemo’s words were interrupted by a low groan through his teeth, but he didn’t stop. “Stark created Ultron. Rogers harbored a deadly super soldier. All with good intentions, yes, but each with collateral deaths. They needed to be torn down before—”

I purposely wrenched the forceps too harshly when clamping them around the bullet, forcing another sound of pain out of Zemo. This time he didn’t continue. Instead, he threw his arm over his eyes, hiding his reddening cheeks. His trembling free hand clenched the fabric of his own sweater.

I instantly realized how petty it was of me to harm him in this kind of situation, no matter how much his words angered me. A heavy sigh blew from my nose. “You say all of that, and yet we desperately needed the Avengers when half the world got dusted.” I extracted the bullet and tossed it to the floor. “They were disbanded when all of that happened, because of you. There’s a chance they could’ve stopped it if they’d been together. Say whatever you want, but your arrogance played a role in the worst catastrophe that’s ever happened to us.”

Zemo said nothing. His chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths. I could see the strain in his clenched jaw.

I injected him with the second dose of anesthetic, and with the few tools I had, I set to work on closing the wound. “They still saved us in the end,” I said. “They brought everyone back and stopped that space army from invading. Despite everything you did to them, the Avengers persevered. Thank god your plan to get rid of them failed miserably.” I paused to concentrate on stitching for a moment, and then I murmured, “I was dusted, you know? I wouldn’t be here if not for them.”

It was then that Zemo finally moved his arm from his face and looked at me. I avoided his eyes, concentrating on his injury, but I could feel him studying me.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and raw. “I was spared, but I remember that day vividly. I was in my prison cell. The guard had come to deliver my meal, as he always would. It was so much like clockwork that I did what I’d always done every single day— stood at the door and waited for my meal to be handed through the slot.

“Only this time, the tray of food clattered to the floor. The guard had dropped it. I remember how it looked when he raised his hand, only to see it blowing away, like smoke. And then the rest of him scattered into ash. The worst part was, he hadn’t even screamed. He was simply gone.”

Zemo audibly swallowed. “I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Something terrible was happening. From the confines of my cell, I tried to see if anyone else had suffered the same. I caught a glimpse of more dust down the hall. Likely another guard. I started to hear other prisoners screaming through the walls. There was nothing I could do but wait for it to happen to me.

“But it never did. I sat on the bed for hours, wondering when I would disappear, and yet I remained. I didn’t learn what had happened until four days later, when one of the prison workers finally informed me. Even then, all they could tell me was that a battle with cosmic forces had taken place in Wakanda. We had lost. And whoever had been victorious was the one who’d done this to us.”

Silence then filled the room. I’d finished his stitches, and all that remained was to clean and bandage the wound. I silently mulled over his words as I continued working.

“I did consider it,” Zemo finally admitted. “That it had been partially my fault. But at the time, I refused to accept such a thing. What I’d done was necessary, and that was that.”

His words made me bristle. “Do you still think that?”

“I want to.” Zemo laid a hand over his eyes. “For so long after the destruction of my home, I thought of nothing but revenge. Everything I did from that moment on, I did for my lost family. Tearing apart the Avengers was for them.

“And then half the world became dust. I’d wanted to prevent further tragedies, and yet the very opposite happened. And I don’t want—,” Zemo’s voice broke, and his grimace deepened. “I don’t want to believe that the one thing I did for my loved ones was the wrong thing to do.”

I was very gentle now as I cleaned his stitches. My heart had begun to ache. I looked over at him, and though he attempted to hide his eyes beneath his hand, I could see much more than physical pain in his face. And to think, I’d hated him so much only moments ago.

Zemo’s other hand still tightly clenched the fabric of his sweater. I reached out to place my own hand upon his. I could feel him trembling.

“There is so much more you can do to love and honor your family’s memory,” I said quietly. “And it’s never too late to start.”

Zemo didn’t say anything, and he didn’t show his eyes. But, after a moment, I felt his hand relax, and his fingers threaded through mine. The small gesture made me smile.

“I still have to finish fixing you,” I whispered, surprised by my own unwillingness to let go. Zemo released my fingers, and neither of us said anything more as I bandaged his wound to the best of my ability.

Once I was satisfied with my own work, I pulled his sweater back into place and pushed all the supplies aside. I then positioned myself by his head, and, very tenderly, I moved his hand away from his face. Zemo’s eyes, rimmed red with fatigue and emotion, met mine. For a second I found myself lost in them. There was a rich vibrancy in the brown of his eyes, framed delicately by long, dark lashes. I didn’t want to look away.

But I remembered why I was here, and I checked the pulse in his neck with my fingers. It was worryingly slow. What he needed was a shot of adrenaline, but the medkit had nothing like that. We would just have to hope his body could recover itself.

“Am I going to make it?” he asked, a faint smile playing at one corner of his mouth.

“Too soon to say, unfortunately,” I answered. No sense in lying to him. I placed my palm against his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re not too warm though, so that’s good.” Without thinking, I ran my fingers through the locks of his disheveled hair to smooth it, and only caught myself after the fact.

“You look like hell,” I joked, trying to play off my action.

“I hear dying can do that to a person.”

I let out a small laugh, and Zemo smiled.

“I don’t think I can stay awake,” he then said, and his face fell. I could tell he was exhausted.

“Yeah, well, your body could probably use the rest. Go ahead and sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Zemo nodded, his eyes already closed.

I went hunting around the abandoned building and, beyond all luck, managed to find a suitable blanket in a cluttered closet. After beating the dust from it as best I could, I returned to find Zemo asleep right where I left him. Breath came from him slowly and evenly for the first time in a while. I covered him with the blanket. The sun would set soon, and nighttime would chill the air even further.

The cold was finally getting to me, I realized. My limbs had begun to shiver now that I wasn’t concentrating solely on Zemo. My sweater, however, had become useless after soaking in so much blood, and I’d only been fortunate enough to find one blanket. There was only one option left.

I found myself retrieving Zemo’s long coat from where I’d tossed it into the back of the car and, with a sigh, I slipped my arms in and shrugged it on. It was actually comfortable, and definitely warm. I made sure to grab the pistol from Zemo’s holster and stuffed it into the back of my jeans before returning inside.

Now all that was left to do was wait. I pulled a chair up to the window and sat myself down, mentally preparing for a long night. The chill air made me bury myself deeper into the coat until its fur collar reached my nose. It smelled good, I realized. Really good. And I hated to admit that because it meant Zemo smelled good. Despite the uncertainty over how it made me feel, I continued to deeply inhale the scent of him.

It kept occurring to me that Zemo’s life could slip away at any moment as he slept, so I looked back every few minutes to make sure I could still see him breathing. He always was, and I was always relieved.

I wondered what Sam and Bucky were doing. Did they make it out? Were they searching for a new safe house? I could text Sam and suggest this place, but the surrounding area was too much of an unknown factor. It was best if I simply waited and left it up to them. In my mind I begged them to stay safe.

At some point I fell asleep in my chair. Allowing myself to drift off while keeping watch was irresponsible, but I must’ve been far more exhausted than I realized. When I opened my eyes, it was suddenly nighttime outside.

None of the street lamps were powered, and none of the other buildings showed signs of electricity. The only source of illumination was the full moon as it rose above the horizon. Its pale light washed over the streets outside and filtered through the window, turning the room around me into shades of gray.

It was by the light of the moon that I saw Zemo sitting not far from me in his own chair at the window. He was wrapped in the blanket I’d found, and he looked rather alert as he watched the world outside.

“Hey,” I greeted in a whisper.

Zemo turned to me and his face softened. “Good morning,” he replied, his voice low and still a bit raspy. “Though, I say that less than literally.” He gestured at the night sky and smiled.

“How are you?” I asked, wanting to get straight to the point. “How do you feel?”

“Still tired, still in pain, but I think I’ll be all right. I was able to get up and walk over here well enough on my own.” Zemo indicated the blanket. “Thank you for this, by the way.”

I shrugged, implying it was no big deal, then realized I was still wearing his coat. “You probably want this back, huh?”

“No, no,” he shook his head, “keep it for now. It’s quite cold in here. And... it looks quite good on you.”

I didn’t want that to make me blush, but it did, and Zemo smiled a lopsided smile. At a loss for words, I looked away.

And then something occurred to me. Something that I’d picked up on during other conversations with him, especially when he would speak of his family. How everything about him seemed to be rooted in the past and not the present. So, as I stared out the window, I cautiously said, “If this had been up to you, would you have chosen to die?”

The atmosphere became uncomfortable after that. I feared I’d crossed a line, but he had done the same when he’d suggested I would have let him die under other circumstances. I wanted to know his answer.

After a long and tense stretch of silence, Zemo quietly spoke. “Yes. As you were helping me, there were moments when I wished you would fail so I could finally see the end. Years ago, on the day I tore apart the Avengers, I tried to put a bullet in my head. The merciful then-Prince of Wakanda stopped me, and I sat in my prison cell every day wishing he hadn’t. Death, to me, has always felt like an inevitability that wasn’t approaching fast enough.”

His answer was difficult to hear. I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Nobody, no matter who they were or what they’d done, should have to feel such hopelessness.

“But,” Zemo continued, and the way he stressed the word made me look over at him. “Now that I am sitting here, watching the moon on this peaceful night...” Looking into my eyes, he added, “with you... I feel only the urge to thank you for saving my life.”

For a second I was stunned. Then I couldn’t help but grin. I caught a tear from the corner of my eye before it could fall, and I murmured, “You’re welcome.”

He seemed content with that. In fact, with as calculating and sharp-witted as Zemo often was, he seemed more relaxed now than I’d ever seen him before.

“When we get back on our feet,” he said rather amiably, “I’d like to make some of my favorite tea for you. How does that sound?”

“It sounds lovely,” I replied, and I meant it. I buried myself deeper into his coat, inhaling the scent of him, hoping he wouldn’t notice what I was doing. But the movement made me realize something was missing. I reached for the back of my jeans.

“Oh— !” I exclaimed.

Zemo lifted his brows at my sudden outburst. Then, he understood.

“You’re looking for this,” he casually remarked, pulling the gun out from under his blanket. “Apologies, but I do need it for myself.”

I folded my arms, unable to keep the annoyance from my face. “Are you gonna use it as leverage on me?”

Zemo placed the gun onto the windowsill. “Absolutely not. It’s merely precautionary.”

I wasn’t surprised that he’d snuck the gun away from me, but it bothered me nonetheless. “So you’re still as shifty as ever. Has anything you’ve said in the last few hours even been real, or was it just more manipulation toward some end goal you have?”

Now Zemo was the one who looked insulted. “Not a single word I’ve said to you has been a lie. In fact, you’re the only person in the world I’ve spoken these truths to.”

That hit me hard. I sheepishly looked away, remembering the undeniable intimacy of everything he’d told me. “I shouldn’t have said that,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Zemo sighed. “I know it’s difficult to trust me. I wouldn’t trust me either. But please trust that these last few hours have been very real for me, and I have meant every second of it.”

I looked at him once more and was captured by his gaze. There was something genuine in his dark eyes, something vulnerable, something pleading.

Zemo gave me a sad smile and said, “I don’t often have the luxury of living in moments that feel real anymore.”

All of my doubts suddenly melted away, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Pride and hatred had left me long ago.

I stood from my chair and closed the distance between us. Zemo kept his eyes on me, curious but unguarded. I reached out, beckoning for his hand, and when he obeyed, I brought his hand to my mouth, buried my nose in his palm, inhaled deeply, and I kissed him there. All traces of tension left me in the moment my lips met his skin.

Zemo watched as I turned his hand over and placed a gentle kiss upon each knuckle. I looked at him, wordlessly asking for permission to keep going, or for him to stop me if he didn’t want this.

His answer was swift and immediate. The hand I was kissing slipped away from me, and then Zemo was standing, taking my face into his hands, and he claimed my lips with his own. The blanket fell from his shoulders into a heap at our feet.

I couldn’t believe how much I’d been wanting this. His scent was even more intoxicating than his coat, and he tasted wonderful. I parted my lips as we kissed so I could taste him even further.

But then he moaned hard against my mouth. The sound was so strained that I broke away, startled. Zemo was grimacing, and his hands dropped from my face to hold his side.

I hid my disappointment. It wasn’t his fault, after all. “You need more rest,” I insisted gently.

With a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, Zemo lowered his forehead onto my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him there.

“I’m pretty sure what you have is called a traumatic injury,” I teased, “and you need to take care of it. Besides, we’re both still covered in blood. Not exactly romantic.”

“I don’t mind,” Zemo said, his voice muffled against me. He turned his head and began to kiss my neck. My skin had been chilled by the night air for hours, and the sensation of his soft, warm lips was lovely. My fingertips dug into his shoulder blades. I felt his hands on my waist, and he tugged me forward, bringing my body closer to his.

“This truly does look so satisfying on you,” he whispered against my ear just before pulling his coat off me. I let it fall to the floor and threw my arms back over his shoulders.

“Zemo,” I murmured as a tender protest, knowing we shouldn’t do this when he was so badly injured.

But Zemo took it a different way. With a sigh he began to suck at the skin of my neck. A whimper escaped me as my body tensed deliciously, and my fingers tangled in his hair. I realized it was the first time I’d spoken his name with such affection. I repeated it, no longer protesting, and he lightly nipped my neck with his teeth. It made me press my body flush against his, and I could feel how much he wanted me. I wanted him, too.

The reality of the situation fully dawned on me then, and I couldn’t help but giggle in spite of everything.

Zemo skimmed the tip of his nose along my jaw to my ear and said in a low voice that made me shiver, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” I answered truthfully. “You and me. I just never expected this.”

After one last kiss to my temple, Zemo stopped, and he lifted his head to look at me. There was apprehension in his eyes now. I didn’t want him to misinterpret my meaning, so I pulled him back to me and captured his mouth with my own.

I was kissing Baron Helmut Zemo, the man who almost destroyed the Avengers. The man who manipulated Bucky like a pawn. The man who was usually three steps ahead of everyone around him. But he was also the man who’d lost everything he’d ever loved, and maybe that was why I felt him surrender himself into me so easily, so eagerly.

I grasped his chin with my thumb and pulled his mouth open so my tongue could finally explore him. He made a soft sound, but didn’t pull away. I felt his hands run under my shirt, up my back, across my chest, all over me, as I tasted every inch of his mouth. I wanted more of him. I wanted all of him.

But he’d been shot not even twelve hours ago. I forced myself to break away from him once more.

“We have to stop,” I whispered. “Your stitches are gonna tear if you get too excited.”

Despite the pain and fatigue that was evident on his face no matter how hard he tried to hide it, Zemo still managed to grin the first real, full smile I’d ever seen on him. It took my breath away.

“All right,” he said. “You win.”

“In fact, you should be lying down, not keeping watch at the window.”

“You know what I think?” Zemo asked, giving me a fiendish look. “I think you should join me on the floor.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Someone needs to be lookout.”

“If they knew our location and were coming for us, they would have come by now.”

He wasn’t giving me any room for argument. Sighing, I grabbed the blanket from where it had fallen. “Need help getting down there?” I asked.

He responded by holding out his hand. I grabbed it and steadied him as he lowered himself as carefully as he could. When he finally laid flat, he let out a groan.

“It’s not comfortable down here at all,” he muttered. “And yet, now that I’m here, all I want is to sleep.”

I laughed and followed suit, stretching myself out on the floor beside him, and I spread the blanket out over us both. “Try to rest. I’m staying right here.”

Zemo rolled onto his good side toward me, and he buried his face into my hair. I felt him plant a kiss there. He then spoke something very softly in words I couldn’t understand. I assumed he was speaking Sokovian.

“What does that mean?” I politely asked.

He chuckled. “Someday I will translate it for you.”

I pouted up at him. Zemo kissed my hair once more.

“I promise it was only good things.”

“I believe you.” I took one of his hands into mine and entwined our fingers. There were old callouses on his, softened from the years he spent in prison. I kissed the back of his hand.

“I could’ve sworn you hated me with all your heart yesterday,” Zemo said. His deep, rumbling voice was pleasant against my ear.

“I did,” I admitted. Lowering his hand, I looked into his eyes. His gorgeous brown eyes. “I don’t anymore.”

And he kissed me, deeply, lovingly. Everything had changed in a matter of hours, and I was thankful.

“Now go to sleep,” I said after we broke apart. “You seriously need it.”

The smile Zemo gave me set my heart alight. “As you command,” he whispered.

[twisted-tales-of-all]

The Noises in the Night

Vampire!Reader x Werewolf!Leedo ;; Kinktober Masterlist sub!gender-ambiguous!reader

Anon Request

Summary: After days of hearing howling at night, you confront your neighbor about the noise. When he claims he doesn’t have pets, you figure out what’s going on, prompting you to become the noise in the night.

Word Count: 1055

Contains: outdoor sex, balcony sex, knotting, biting, unprotected sex

For the fourth night in a row, you let out a big groan as you hear howling come from next door. As you work better at night, it disrupts your concentration each night. Tonight, you decide to stop staying silent. You pull on presentable clothes and stomp your way out of your house and over to their door. You knock twice before someone finally opens the door. Understandably, the man opens the door with an annoyed look, not caring about showing himself in only pajama pants.

"Uh... hello? Can I help you?" He asks, scratching the back of his head in confusion.

Nervously, your eyes drop to your hands as you explain, "Sorry about coming so late, but your pet has been howling at night for days now. I was just hoping you could keep them quiet so I can concentrate on my work."

After a few awkward seconds of silence, you look up and meet his confused face. When you lock eyes, he admits, "I don't have any pets, so I can't help you there. Sorry."

His eyes show that he's being genuine, so you apologize again before walking back home. You know you definitely heard something from his house, but now you don't know what it was. Rather than working tonight, you decide to sleep early, the thoughts of bugging your neighbor and wondering what you heard looming in your mind.

However, you hear the howling once again the next night. This time, you immediately jump up to look out the window. You see your neighbor standing on the balcony and howling up at the moon. He looks slightly different, but you write it off as simply being due to the moonlight. You throw on a robe and head to his door again, knocking harder now that you know it's him.

As he opens the door, he begins, "Again? I already-"

Seeing him up close, you notice the differences much clearer now, immediately understanding, so you cut him off, "You're the one doing it. You're a werewolf, aren't you? That'd explain everything."

As soon as you finish speaking, he pulls you inside and slams the door shut.

"What did you say? I'm a werewolf? Okay, what proof do you have?" The anger in his eyes gives you the confirmation, so you simply smirk in response before vanishing from his view by transforming into bat form.

As his wolf takes control to better follow you as a bat, you lead him out onto the balcony. You transform back and rest against the railing as your neighbor comes barging out on all fours. His yellow eyes and soft features glowing in the moonlight, he stands up before talking again.

"Vampires should know better than to approach a werewolf during a full moon."

You look up to the sky, realizing the day, but shrug in response, "Why? Since your feral nature mixes with your sex drive and your need to mate? I wasn't getting any work done, anyway. Plus, I don't have anything to lose. I'm not human, so my body can handle your aggression. But I'm also not a wolf, so you can't actually mate with me."

"Are you telling me that I should just take you, then?"

"Yes, Leedo. You obviously trapped me on the balcony. I can't fly away or anything, so why don't you make use of it?" Sarcasm drips from your words, but Leedo doesn't acknowledge it.

"I won't hold back." He declares as a rush of wind rustles his black hair into his face, covering one of his piercing eyes.

When you show no fear after his comment, he moves towards you, placing his hands on the railing on either side of you. His face only inches from yours, he maintains eye contact as his hands slowly move up your body.

"I thought you wouldn't hold back, Leedo? I know you're hungry; just eat."

Losing his hesitation, your neighbor pulls open your robe to reveal your naked body and bites down on your shoulder. You wince in pain, but the pain is quickly calmed by his tongue running over the sensitive skin while his hand spreads your legs so he can stand closer to you. Even through his pants, you feel his size pushing up against you, straining against the material.

Just as you feel him, he also feels the heat radiating off your body from your eagerness. He growls and bucks his hips due to it before backing up slightly to free himself from the clothing. You bite your lip at the sight, but he doesn't wait long before pushing inside you. You both groan at the sensation as you adjust.

After a few seconds, you feel Leedo's grip on your waist tighten. You wrap your legs around him as he begins moving. Initially, he starts slow, but the wolf quickly takes over after your hands glide up and your nails dig into his back. As he pounds roughly into you, your moans replace the howls you heard earlier as they escape into the night air. He fills you so well that you don't care who hears you.

"You're mine." He growls into your ear with a particularly hard thrust, making you yelp in response.

You reach your high twice before he ever shows signs of finishing. The growls become more frequent as his thrusts lose their previous rhythm. Almost as if continuing his sentence from earlier, he speaks again.

"I'm keeping you."

Only seconds later, you feel him grow as he knots. The warm liquid fills you with no way to escape, and you both stay there as you catch your breath. When he finally pulls out, the liquid flows down your thigh, but you're too exhausted to care. As you catch his eyes again, you notice the yellow has left behind beautiful dark orbs in its place. His features soften again as he regains full consciousness over his wolf once again. If you didn't know better, you'd assume he was a harmless sweetheart.

"Did you have fun being the loud noise in the middle of the night?"

You roll your eyes at him before walking past him, "Better than getting interrupted by those noises during work."

With a chuckle and an exaggerated bow, your neighbor sends you off, "Glad to be of service, Y/N. Please, come again."

[ghostofcitrus]

more gender crisis bc i need somewhere to document this shit and also if u wanna read and say smth that’s cool too 🥺 fair warning it’s kinda longgg. but there’s a tl;dr and i tried to make the paragraphs short so it’s easy to read and i sorted the thoughts by paragraphs

ok so when i see a girl or group of girls or smth i, for the most part, am like yeah same. i have the same lived experience and like yeah u look cool and i relate in a lot of ways.

but like i also feel the same w non-binary ppl. i see agender ppl and i’m like oh nice that sounds like how i want to live MY life!! i get jelous. i saw a gender ambiguous person the other day and i thouvht i was going to lose my mind i was like AKSJSHJSJSNS Y O U. I WANT TO BE YOU. i talked to them i was like 😭😭i love your hair😭😭 and it was so compelling just seeing them i got my hair cut later that week. i like it.

and i cut my hair and i’m like y e s. and i’ve always wanted a very small/flat chest and have planned on getting a breast reduction (meaning i want basically no tits. i’m like a DDD rn. and i’m short and have a baby face so that’s like. very noticeable. pain.) ASAP. but i like dress and being seen as a girl? but i also want to be non binary, but it feels like something im striving for. i don’t feel like i’m there. i feel like i WANT to be there but i just keep hitting roadblocks.

when i think about OTHER girls, i’m like yeah. i relate to that. but when i think about myself. fully isolated. i want to present like a feminine agender person. i am connected to my girlhood. girl, sister, girlfriend, daughter... all of them accurately describe me. but i also like person, sibling, partner, child.

i like femininity. i like being seen like that. and being seen as a girl is cool and fine. but i don’t feel like it accurately describes all of me. but i’m like scared??

i want to be a “girl” in the way that when u look at me ur like ... is that a girl? my face i like lmao. it’s round and feminine. cool lol. my body.... i wish with like all my heart i woke up one day w/o titties or major curves. but i’ve literally work so hard to accept and like myself in my body. YEARS of forcing myself to look in the mirror and compliment myself. deconstructing fatphobia was a big part of it. but in my head. with no mirrors around. i think of myself as less curvy. a small fame, but not really curvy. much more neutral features. i forget what i actually look like. but when i do look in the mirror now i’m like she’s pretty. i like how she looks. nice. but it doesn’t really feel like me. but i feel cool. it’s like nice makeup that’s someone else chose for u and never comes off. like yes. that’s nice. but... it’s not like “me”. i feel like that about most of my features. but i’ve grown up in them. i don’t hate them. i think they look pretty and i feel confident enough like this. and after all the work i’ve done to get to this mindset... it’s just not what i want.

i think part of what’s messing with me is i’m automatically more comfortable with other girls/afabs, like we just share experiences and i can generally understand how they socialize. guys like,.. not so much. but most of my actual friends have ended up being guys. but im naturally wary of guys. and most around me end up being fucking republicans anyways. and another part of what’s getting to me is when i’m going about my life, i enjoy being stereotypically feminine. like i like to be taken care of, feel small , that bs. maybe it’s internalized misogyny that i feel like the only way i can be that is as a girl.

i also think i just have no idea what it would really feel like to go about the world non-binary. like i just want to keep blending into the background. i don’t want to be that noticeably different, i’m already autistic.

i think it’s also weird bc since middle school have been having periodic gender crisises but they always end in me just getting embarrassed, finding transmeds on the internet and also getting embarresed, not wanting to stop being feminine, or deciding it’s just not worth it.

and i think another thing is, i’ve always felt more connected to girls, but always on the outskirts of that, but that might just be because i’m autistic. but like i’m feminine in the sense that i like dresses. and being taken care of that and that shit. girls tend to really fucking irk me a lot of the times. i don’t really feel “connected” to them, more like “stuck” with them but making the best of it. some are pretty cool :) tbh it’s mostly just other autistic or queer girls i vibe with. other than that.. i struggle a lot to feel connected.

speaking of being autistic.... i’m realizing a lot of what i’m feeling is similar to how i felt when i first started to consider that i was autistic. when i was alone or in a space i was totally comfy in, i felt very confident that i was autistic. but when i was around people, i was like no i’m definitely not. and even now. i know i mask whenever i’m not alone. but i’m literally so fucking used to it it’s not hard at all. it hardly feels like a mask. just a different version of me. not the most authentic, but it’s how i operate around others. so whatever. not what i like per say. but in most cases, i can deal with it and still be perfectly happy (ish). this is exactly how i feel about all of this gender shit.

but i think part of my hesitancy to identify like this is i’ve never met ppl irl who identify as non-binary. that wouldn’t be a group for me to find and relate to and be comfortable with, i’d just be the different one. and i’m already different. and people don’t really get neopronouns and that shit.

ok and i’m anxious about my boyfriend as well. he’s a straight guy, idk how he’d feel about me being non binary. but i don’t want to sacrifice our relationship, so it’d be fine, because i also like my name and pronouns now. i like the shortened version of my name better tbh but i think my name sounds cool. mostly because saying it is a vocal stim for me, same with my partners name fore some reason. i just think they’re good names. they feel good to hear and say. and i’ve always been described that way and i’m like yeah that’s me.

i like dresses. feminine clothes? yes pleaseee. i like how girl are generally the ones who get taken care of. i like feeling small and dainty. i like being silly and cute. but like ... silly and cute arent like “girl things”?? but idk.

but i like “girl”. not “ladies” or “woman”. that feels too much like “female” and the only time i feel like i relate to that at all is in very specific situations. i’m feminine. i like that. i wish i could be feminine in an androgynous way tho????????

TL;DR: closing thoughts. if i were the only person on earth and i could do whatever i wanted like magically. i would change my appearance to look like my picrew... but like for an ex think Crona from Soul Eater of Ed from Cowboy Bebop. both of them are androgynous but when i see both of them i’m like they’re kinda feminine too! like that’s what i want to look like. i’d probably go by Citrus and neopronouns and maybe she/her (they’re fine but i feel like i’m lying about being non binary when i use them). ya know. how i want to be. but in reality. i am scared of that. it sounds like a lot of work and a big change that i could probably never really achieve. i also hate change. and constantly explaining shit.

also do cis people PINE over this shit the way i am? i’ve done this multiple times for years. not consistently bc tbh i have other shit i need to spend energy on but when i’m not pouring energy into somewhere else i tend to circle back to this. maybe that’s a sign that i’m right.

[arcgeminga]

ANSWERED ASK from  @starlightofdream​​: ✘ - … An AU version of my muse (for Aspros) ♚ Meme: send me a symbol and i will write a drabble about my muse from the point of view of…

                  — CHOSEN  AU : Private Threads (Father!Pros)

              WARNING: Gender-bending, children, ambiguous-term pregnancy(?)

Aspros had chosen to sleep on the couch.

No... He didn’t pass out there, and anyone would be ridiculous to suggest that! Can’t blame him. It had been a day after the wedding between two saints and his boys were begging to eat some of the left over cake that he and Marigold had managed to bring back to the Cancer Temple. In order to keep them quiet, Aspros gave in and allowed them to take a slice. Then he went to nap on the sofa, leaving the boys unsupervised for a little while. Wasn’t his fault, his boys just woke him up early.

He was snoring when Marigold waddled over, sat next to him, and started caressing his hair. Hm... that felt so good. Even though the gentle strokes had aroused him from sleep, Aspros decided to play along and continue his somewhat loud snoring even if they were fake at this point.

“Let’s hope that the boys didn’t inherit his bad side,” he heard Kardia giggle. The women had a lot of fun in each other’s company. Which was fine with Aspros. Kardia was the only person in Sanctuary that came close to being a sibling figure for Manigoldo.

“Yeah, I’ve kept my eye on ‘em recently... Nothing so far,” Marigold hummed.

Good, Aspros added in his mind. He hated his darker side the most and he sincerely wished that none of the kids inherited that from him.

“Haha, I’m sure you guys will be a happy family. For a long time,” Kardia mused silently.

“Yeah,” Marigold’s trimmed nails gave his scalp a nice scratch--and Aspros barely managed to avoid letting out a moan. Fuck, his woman knows how to work him. As she spoke, she sounded as if she was daydreaming, “A happy family. I would like that.”

...Okay, time to change the conversation before it got to a topic he wasn’t ready to hear of yet.

Aspros groan, shifting his aching back as he snuggled his forehead against Marigold’s lap. He still had his eyes shut as he comically joked in a ‘sleepy’ murmur, “I... want cake for dinner...” 

There was a moment of silence before the hand in his hair patted him. “Honey, cake is for dessert.” 

Oh, he knew that. But did he care? If his boys didn’t, then he didn’t either.

Aspros cracked an eye open to gaze at her, and he stuck his tongue out while playfully saying in a small voice, “The boys ate cake earlier.”

The disappointed-yet-angered expression on Marigold’s face made Kardia laugh loudly. Marigold’s hand immediately went to Aspros’ cheek and she pinched him mercilessly.

“What do you mean they ate cake earlier? Aspros, who gave them cake?” She already knew who gave them cake, so there was no point in acting innocent! Defteros wasn’t even here to blame.

“They look’ ack meh shoo achorably, thouugh--” Aspros whined, allowing himself to be abused by his partner. Ah, if she wasn’t with their third child right now, he would have tickled her in retaliation. The pinching on his cheek didn’t last very long until it turned into light slaps.

“Nooo excuses deeear! No cake for the boys unless they have been super good or if it’s dessert!” 

“I can’t help it! I’m their daddy and they’ll always be good boys to me!” Aspros grinned and he rubbed his abused cheek. From down here, Marigold looked like a goddess. Gods, he loved his woman so much. He should stop delaying and propo--

“Hey, speaking of those twins, where are the boys?” the Scorpio Saint giggled as she looked at the two curiously, cutting off whatever thought Aspros was having at the moment.

Aspros and Marigold to exchange a very quick look of parental panic.

                    ...Oh no, where are the boys?!

Luckily, that question was quickly answered when a very loud scream came from the Aries house.

Ah! Yes. Of course. They’re bullying Shion. As usua--oh, fuck.

[martellthemandalor]

Assistance - Chapter 3

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader (No Y/N, reader is nicknamed)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of drinking, violence

Rating: 15

Word Count: 2.3K

Summary: Mando is curious of his new boss partner, you tell some believable truths

A/N: A lot of dialogue in this one! As always I’m open for feedback, enjoy :)

Masterlist!

Walking with the Mandalorian was akin to walking alone. He never made a sound, just walked alongside you, following your lead. You’d set your internal tracker to sync with the tracking fob signal, and through you eyeglass you could see the path you needed to walk. At the same time as showing the way it was constantly scanning the terrain, thin blue lines constantly passed across in front of your eye, mapping the land and sky. You’d been walking for about two hours, trekking across endless fields of red and yellow grass and along beaten tracks of dusty brown. 

Detsak was primarily a farming planet, the city was the only densely populated area of the planet, built for the purpose of trade only, the buildings designed for shops, cantinas and places for merchants to stay. The rest of the planet’s inhabitants were scattered, living in smaller colonies, usually made up of just families, generations farming the same acres of land all living together. There was something quite peaceful about that, you thought. 

Of course everything was different know, what was once a tidy and prospering world had turned quiet and overgrown. Grass grew long, bushes that lined the fields were unruly and stretched their branches out into the open space, and wildflowers that would usually have been uprooted by farmers ready for planting crops spread out across the land dotting pockets of vibrant colour underfoot.  

It would be calming, it should be calming, instead anxiety fuelled every step you took. Everyone knows that Detsak isn’t as pleasant as it seems and most people who come here now are either desperate to hide or desperate to die. It’s a kind of peace you suppose, a very morbid and permanent peace, but still peace. The sun glared down at you, bathing the land in orange light. 

You could understand why it had been nicknamed ‘The Burning World’, for when the sun shone down and touched the mottled red and orange tones of grass from above, the fields appeared to be aflame. Stars was it hot too, sweat was beginning the build under your layers of armour, thank the Maker you had changed into the lightest material you owned before leaving.

“You walk like a man,” The Mandalorian’s static tone cut through your thoughts. You turned your head to him, eyebrow cocked.

“And?” It wasn’t as if you hadn’t heard that said before, your abrupt reply was more out of shock that the Tin Can had taken notice of something as trivial as your walk of all things.

“It’s unusual,” he stated, looking at you and then back to the path ahead. You should have left the conversation there, he’s hardly the talkative type, but habit prevented you from doing so.

“The guild has always been prejudiced, elitist bastards. Reputation pays higher than skill, showmanship rewarded over risk and most of all men get paid buckets more than female…coworkers,” You rolled your eyes at that, a reflex to merely saying those words, “I learnt early on that if I wanted to make any decent amount credits then I needed to reinvent myself, and quickly. So I did. I cut my hair off, changed my walk and adjusted my clothes for the illusion of a bigger frame. Not so much to look like a man, to do that I’d need to change my face, but enough to cause ambiguity over my gender. Then I took jobs, and as I did a consistently good job at them the guild chose to see me as a male member, because obviously to them a woman couldn’t do a job as good as that, and who was I to contradict them? I was making good payments, bought new armour and upgraded Astrid more and more. Life was good.” You could feel a tension in your jaw forming, just remembering what happen filled you an internal quiet rage.

“What happened?” The Mandalorian prompted.

“Something stupid,” you replied through gritted teeth, “There’s a cantina on Janothla, the planet where I’m based, and they serve the most incredible drinks, I mean Maker above they make your head spin and your heart soar and they taste so damn delicious,” You were beginning to salivate at the mere memory at them, a small smile playing across your face, glancing over at the Mandalorian you were met with the emotionless beskar steel and it brought you back to reality. Clearing your throat you continued your story. 

“It was my favourite place to frequent after a hard quarry, an easy place to drink and get distracted. One night after a really horrible hunt I had gotten particularly drunk. All I did was smile, it was a fucking smile at a girl sat across the bar from me, but it was enough for her boyfriend to come storming up to me, he grabbed my shoulder and forced me to look at him, pressing me into the edge of the bar, telling me ‘no one makes eyes at my girl ‘cept me, and especially not some low life man who makes a living off bounty hunting’. I snapped, kicked him in the dick and slammed him into the bar, pinned him to it by the throat and shouted ‘First of all mate I’m no banthashit man and second, if you don’t want your ass in carbonite you better show some more respect to a fucking guild member,’” You rubbed the bridge of your nose as you recalled what you had said. God you were such a drunken idiot. You heard a low chuckle next to you.

“Sounds like that bastard got what he deserved though.” You flashed a smile at him and hummed in agreement.

“Anyway, I didn’t realise my mistake until the next day, you can’t go to a bar like that and shout that loudly without attracting the attention of some guild member. I went to the usual spot to meet Grijib, my guild contact, and instead I was met by 4 senior guild members, who told me I had been lying to them, and they can’t mistrust like this in the guild, reputation is everything etc. as if the whole guild wasn’t built and made up of liars and murderers.” You caught him nodding at that, a silent agreement. 

“Anyway they erased my profile of all my good kills, and bumped me down to entry level quarries. That was 6 months ago and they’ve been paying me less and less since then.” 

Saying that made you feel so defeated, all your hard work had been destroyed over a stupid mistake. Things really hadn’t been getting any better apart from the guild sending to you the far reaches of the galaxy on long missions, you enjoyed the journeys, those long hours spent under the streaking lights of hyperspace, and the thrill of the hunt never changed, no matter how long it took to complete.

“That’s why you’re out here then. The guild sent you to a planet they washed their hands of to punish you,” He stated with a tone of, was that sympathy?

“Yeh.”

What you didn’t say is that it wasn’t the fact the odds of you getting killed out here were a lot higher, it really didn’t factor in at all, it was the fact that this planet surrounded with painful memories you so wanted to forget. The colours of flame licked all around you, it put you on high alert. You knew that this planet looked on fire from above, but it hadn’t prepared you for how much it also looked aflame from the ground. You hated it.

The silence resumed. It didn’t seem so easy to walk in it after he had now spoken; it was like he had woken up your senses to be constantly aware of him again. Your eyes kept shifting from following the path ahead to observing the statue of beskar next to you, Maker he must be dying in that thing. The helmet must have some kind cooling system because if you were in it you were sure you would have passed out by now.

“Why are you a bounty hunter” His voice once again drew you from your head. It was less of a question and more a statement, a demand almost. Two hours of silence and now he’s overcome with an urge to get to know you? Okay then.

“I grew up in the forests of Tarligh, just me and my family on our farm. We grew and traded in horned melons. Money was always a little tight so my father taught me and my sister to hunt so that we would always have food for the table no matter how little credits we had. He told me I picked it up like a pelikki to water, which was ironic given how many pelikki’s we shot out of the water,” You chuckled to yourself at this, throwing him a look over your shoulder, “It always made him proud how fast I’d learned and how often it was mine and my sisters kills that kept the family fed. Anyway, when the rebels put out the call for recruits, I knew I had to join. Father didn’t want me to go, but my mother put me on the first freighter out to the alliance base. I trained up and got good. Ours was one of the last bases targeted by the empire, and when it fell I lost faith in the cause. That’s when I turned to bounty hunting, easy money with skills I already had.” 

The story rolled off your tongue so easily. You could see it happening in front of your eyes as you told it, living it vicariously as you formed the story. It was believable enough, no weirder than any of the other young recruit stories you’ve heard in bars over the years. 

You remembered one girl who told you she’d grown up Tatooine and joined the rebel alliance after she saw a Jedi do a mind trick on some storm troopers, you were pretty sure she was lying but she was cute and talking to you so you didn’t really care.

“That’s one hell of a story, how often does that work?” He sounded almost impressed under that helmet. You stopped walking and just stared at him, eyebrow raised.  He stopped a fraction of a second after you did, pivoting slightly to face you.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“I mean, how often does that lie work.” He questioned. You imagined he was smirking under there, even if his steady and blunt tone gave nothing away.

“They work as often as I want them to, it isn’t just that one, that one I made up just now,” you remarked.

“That’s impressive,” The Mandalorian nodded at you, “How many of those do you have.” You really are confused now, why does he keep asking, or stating you should say, questions?

“A few, there’s the one about coming from a family of bounty hunters, the one about breaking away from a wealthy family to ‘find myself’ and my personal favourite, I joined a spice smuggling ring after I lost my parents, toughened up and learnt to fight and fly while running in those people, then got out to become a bounty hunter,” You smiled at him, then continued walking, resuming following the virtual path in front of you. 

Those are all stories you had come up with on your long flights to and from various quarry’s, being alone gave you plenty of time to get creative with them, letting yourself fill their shoes and live their lives. You prided yourself on your imagination, being a good liar required it; in fact it was the only thing being a good liar required. You remember talking to an old bounty hunter friend of yours who told you “You’re an imaginative liar with a death wish, and I honestly think that makes you one of the most dangerous people in the galaxy.” To this day you think it’s one of the nicest compliments you’ve ever had.

You’d been so wrapped up in the conversation and your own thoughts you hadn’t even noticed the change of scenery. The open fields you’d been walking in had morphed into a forest, the glaring sun finally shielded away from you by a thick canopy of marmalade leaves. 

The vibrant grass had shifted shades to a burnt umber and flowers that had littered the floor now confined themselves to pockets where the light consistently filtered through the foliage above. You took a deep breath, the air felt heavier under here, a nice weight that you welcomed. You relished in the smell of damp moss and wildflowers. If only the whole planet was made up of this, you thought, then maybe you wouldn’t hate it so much. You relaxed slightly. No immediate danger was showing up on your eyepiece and as far as you could tell you and Tin Can had been making good progress, so far so good then. You were however once again aware of him staring you. Rolling your eyes you glanced over at him.

“What?” You remarked, furrowing your brows.

“Is Shiryn your real name?” He inquired. There was standoffishness in his voice, as if he thought he shouldn’t ask you such a question. I mean who was he to question your name when you didn’t have any idea of his. You regarded him a second, wandering what he was thinking underneath that cold metal exterior, wandering what you should tell him. Names are a tricky business, they hold power in them, and it’s why you gave yours up after all.

“Yes,” You answered simply.

He nodded to himself and looked back ahead, as if something had just been confirmed to him. A pregnant pause fell between you, like he was waiting, daring himself to say something.

“You’re one hell of a liar,” He finally complimented. You smiled at that, a small genuine smile that hadn’t been seen by many. This was a new expression on you; it extended to your eyes, nose crinkling slightly. And this time you didn’t try to correct yourself back to your default guarded countenance, you let genuine expression beam out into the world for the first time in a long while. 

“And you talk too much.”

Next Chapter

[destroyyourbinder]

the day i was a man

In the summer of 2019, I decided to fully shave my head into a buzzcut, something I had never done before. I had a lot of feelings emerge and re-emerge at the time. While I was still visibly female in my day to day life- something that felt uniquely frightening given the utter dykeyness of my haircut- I accidentally discovered one day in August that my haircut could allow me to pass as male. While I had deliberately tried to “pass” in an earlier life, at the height of experiencing gender dysphoria, I was never taken to be a man except by chance (such as from behind or from afar). So potentially being able to pass as male was a new and disorienting experience, one I felt compelled to explore out of multiply perverse kinds of curiosity. As a context note: I mention my partner frequently in this piece, who has detransitioned from her transition from female to male, but chooses to handle her situation through continuing to pass as male at work and in public. Her experiences unavoidably framed my experience trying to pass for a day, and this experiment changed permanently how I see both her passing persona and the public presentation of female transgender people. If you can pull it off, and perhaps even if you can’t (a different, but also nervewracking experience), I recommend women try this at least once, especially if you claim to understand the experiences of transgender female people. It is a female experience to which there are truly few comparisons, and to which even the majority of living gender non-conforming lesbians cannot relate. Having largely recovered from gender dysphoria, I cannot imagine having to permanently live my life this way nor finding it affirming to do so, and I am disturbed that this experience was one I once aspired to and envied. However, I am glad I had it, and I plan to try again sometime in this upcoming summer when I can cut my hair without freezing. My partner now knows I did this, and I am especially curious what it might be like being seen together.

I wrote this the day I chose to do this experiment. My goal was to take public transportation to a shopping center so I could check out some shoes I was considering buying. The first part (in present tense) I wrote before leaving the house and while dressed in preparation, the second part (in past tense) was written after I returned, using my memories of the experience. It has been mildly edited for readability and to include a few details and pieces of context.

----

I am scared of what happens not if I pass but if I don’t pass. In trying to become a man I have become a woman I am afraid of and afraid for. It’s often the same thing when you are a woman watching women. I am having trouble breathing under three sports bras when I usually wear none. My chest is flat unless I actually stand up straight and proud. I have to be ashamed to become a man, although they say men are confident and becoming one will make you so. I debate whether or not to put some kind of fake dick in my pants, although I doubt that will do anything, and I shudder to think what will happen if I do and it doesn’t work. Being a woman with a dick stuffed in your pants: at best I’m pathetic, at worst I am a monster.

I don’t know how to explain this to my girlfriend. I don’t know how to explain that I had to do this, at least once. I don’t know how to explain to her something she already knows.

I wonder if I’ve been watching too many music videos. I wonder if this is about sex. I don’t know how I can wash our dishes while being a man, but I decide I should try before I try something bold like letting people look at me.

The danger of not passing is violence. The danger internally is that it would be deserved. I realize there’s no real way to justify wanting to do this, nonetheless actually doing it. I think wanting to transition is sublimated fear. I wonder if this will help me with my social anxiety, because this fucking sucks. This is not the exposure therapy the doctor ordered. It feels familiar to be ashamed of myself and hold my body this way, like an old chair molding around my butt, like stepping into old shoes. Dykes go to the outdoor store but do bulldykes go there? I realize I don’t know anything about bulldykes. I understand why so many trans people are so preoccupied with being fake vs. real, false vs. genuine. There is something intrinsically very fake about passing. You are faking the other sex. Of course you feel fake. It is a pretense. It feels very odd to pretend so seriously, so people pretend that they are not pretending after all. I am fixated on the small things all over again. I find myself wondering when I tie my girlfriend’s boots to my feet whether or not men have ankles like mine. My laces are too wide at the bottom, too small at the top. I worry that this will lead me to be discovered or worse, mocked. I know this is absurd but in this state I don’t feel like I can take any chances, like I would even know what chances to take. When I went to get the bus I thought I saw my coworker. It ended up not being her, but I crossed the street and circled back because I didn’t want her to see me so strange, doing something so weird and incomprehensible. I understand now why people change towns, friends, abandon their family. This is difficult to explain, even if you say you are “trans”. It doesn’t make sense, fundamentally, to anyone with a grounding in their body. The bus driver was a big black woman, serious face, tattoos. I think she was a dyke. I got the sense she was looking at me out of the side of her eye when I got on the bus, but that might be paranoia. I didn’t know because I didn’t want to look her in the face too hard. I get why my girlfriend’s so avoidant in public. You don’t want people to know what you’re doing, you don’t want people to see your face. It’s real hard to know what emotion to put on there when you’re a dude. It’s real scary to not have the barrier of a woman’s smile or laugh anymore. It almost feels nice to not have to do it, but how do you handle anything? I’m the type of woman who’s been able to get away with this gender weirdo shit throughout my life because I gave an oh-shucks smile at the end of it, that little woman’s laugh that means I’m not a threat, not serious, not anything at all. When you’re “a man” you can’t do that anymore. You’re naked under six layers of clothes. When you can’t do that anymore you’ve got nothing except sheer bravado and nothing to back it up. What if it doesn’t work, what if you suddenly become the type of girl who doesn’t smile? I get why my girlfriend doesn’t look anybody in the face, even though she looks real fucking shifty sometimes. You can’t look a man in the face and not be able to back it up. Men are like reactive dogs. They’ll get fucked up if you look them in the eye. On the bus I realized all of the sudden even though I’ve read a billion passing guides, and I’ve stared down dudes real jealous my whole life I do not know how a man sits. I had fixated so much on the legs and where they go that I didn’t know what they did with hands, elbows; how do you look out the window if you’re a guy? What do you look at? I snatched glances at the dude up front, an ambiguously brown teen who could probably pass as white in the right places but not the wrong ones, a dude with a big mop of floppy curly dark hair and what looked like a serious case of apathy. He was scrolling on his phone, and I could see the divots of acne scars forming on the side of his face. Guy didn’t look like he could grow a lot of facial hair but probably made up for it with encyclopedic knowledge of Fortnite or some shit. I knew he had a life, but he seemed like most men, kind of constitutionally dull. He wasn’t looking at anything, really, I guess only kids and women really look at stuff. Which made it hard to do the whole clandestine observation thing, I decided, a guy who looks at stuff is not really a dude. I tried to look kinda dumb and wasn’t sure where my jaw should go. The girlfriend does this thing sometimes with her mouth that makes me cringe when she does it at home. Sometimes she phases in and out of her passing persona if she’s talking about work or feeling threatened for whatever reason, if she’s in a different place and time than the place and time where she’s home and a wife and all that. She does a little underbite, doing that thing that internet FTMs do in the pictures they take; I figured she learned to do it like a little bird puffs itself up, it makes her little head look bigger and squarer. I tried to do it when out and about; my teeth don’t fit together that way. I’m sure I looked like a moron. But men do dumb shit all the time.

I transferred to the train, and when I got off at the station I ended up walking kinda the wrong way for a while. I imagined all the people in the cars staring at me. I hate walking on the sidewalks along highways and strip malls. I dunno if they look, and if they do, what they see. I was real nervous but I figured I didn’t know any of them anyway and made it into the shopping center where the store was. It occurred to me that if this was an adventure it was quite a stupid one, but it was an adventure nonetheless, complete with the actual lack of excitement and the actual presence of fear. I had never been in this particular store before and everything was displayed so tastefully. I was dismayed to notice the presence of a million salespeople, and realized I didn’t fucking know which gender of shoe I even wanted to try to look at because I didn’t know how I was coming across. I was not going to be a dude who asks for women’s shoes, a.k.a. a woman who’s obviously doing something real weird asking for women’s shoes nonetheless. And at this store you gotta ask for the shoes, and I didn’t want to use my voice because I’m pretty sure I’m obviously female by voice. So I just stared awkwardly at the shoes, mostly, I checked the prices and the clearance racks, and they were too expensive anyway. At one point I realized I was looking at the women’s shoes (which seemed like a huge fucking big deal) and I went to cross over to the men’s shoes, there was a group of bros standing in front of the men’s shoe wall and they parted like the red sea when I went over. I think this was passing because frankly I’ve never had men ever get out of my fucking way. I ended up circling around the store and leaving because no way was I going to afford any of the shit in there, and they didn’t even have very many shoes of the kind I was looking for. I went into the chain pet store next door and wandered around in there. There was a young person working the register who was a young lesbian or a trans kid or something. Every time I saw a woman I felt guilty, it was real weird to be separated so much from women. I had thoughts of jumping out, you know, and saying “boo”, following a woman a bit too close to see what would happen, even though I knew that would be real fucking mean. But it would be the test. See how women react to you: are you still a woman yet? What happens when you’re not a women to women anymore? It seems real fucking lonely. I was already lonely, and it had been maybe three hours. Men are real rude to other men. Some old white sales guy was like,“excuse me”, real curt and direct in a way I’d never got before, not gentle but not with the contempt-force they use towards a fucked up woman. It was empty of all the shit I’d learned to expect. How men deal with the emptiness I don’t know. They must fill it with all sorts of nonsense just to pass the time, just for kicks, is that why they want to hit each other and fuck things? There was a little girl with her family outside the stores, she had a floppy autistic hand and was wearing cargo shorts, I wished her luck inside my head but couldn’t smile at her and my heart broke.

I walked around and tried to find the other location of a store I used to work at. I knew it was around there somewhere but couldn’t find where the building was. My stomach was grumbling and it occurred to me that if I needed to use a bathroom I’d be screwed. Even if I was still plausibly visibly female I was female in the way that’d get me bathroom trouble, and I wasn’t quite dudely enough to stride into the men’s. The store I used to work at had gender neutral bathrooms, and I realized a hell of a lot of trans people must be in a huge pickle all the time. I understand the bathroom resentment even if trans people project their validation shit onto it. It’s easier to believe you’re being invalidated than that you’re scared because you’re doing something real weird and you’re in hiding all the time. I don’t know how people live like this full time. There’s got to be a lot of grief, nihilism, resignation when you finally make it so you can’t go back. The tension’s unbearable: I imagine a lot of trans people think that the tension will be resolved if they make themselves undiscoverable, if they just push themselves more towards perceptibly male.

The sports bras were hurting me. It was hard to walk so much in this get up. I found I was breathing with my mouth open a lot to get enough air, and the word “mouthbreather” kept occurring to me. I realized the shit that I had to knock out of me as an autistic woman was double-edged as someone trying to pass. A lot of it actually helped, a healthy and hamhanded disrespect/disregard for etiquette is very male, but I realized I was still real weird with weird motivations and weird in ways that would make me stick out even as a dude. I understood why the girlfriend has a persona-- she says he’s some nobody, a stoner dude, a guy who doesn’t have all that much to say and of course it’s kinda stupid if he did-- to cover the incongruities. Before I got back on the train there was this young black woman with a swagger, wearing what looked like men’s pants, wandering around the platform. I figured the universe was fucking testing me today because she might be gay too. She was talking on her phone in a video chat, getting way too close to the edge. She wobbled over the edge a couple times, then decided to sit on the fucking platform with her legs out over the tracks . Some shady white guy wearing gloves was doing some weird shit with the ticket machines, a lot of coins were coming out and he was rustling around. I figured he had some kinda scheme and decided to leave him very alone because I didn’t know how the fuck I was supposed to react as a fellow guy if he wanted something from me. The woman didn’t look up when the train coming the opposite way signaled, and I got scared I was gonna have to drag her off the tracks, like maybe she wasn’t doing good and she was gonna try something. I realized I didn’t want to die as a man, didn’t want that woman to be saved by me as a man, what if they called up my girlfriend and said I was some dude, what if she found me in three sports bras and three shirts in the hospital, what would everyone think. Swagger gal jumped the hell out of her skin and scooted away when our train was coming, so I didn’t have to worry about it. When I got on some family plopped down in front of me, and I felt that grief again. If I was a man I couldn’t look at kids with the same gentleness, there was no solidarity with the mom and her weariness, I couldn’t take the load on my hips alongside her. I didn’t want to do this any more. I had planned to catch the bus on my way back but the bus wasn’t going to come for a while. I decided to walk from my home train station and see if I could catch my girlfriend at work but realized I didn’t want her to see me like this. I didn’t know who I was, walking through the dark back into the neighborhood. I peeked into a dark bar with sports on the televisions, a lot of normal heterosexuals doing their thing. But back on the main drag it was trendier heterosexuals everywhere. I stopped beside a dark park to take off two of the bras and tucked them in my pockets. I had no idea what the fuck I looked like when I was walking somewhere more familiar, didn’t know where to put my chin, didn’t know whether I was incongruent, incomprehensible, or I was just myself. My clothes were all mine except the beanie and the boots. It was nothing crazy but I felt crazy, I felt split in two, schizophrenic in the old-school definition way. If my coworkers saw me they’d know me, but maybe I wouldn’t know me in return. When I got to my girlfriend’s workplace I realized she wasn’t in the building; she had stepped across the street to take a break and get some air. I don’t think she recognized me coming across the street. I felt all fucked up for a long hot second until she broke into a smile. I couldn’t tell if she was astonished I was out and about in the area at that hour or that that body was me. I wandered on home, got an Arizona iced tea, went up to the corner pharmacy all weird in the head and high on drag to get some mascara to see if I could make me a beard someday. The people at the pharmacy usually know me, and I didn’t want to be some weirdo who was trying to be a guy in front of them. The guy who I think’s a manager was around, then a barely-outta-adolescence woman with a bob of orange hair and strange makeup and a big old nose ring. These days they make eyebrow mascara, in each brand there were a million different kinds. Who knew, and who knew it cost 12 bucks for a little tube. I went around the corner feeling lucky: there was some in the clearance section. Why someone like me’d buy mascara for your eyebrows, who knows. I was titillated by the tiny brushes. The young woman at the counter wanted to talk to me about my nose ring, hers was only a tad bigger, and she told me she must’ve hit a nerve when she stretched. Her piercings were nice, I was happy to have a conversation with a woman as a woman of some sort even though she was a different kind of woman all in all. When the wall comes down it’s terrible. I can’t imagine that wall all the time and what that must do to women behind it.

[segenassefa]

2: On Consumerism, Fighting Demons, and Societies Inevitable Collapse

Quarantine has been lowkey surreal. My constant complaint of never having enough time to do all the things I want/should be doing has now left me bored in the house, bored in the house, bored with nothing but time to get said things done. However, it is a dual edged sword - with the collapse and subsequent reformation of civil society outside my doors, it leaves me wondering – as well as a lot of other people – in the words of Miss Juicy…what the hell we gone do now?

Nearing the end of the first leg of my university career, I should be thinking about getting ready to transition to the next logical stages of adulthood - saving for an apartment, applying for permanent residency, as well as graduate schools and part time jobs. Yet, I’m worried about if these things will even be a possibility within the next month, six months, or even the next year.

On top of ALL of that, the recent BLM protests and the way that people (read: white people, Latinxs, Black men, homo/transphobes, etc.) have shown their asses the past few months is beyond mortifying - especially regarding the treatment of black women and how our value as individuals as well as a collective to society is really perceived.* This is not to downplay the murder of numerous black men in society, BUT who the fuck is riding for black women aside from other black women? And not just the ones who find attractive, or are racially ambiguous, or the ones you feel as if you get “guilted” into supporting and demanding justice for, I mean each and every black woman. I’m just saying, it gets pretty disheartening to feel like the legwork of the revolution is on the back of one category of people, and that your value to society is measured by the amount of emotional labour you’re ready to do for others, or how fat your ass is (but I digress…).

I feel like most people have used material things as coping mechanisms instead of actually facing their feelings and dealing with the things that bother them. Just think of the number of packages that have arrived on your doorstep the past few months. Breaking the glossy seal of packing tape is similar to therapy, until all the boxes are open, and you start feeling like shit again. And now, more than ever, there’s a lot to be bothered about. Western society has dedicated phrases based on the phenomenon of substituting true self-work with figurative emotional bandages (Phrases like comfort eating and retail therapy come to mind).

It’s nice to think that we – the people entering their adolescent and young adult years – will be the one to change these things, but suddenly it’s 2 am, you have twenty different things in your Amazon cart, (who the fuck needs a metal straw cleaning kit?) and you’re trying to see how far you can stretch and grab your debit card before falling off of the bed.

The conflicting messages pushed by society don’t help all that much either. If you look up “Kondo method” or “decluttering my closet” on YouTube, the numbers of videos that come up is astounding. Pages and pages of sweaty-faced, smiling YouTubers monetizing from this kind of faux “minimalism” only to post haul videos a few days later because “I threw everything out and now I have to rebuild from scratch sksksk!”. Does this not just perpetuate a cycle of buying and throwing and buying? I am....confusion, to say the least. Still I watch them, because I’m a hypocrite, and am also easily amused.

I will be the first to admit I have always had a very unhealthy relationship with money, with self-image, and with measuring my self-worth in proximity with “stuff that stems from a complicated relationship with physical self. Follow along:

Growing up, I was a fat kid. We don’t even have to sugar coat it. Think Terrio, but better eyebrows and more hair. Except I was not killin’ em, just myself. I always envied my friends who were able to go shopping at regular stores – read: Hollister, Abercrombie, Urban Outfitters (yes my friends were white), meanwhile I was condemned to shopping in the women’s department.

So, to compensate, I would buy trinkets – things like nail polish, lip gloss, journals, you get the point. My proximity to worthiness was measured not by the things that I bought, but within the act of buying. Growing up with parents who were also financially frugal also altered my relationship with money and blessed me with crippling buyers’ remorse after every purchase, even on things that are important (read: groceries).  

But as a kid, buying “stuff” was fun for me – it gave me some sort of purpose, and the acquisition of things (even if they weren’t the same things my peers had) made me feel like, to some extent, I could compete on the same playing field. As I got older, and I started to have real expenses, I moved towards second-hand shopping. I would religiously find myself at Goodwill on weekend, after school, or with friends. I could literally feel an endorphin rush when I would find something that I would consider a “good deal”, and it made me feel (again) purposeful, to be spending money, even if I didn’t need whatever I was buying.

I should also add that the people in my immediate family does not believe in thrift stores (“Why am I working for you to wear other people’s clothing?”, I remember my dad asking me one day), so the act of second-hand shopping was also my form of rebellion.

I began to amass a collection of clothing that would put Kylie’s closet to shame. I began buying things for events and situations that were yet to happen, for other people, for when I lose ten pounds. It was a madness.

In freshman year of university, I had an unhealthy relationship with clubbing clothes. Did I have the figure for clubbing clothes? Absolutely not. The funnier part is, I couldn’t even go clubbing because I wasn’t 19 at the time. And yet I had drawers and drawers full of the stuff. Not to mention that clubbing clothes is incredibly similar to summer clothing and living between Minnesota and Canada meant that these things were barely seeing the light of day.

The moral of this was – I could never figure out my relationship with stuff, This quarantine has forced me to try and break down the compulsion behind my behaviour.  I felt like I was spiralling the six weeks that they closed thrift stores, and I knew myself well enough to not try and online shop with the same kind of frequency as that. But the crazy part was, I didn’t die. I didn’t go into withdrawal (ok, I did a little bit, but whatever), and I was able to take the time to go through the things I already owned and find some hidden gems that were routinely buried in the cracks and crevices of my closet. It was like the episode of Family Guy when Peter realizes he has a vestigial twin – alarming and cool at first, but then it’s just alarming and annoying.

Its more embarrassing to realize that some semblance of myself image is tied to the frequency with which I am able to spend money. I would never say that participating in capitalist society gives me some kind of purpose as a black woman because God forbid. Also, considering that a lot of big names companies are actually racist and fatphobic as hell creates a whole new dimension for analyzing the power of my black dollar, sometimes creating another spiral of guilt leading to you guessed it – more spending.

As much as it seems like it, however, this self-reflection was not in vain. In the past month, I’ve cut down my closet from +200 pieces of clothing and shoes to about 40. If you ever want a fun, humbling activity this quarantine, just clean out your closet and be honest with yourself about how often you wear certain things. It was revolting to see the number of shirts, dresses, pants, skirts that I had bought and convinced myself wholeheartedly I was going to wear, only to pull them out of my closet months later with the tags attached *insert Marge Simpson covering her face meme*.

But at the end of the whole ordeal, it felt really good to look at my space and not feel burden or guilt. It was somewhat philanthropic realizing that not only will these clothes make someone else happier (I donated pretty much everything because it’s not always about money), but that my quality of life was not dramatically impacted in owning (or not owning) certain things. The past few weeks, I’ve spent more money on going out and sharing experiences with friends, but still nowhere near the same amount of money I would have spent buying clothes and other material possession.

Youtuber Kelly Stamps has a video on how minimalism “cured” her depression**, and the whole thesis boils down to the idea that owning less things gives you less to compare yourself too, thus making you happier (in a sense) and allowing you to focus the energy and time that would have been centered around maintaining and building your collection of possessions other things.

This still doesn’t break down the root of the issue, but it’s a start. I think when you have traits or patterns that you’ve participated in for so long, it becomes hard to step back and be objective enough to realize that you – yes, you – are part of the problem. I can blame my habits on a lot of things but at the end of the day, it’s important to realize that certain cycles seem never-ending because I actively choose to participate in these kinds of behaviours (accountability is sexy, huh?). While I’m not ready to face all my demons quite yet, it’s easier to do it with a nice wardrobe and a streamlined sense of mind.

Notes

*When I say black women, I mean ALL black women. Not some limited, cis-gendered, heteronormative view of what a woman is. Over here we ride for all those who identify as women.

**She emphasizes that she doesn’t actually means that it cured anything, but rather helped with her anxiety, and in turn, helped with her depression.

Links

That Family Guy Episode

The Kelly Stamps video

[lunatens]

on my mind & in my heart

word count: 952

genre: fluff

pairing: song mingi x gender neutral reader

summary: literally you just go on a drive w mingi

song rec: drive through summer - dala

a/n: wow i literally can’t remember the last time i wrote something that wasn't about stray kids HAH but anyways this is loosely based off of a dream i had about mingi the other day (the dream wasn’t as exciting as this ahasdkdhk but still) and uhh yeah pls enjoy i love mingi so much <3

tonight, you have a date with a bowl of chips, a couple of blankets, and your favourite netflix show. you’re curled up on the couch a couple episodes in when you hear a car pull into your driveway, and you furrow your brows in curiosity; your parents are away for the weekend, and your boyfriend mingi isn’t supposed to come over until tomorrow night. there’s a knock on the door, and you pause the show you’re watching. a moment of silence, then another knock sounds, this time more urgent. after deciding this person probably won’t go away, you slide off the couch and silently creep to the front door. cautiously, you peer through the window, pressing your forehead against the warped glass. the distortion makes the figure standing outside look kind of ambiguous, but you would recognize him anywhere. you roll your eyes, opening the door to cut off a third set of somehow even more aggressive knocking.

“hello min-“ you’re cut off as mingi pulls you into a quick hug and presses a small kiss to your cheek.

“it’s the summer solstice, and we’re going to celebrate,” he tells you rather matter of factly. you frown and look down at your pajama shorts and hoodie (that may or may not belong to mingi).

“i’m not ready to go out, i just got comfy,” you whine, and mingi blinks at you.

“y/n, i missed youuu, plus we aren’t going anywhere really, so it doesn’t matter. even though you look cute as always,” he says, winking and sticking out his tongue a little.

“it’s literally been like 5 hours since i saw you last,” you say, but you can’t hide the smile that’s creeping onto your face. “where are we going, anyways?” you ask as you lock the door to your house and slide into the passenger seat of mingi’s car.

“nowhere, we’re just...going,” he replies. he adjusts his hair and puts on his sunglasses, then flashes you a mischievous smile as he reverses out of your driveway.

~

20 minutes later and you’re racing down an old country road, windows down and volume cranked all the way up. the wind tousles your hair as it roars in through the window; it’ll be a nightmare to brush out later, but it’s worth it for the moment. the sun is beginning it’s slow descent in the sky, faint pinks and oranges slowly becoming more and more vibrant. vast fields fly by as you drive through the long, winding roads, and you admire the pretty little stone farmhouses in the distance. sometimes there’s cows or horses, which always prompts either you or mingi to scream excitedly and point at them.

the song you’re listening to comes to an end, and there’s a comfortable silence as you wait for the next song to come on. your heart is full of happiness; mingi’s made a playlist for you of “songs that make me think of you and your cute face,” (in his words) and the combination of the music, the beautiful summer night, and mingi makes you feel like the happiest person alive. you laugh and clap as “just wanna be with you” from high school musical three comes on, and mingi grins widely. you both sing as loud as you can, belting out words and not caring if you sound good or not.

the song slows down as it comes to an end, and as you sing the final harmonies (or, your best attempt at a harmony) of “i just wanna be with you,” mingi looks over and reaches out to gently caress your cheek, a big goofy smile on his face.

“hey, eyes on the road, mingi,” you say through a shy giggle. he turns to face the road, but takes your hand in his and brings it up to plant a kiss on your knuckles. you blush; even though you’ve been dating for a while, mingi never fails to make you fall in love with him over and over again.

“what’s this all for?” you ask, your eyes now on mingi rather than the views outside he car, admiring him as he seems to almost glow in the fading sunlight. you reach to turn down the volume a little so you can hear each other speak without having to yell.

“for you, duh,” he replies, one hand lazily gripping the wheel while he squeezes your hand with the other.

“yeah, but today isn’t anything special, is it?”

“every day i spend with you is special, babe, i don’t need a reason to make you a playlist or take you out or tell you i love you,” he says, stealing a glance at you. you thought you couldn’t love mingi any more than you already did, but his words fill you with a warm bubbly feeling as your affection for him grows ever stronger.

“it’s the longest day of the year, and i just wanted to spend it with you,” he finishes, giving your hand another affectionate squeeze. you don’t know what to say, so you just stare at him for a moment with major heart eyes.

“song mingi, i don’t know what i’d do without you, i love you so much,” you say eventually. mingi giggles shyly at your words and now it’s his turn to blush. another hype song comes on the playlist, and you crank it back up. you drive until your throats hurt from all the singing (and trying to scream i love you at each other over the sound of the wind and the stereo), cruising along the seemingly endless country roads until long past sunset and feeling like you need nothing more than good music and each other’s company.

[ifishouldvanish]

Spin Me a Tale (2/?)

SUMMARY: Every two weeks, Belle tunes into her favorite book review podcast, Spin Me a Tale. Little does she know, that the man behind it is none other than the terribly shy library guest she’s been harboring a crush on: Mr Gold. Prompted by @wayamy27narf. RATING: T WORDS: 2,648 A/N: I’m just throwing in the towel here as far as getting this to display nicely on mobile with the shitty new update.

[Part One] [Read on AO3]

~*~*~*~

Belle let out a heavy sigh, nudging what remained of her pancakes around in the lake of syrup on her plate.

“Maybe he's like, mute or something.” Ruby shrugged. “You should try signing to him. See if he signs back.”

Belle's eyes swept up from her plate to where Ruby was standing on the other side of the counter. “Last time I tried to sign, I asked an eighty-six year old woman if she needed a penis instead of a pen!” she whined.

Ruby burst into laughter, but cut herself off when she noticed the unamused look on her friend’s face. “Sorry! I'm sorry! But now you know I gotta ask–”

“Yes!” Belle cried, dropping her fork and throwing her hands over her face. “She said yes!”

“Oh my God,” Ruby threw her head back and laughed again. “Okay, okay,” she settled down and shook her head. “So you just need to practice some more! You work at a library– check out a few books!”

“I don't think he's mute.” Belle said. “When the school does early release and he comes in with the little boy, he talks to him!” she explained, throwing her hands up in the air. “I've seen it!”

“Huh.” Ruby shrugged, taking her plate away. “Well, you've got me there.”

Belle gasped and sat upright, slapping her palms on the bartop. “The boy! That's it, Ruby–” she pointed, “That's how I get through to him! Through his son!”

Ruby arched a brow. “Sounds a little creepy, Belle. Not gonna lie. Now I'm just picturing you kidnapping the kid and leaving him a ransom note.” she snickered and took on a menacing voice, “if you ever wanna see your son again, you'll go on a date with me...”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Not like that!” she huffed. “We have a bunch of kids’ after school programs coming up! I can personally hand him a flyer for one, and maybe, if I'm lucky, his son will be interested, and they'll come, and…”

“He can continue to stutter and hide from you?” Ruby finished for her.

Belle narrowed her eyes. “No. See– the energy at the library is way different in the evening. It's… less busy, less noisy, less bright. It's…” she leaned over the counter and sighed, “romantic.”

“Hm…” Ruby tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “Not the word I'd use to describe a bunch of five to ten year-olds fighting over crayons or who gets to sit in the bean bag chair during story time… but you do you.” she said, sliding Belle's check across the counter.

“Yeah well– some of us are trying to be optimistic here, Ruby.” she grumbled and began digging her wallet out of her purse.

“He’s coming in today?”

“Mhm.” Belle looked up at her and bit back a smile. “...Every other Tuesday.”

*****

Belle's lunch break had technically ended twenty minutes ago, but other having a few new books to catalog into the system, it was a slow day. She had a stack of flyers for the next family event ready and waiting to be handed out, and as long as she got the new books processed in by four o'clock, her extended lunch would be a secret a safely kept between her and The Weaver.

“...his moral ambiguity is what I feel makes him such a compelling character– one whose journey toward redemption is paralleled at several points in the novel by one of the other characters–”

The doorbell chimed and Belle looked up from the book she'd been following along with. She scoot forward in her seat, peering around the circulation desk, and there he was.

Her man.

Mr Gold.

Sure, he might not know he was her man yet, but one of these days… one of these days they'd have an actual conversation, and she'd invite him out for coffee, and they'd talk about books until sundown, and he'd ask to see her again, and then they could fall in love for real.

He turned around to use the drop-off bin and Belle helped herself to a long, appreciative look at his rear, her lips pressed together as she admired the view.

She wouldn't dare admit it to Ruby– after all, she had a reputation for looking beyond outward appearances to uphold– but she appreciated the man's derrière almost as much as she did his timid smiles, gentle demeanor, and taste in literature.

Oh, it was a cute butt. Round, pert, tight little thing. Her fingers practically twitched with the urge to reach out and touch it.

Well, squeeze, if she was perfectly honest with herself. There was no way a simple touch would suffice. No, no– she longed to give it a nice, sweet caress. A tight squeeze. A bite.

Okay, maybe not a bite.

Oh, who was she kidding? She’d totally take a bite out of that thing.

It was unfair, really. It was just a butt. What business did it have being so–

Something touched Belle's shoulder and she jumped, tearing her earbuds out. She spun around in her seat and found Mrs Potts with her hands on her hips and a haughty look on her face.

“Head in the clouds again, I see…” she tutted.

“Uh– N-no.” Belle blurted, belatedly rushing to pause the podcast on her phone. She turned straight ahead and corrected her posture, doing her best impression of somebody who definitely hadn’t just been caught ogling a guest.

The two of them did their best to act casual as Mr Gold hitched across the lobby– both offering polite, innocent smiles as he passed the circulation desk. Belle gave a small wave, and for one beautiful second, their eyes met and he smiled back. He disappeared among the shelves and she let out a sigh.

Mrs Potts leaned over Belle’s shoulder and cleared her throat. “I understand we all have our own little vices to help us get through the day with our sanity in tact, Miss French– just so long as we get our work done on time. Is that clear?”

Belle swallowed hard. “Yes, Mrs Potts.” she said, reaching out and patting a hand on the cart full of books still waiting to be processed. “You know, I was just um, finishing up my lunch break.”

With a skeptical little hum, the woman walked off and Belle eased her shoulders.

*****

An hour later, she was distracted again.

It wasn't her fault that Mr Gold had seated himself at one of the reading tables across the lobby where she could see him. Whatever he was reading, it must have been good because he was hunched over the table with keen interest. A cascade of soft, brown hair was catching the light overhead just so. He had his lips pressed together, tongue periodically poking out to wet them. And then there were his hands.

He was so gentle, the way he handled his books. The delicate way he flipped each page; It was like he was caressing a lover, Belle thought.

She'd like to be caressed.

He ought to spread her pages and read her.

Mr Gold's focus lifted away from his book then. He looked around the library, blinking as he returned to reality– and if Belle hadn't been enjoying the view of his Adam's apple so much, she'd have had the mind to look away sooner.

Their eyes met, only this time it was mortifying. His eyes widened and Belle darted her gaze up to the inspirational posters on the wall, pretending to read them. She counted to five and turned back to her computer screen, tucking her hair behind her ear.

After clicking and typing a few nothings into the database program for appearances, her eyes stealthily drifted back to Mr Gold. Checking him out from afar was all well and good, but she was on a mission today.

He'd closed his book and was skimming the back covers of the others he had piled beside him.

That was her cue.

Belle plucked one of the flyers off the stack on her desk and stood up, taking a second to smooth out her skirt before heading over.

“Uh…” she cleared her throat. “Mr Gold?”

He looked up at her from his book, brows raised expectantly.

“Um… I just wanted to give you this.” she said, holding out the flyer.

He blinked and shifted in his seat, his eyes snapping down to read the headline. Knitting his brows together, he tilted his head and glanced back up at her. His lips parted, and a hand came up to rub at the collar of his shirt.

“I-I know the flyer says Mommy and Me, but it's actually a family thing that's open to all parents and guardians regardless of gender?” she explained, cringing at the way her voice cracked on the last few words. “I um... I tried to convince the director to let us call it something more inclusive, but they said it didn't have the same ring to it?”

He wrinkled his nose and a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. He squashed it though– pressing his lips together and shaking his head.

God, he probably thought she was so stupid. Why was everything she was saying coming out as a question?

Belle was about to initiate her exit strategy, but then he touched his fingers to his lips. It seemed he was thinking. That he was going to do something. Say something?

He reached out to accept the flyer from her, but paused, wet his lips, and nodded first.

“It’s next Thursday at six,” Belle continued, feeling her heart begin to race. This was it. This was her chance. “And well… I’ll be there. Because um– well, I love kids, and uh, it’d be really great to see you and Bae there?”

His smile widened at the mention of the boy's name, and he skimmed over the flyer a second time.

“The kids always have a lot of fun and it's um…” Belle trailed off, her momentum slipping already, and started wringing her hands over her belly. “Well, we do all sorts of things, but basically it's all about helping parents and children communicate and understand each other better by creating transformative works together based off of classic folk tales? The um, the idea is that it can often be easier for children to express themselves through stories than plain conversation?”

The corners of his mouth pinched downwards and he hiked his brows. “Hm.”

Belle smiled and relaxed her shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief.

A hm!

A hm was good!

She could work with a hm!

“It's uh… a great way to meet other parents, too.” she added.

He uttered another sound– a resigned little groan– and looked back down at his book, rubbing his thumb along the corners of the pages.

Damn it.

Belle squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her cheeks grow hot. She only meant to convey her own desire to get to know him, but instead she probably made it sound like some kind of bizarre mixer for single parents. He probably thought she pitied him now. Oh, look at the poor, lonely man reading by himself– if only he were to get out more, he might meet somebody!

Sure, she hoped he had friends and wasn’t lonely– but her intentions at the moment weren’t quite so noble. No, no. The only person she was interested in setting him up with was herself.

But regardless, if this was going to go anywhere, she needed to keep talking to him.

“I mean–” she shook her head, “not that you like, would have to talk to anybody. At all. I didn't mean meet people as in meet people. You don't have to meet anyone if you don't want to?”

Mr Gold looked back up at her again, leaning closer and tilting his head.

Yes, yes. Good save.

“Because I take it you're… I mean I think you're a…”

No, no. Backpedal. Reroute.

Belle squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “I have a lot of respect for single parents and the idea that you– that they need to find and settle down with another person to give their child a more traditional family is just…”

She tucked her hair behind her ears and threw a quick glance over her shoulder to dodge his gaze. Her hands were trembling and she could feel her armpits starting to sweat and itch. Hell, everything was starting to sweat. But he was actually looking at her this time instead of turning away and hiding behind his hair– and quite frankly, she wasn't prepared for it. His eyes were so warm and brown and soulful and sexy and good grief, she needed to get away before she did something stupid. Like confess that she was practically in love with him. Or tell him how much she liked his butt and wanted to bite it, apparently.

“I mean, it's really offensive, isn't it?” she chuckled awkwardly, already taking half a step back. “...heh.”

He scoffed and placed the flyer on the table, nodding in agreement. The corner of his mouth curled into one of those crooked smirks of his, and Belle’s heart pounded in her throat.

“Anyway, uh, no pressure or anything– bye!” she finished quickly, giving a little wave and spinning on her heels. She made a beeline for the front desk and sat back down with a huff, immediately grabbing her hand sanitizer so she could clean the yucky, clammy, sweaty feeling from her palms.

Biting butts.

Was that even a thing?

Well, of course it was. Everything was a thing. But why?

Oh, God.

She was like a voracious lioness, wasn't she? Lying in wait, ready to pounce on and sink her fangs into the succulent rump of a gazelle. Or a cute little zebra. Or a painfully shy silver fox with good taste in books.

“Still finishing our lunch break, are we?” Mrs Potts asked, coming over and making a point of examining one of the books still waiting to be processed in. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Get me transferred to another library branch and put me out of my misery.” Belle groaned, slouching in her seat.

Mrs Potts gave her an appraising look. “You know…” she leaned in and beckoned Belle closer, her eyes brimming with mischief.

Skeptical, Belle rolled her eyes, but she could humor the woman.

“Back in my day,” she whispered, “if a girl wanted to get a boy's attention, she might accidentally drop something so he could pick it up for her.”

Belle pulled back and narrowed her eyes, managing a polite smile. “With all due respect, Mrs Potts– this isn’t the seventh grade.”

“Well.” She huffed in offense and brushed some imaginary dirt off of her dress. “It was only a suggestion. But by all means– keep soliciting him like a used car salesman. Seems to be working out well for you.” she muttered, bustling back to her office.

At a loss for words, Belle watched the woman waddle off with her mouth hanging open.

‘Accidentally’ drop something?

Ridiculous.

She was 21st century woman! She didn’t need to partake in foolish games like that! Feigning clumsiness to make herself seem less intimidating to a man? Pandering to some innate male desire to feel useful!?

Absolutely insulting, is what it was! Degrading!

She shook her head and popped her earbuds back in, putting her podcast back on. The Weaver’s velvety voice filled her ears again, and as she finally began cataloging the new acquisitions, Belle couldn't help wondering if his butt was half as nice as Mr Gold's.

Probably not.

A butt like that was a rare and beautiful thing.

But oh, goodness. A man with The Weaver's sexy accent, and Mr Gold's perfect little tush? A girl could dream.

[horrible-monstrosity]

some nonsense about capitalism, and some more nonsense with the egg girl being far too willing to act for herself, which just raises questions about how this works and why these girls need saving in the first place and bla bl a bla also brownie, who we haven't even seen fight before, has like five different weapons already... dude just let the other girls modify their weapons if they can imagine it in place of randos giving main girl random shit that just works for some reason. second ep, main sees gynmasts gym whip and thinks, what if I did that and makes her own weapon change like that; third/fourth seeing the two fan girls being friends inspires main girl to tell idol girl we needs to do the teamwork and they both work their weapons into something matching and do the thing. this would also imply that summoning two related girls gets you an approximately twice-as-strong monster, as though their monsters had merged rather than spawning as seperate entities, which would be implied to be what happened when brownie cracked like 20 eggs at once if THE SHOW EVER FUCKING ADDRESSES THAT also man bad woman victim a bloo bloo blooo

hey remmer last episde wehn muh sawki name was cliffhanger dramatic? now they jus dump it on us that the mom recognises her and she just says she's his niece. glad to know i don't need to care about that either thanks main namedrops koito aka suicide girl like she expects the other two to know who the actual fuck she's talking about so brownie can exposition to them that she's the girl main's trying to save without having to actually write main having any emotions about having a dead fucking friend she's trying to bring back, like she might have to pause slightly before she says "my friind who committed fucking suicide because of me" wow that'd be too hard to write... not that they didn't already kill it by having her just casually, emotionlessly namedrop the girl in the first place. idol girl then immeeeeeeediately decides sudoku girl was sucking sawasaki man's dick and that's why she killed herself, right to the face of main girl who has likely considered this many times over and who should be pretty fucking fucked up about this shit, who idol girl knows damn well should have thought about this and that maybe saying a girl's friend fucking killed herself for some teacher love scandal reason is kind of a dick move... and main barely fucking reacts. OK, COOL. AND THEN THE TEACHER INSTANTLY APPEARS AT THE HOUSE AT THAT EXACT MOMENT A AHAHAHAHAH H AH DHFSDUBGUBGTEV BYSU Y OES5YSYUYYYBRND BY65 YRBYB YIB8TU A4YT4W6 T UGG U FUCK OFF SHOW uncle adopts cats so he can't be bad.......??????? I mean I'm entirely sure this show will, in the next second immediately after I unpause this shit, immediately turn the teacher into the most absurd superdemon ever known to mankind so it can smear the slurry of MAN BAYUD WOMUN VBICTUMUUUUUMMM in our faces like the slurry of brain-diarhea coming out of thw writing staff's ears, but that doesn't actually excuse anything, gendergirl. Maybe he was kind to the girl like he's kind to his cats and that's why she fell in love with him, and whatever happened next wasn't even his fault. you dumb fuck.

lol they mentioned the injuries again lol they're still pretending that's an actual functioning plot point lol somehow asking mom-chan about why sudoku-chan fucking died turned into telling her about the dream fights... those two things have nothing to do with each other and can be completely separated. what the fuck.

lololololidolgirl has abusive mom completlely offscreen and she's just telling us lololololololol but talking about main's dad simply leaving turns into "lol men weak and bad can't hanble stronb wimun" lol fuck off

for some reason, or for absolutely no reason, or because the writers are pretentions tards who're like 'lookit how smurt we ar durrrrr' we cut from the meaningless grousing exposition schoolgirl slice-of-life club with brownie laughing to the not-sees laughing as brownie saves a grown-ass woman who tries to give her hair-care tips... "ain'tcha gonna ask why i diiiiiiied?" nope, brownie has as much interest in your meaningless exposition as I do. I'd say as the audience does, but you know there's a fuckload of dunning-krugers eating this shit up and claiming you only don't like it becus it needs u think durr even though thinking about this shit for five seconds is enough to show how much of a pile of bullshit it is. also, remember the first episode where it was kept beautifully ambiguous whether the girl main was saving had actually done the sudoku, or if she was considering it and being saved there would help her have the strength to keep living or some shit, or if she was a conceptual personification of a suicidal bullying victim created out of the subconcious of humanity and not even a real existing person? especially since she somehow knew what was happening, making it seem like she'd been through this before, like she'd been hatched and saved (or failed to be saved) previously? naw let's just spoonfeed everything to the audience, anally even. here's your suppository of bullshit. i know they'd already made it fairly clear the girls being saved had done the sudoku, but this "durrr do you know that uhhhhhh i'm dead?" bit is just... jesus christ shut the fuck up show, shut the fuck up what's the line between sudoku girls who end up as statues and ones who end up in eggs? could one of the main casts' sudoku girls end up in one of the others' eggs, or even in one of their own (especially given someone else can buy the egg for them and they don't even need to crack it themselves to get slapped into a fight) and end up being saved? how would that affect the statue's progress? what the fuck is any of this shit, even?

brownie slaps the shit out of haircare girl lol and the monster is... a hair-care monster. i... why the fuck are there two of them this time? sorry, three of them?? you'd think the "mirror mirror" shit would imply a theme of duality because reflections and shit but just... "how do i beat them?" fuck i don't know you're the mahu shuju here you figure it out then it....... cuts to the middle of the day with brownie hanging out with the rest of the girls... WHAT THE FUCK? so was that a flashback (for no fucking reason), did she beat them offscreen after having gone home and gone to sleep offscreen as well since it jumped to this from them hanging at main's home? what the fuck is happening and why the fuck should i care, show? and what we cut away to was a bunch of incoherent fucking babble in random fucking locations as the girls walk... somewhere for no reason at all... yeah, this was worth cutting off the battle for! i... after enough wandering they sit down to eat in some abandoned-ass-looking fucking I don't know where the fuck they are and... THE EGG PEOPLE TELL THEM TO BUY THEIR EGGS AND LEAVE. WHERE THE FUCK IN EGGLAND DID THEY FIND FOOD? DOES THE FOOD ACTUALLY EXIST? WILL EATING IT MAKE THEM FAT? WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY? WHY DOES EGGWORLD EVEN HAVE A PLACE LIKE THIS? WHEN  DID THEY GET HERE? THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF THIS? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-- ........................the egg people turn on the lights for them and let them pkay game because.............................. aegIibuGHUHgHGbgb i thought they wre unfeeling and caulous vgny yueyy y jb that was like their one character trait you rubbed in in out faces how tyey were ht0hing but a shitty kyuibey ripoff dgbbky yr dj jffj why should they care? why did the girls even try to appeal to their sympathies for a fucking bowling game when they had previously been shown to have none?? agdaaaaaaaaaaaa

do fucking selfies carry over to the real world? who the fuck cares? gender girl tries to garner more sympathy with the audience by repeating her exact same gripes and character traits but this time with selfies. i could not care less. apparently we're supposed to care that 'ura-acca', whichever the fuck of the eggmen that even is, being softer on the girls than... other acca, even though they've been shown to have no appreciable differences before this, and also they're both completely offscreen so it's hard to even associate these shiny new character traits with whichever one of them is supposed to be doing it. what the fuck is the point of any of this again? "so buy your eggs and go to sleep"- WHAT THE FUDK I THOUGHT EGG-BUYING HAPPENED IN THE DREAMOWLRD TO BEING WITH. FUCKING MAIN CHARACTER SAID SHE WAS IN A DREAM WHEN THE CICADA STARTED TALKING TO HER AND THEN SHE WAS LED TO THE EGG-MACHINE. THIS PLACE EXISTS IN THE WAKING WORLD? CAN PEOPLE JUST FUCKING WALK IN HERE BECAUSE IT JUST ACTUALLY FUCKING EXISTS? WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUU just as we're wondering why the fuck these girls don't just fucking buy their eggs already and get on with it idol girl just fucking suggests that they just fucking give up with it and stop buying eggs. fuuuuuuuuuuck I'd been long wondering about what the fuck was going to keep them doing eggs if they didn't want to, but it's just going to be something fucking dumb and they're just going to slam us in the fucking face with it like a fucking frying pan aren't they. also, idolgirl is just fucking saying this to the face of ura acca and other acca after they'd been bitching at the girls to get a move on, which just seems... really cheap and lazy on both her part and the writers' part. you wasted acca-kuns' time for nothing you little brat! also also, this is the girl with the derpest feelungs evurr who cut herself over the sudoku, whose dreamworl overrode main's? yeah remember that? she actually doesn't give a fuck and is going to give up now lol. ha ha bitch bye lolololol "im w9man so muh emotions spwepwpt away" you dumb fucker. and yeah, it's true that feeling guilty shouldn't mean you need to risk your life for some unknown payoff (none of the girls have even gotten CLOSE to reviving a statue as far as I can tell), but you'd think this conversation would come after a near-death harrowing battle or some shit, not just WANDERING AROUND AND EATING DREAM SNACKS AND TALKING ABOUT FUCKALL YOU LITTLE SHIT. Or after actually connecting with the main cast and making actual real-life friendships with them, with the idea that she has in real life now what she was missing when sudoku did the sudoku, but the main cast has absolutely no chemistry. The writers want us to think they do, but they just don't. "someone has to be the bad guy!" real funny line considering there's no real villain in this show, or conflict, or anything... but no, no one needs to be the bad guy, this whole "durr we riskung our lives for nutttun" came out of nowhere for no reason, we don't need it, and then yeah she informs us all that "we freinds" because durp. You were the one shittalking her dead best friend to her face either like five minutes ago or a day ago depending on how the fuck this is actually supposed to be paced, you fucknaut. None of these girls actually know each other aside from babbling about their shitty backstories and idol in particular is just an asshole. I hate this fucking show lol then... brownie......... dumpers her exposition backstory on us and it's EVEN DUMBER THAN ANYTHING BEFORE, SOMEHOW. naw, she has a huge fucking fuckoff scar all down her back from being...... stabbed, because a knife stabwound is like having your entire spine ripped out, and WE'VE NEVER HEARD ABOUT THIS AT ALL, SOMEHOW, OR EVEN GOTTEN A HINT OF IT, and somehow SHE KNEW FROM THE START THAT GOING TO EGGWORL WOULD MAKE HER SCAR HURT LESS BECAUSE IT MAKE U SWONGER, BECAUSE IF SHE DIDN'T KNOW THAT FROM THE START AND DIDN'T WANT TO SAVE HER SISTER WHY THE FUCK WOULD SHE START GOING THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE? and then finally eggmang tells us there was no reason for anyone to keep going to the eggworl in the first place, at all, ever, so they can all just give up if they decide they don't care abymore. GREAT, NICE TO KNOW I DEON'T NEED TO CARE ABOUT THAT EITHER, THANKS SHOW, YOU FUCKWIT.

then finally we get back the hair battle that happened..... whothe fuck knows when, it turns out the real monster is the egg girl some fucking how, brownie has a stupid fucking catchpjhrase because fuck you, the monater was actually egg girl's hair actually because that doesn't make any sense either, fuck you. why was this battle chosen as the one to flash back to repeatedly like it's indicative of brownie's storyline somehow? At least gendergirl's exposition battles were related to her dumb fucking issues, this shit's just random.

and then idol girl goes to... buy... the fucking egg...... even though she just said..................... sob eggman 2 tricked them into buying the eggs by saying nthyey didn't need to buy the eggs, some bullshit about teenage rebellion and reverse psychology, like he said "absolutely don't buy the eggs" instead of a wishy-washy "eeeeeeeeeif you want to or not auiehgfgh". why the fuck do they want them to buy the eggs again? and then eggman 1 has this... fucking..... "animation" of it """laughing"""" just by its stupid fucking solid black triangle of a mouth blinking in and out of existence and the artists see fit to put this right smack in the middle of the full screen for a good second so we can look at how good their animation is gsdfhdfhmvf  dtjf f then brownie looks sad or something, because having her reneg(g)e on the backstory and conviction they just exposited to us five seconds ago and didn't actually integrate or develop in the fuckinbg slightest is good writign fck, this shit i'm logging into my anime list and giving this show a 1 out of 10 i'm done

[francisrosenfeld]

I was already eleven years old when my parents gave up on the hope of having a son, and because I was the oldest, and also too tall, strong and wayward, they cut up my hair and dressed me up as a boy. It may sound odd to you, but it was a fairly common custom in the area I was from for families without sons to have one of their daughters act like one.

I cried for days at the loss of my beautiful tresses, so dark, thick and heavy that when I braided them the braids were thicker than my arm. Every day when I woke up I washed my face and looked in the mirror to see a very sad boy stare back at me. The image in the mirror was my face, but not quite, there was nothing familiar about the furrowed brow and the piercing gaze behind those transparent eyes, it felt as if that person in the mirror had been born a boy, and the girl me in front of the mirror never existed.

My sisters started treating me differently, I had privileges now, I had become one of those upon whom fate had smiled, I didn’t have to do the chores, I was free to move as I pleased and I could voice my opinions at the table. I tried with all the strength and passion that I had to hold on to the sisterhood that was our most prized, our only possession. I ran after them out in the fields and tried to explain that I was the same person, that it wasn’t my choice, that I valued our times together, but tradition was stronger than anything, stronger than sisterhood, stronger than shared experiences, stronger than our promise to each other. To them I was a boy now, and that instantly made me a stranger.

In a very weird way, the privileges imparted by my apparent change of gender got completely annihilated by the loss of my cherished bond with my sisters.

Days passed, then months, then years. I learned to walk tall, to stare, to talk back, to stand up and defend my honor, and every morning when I looked in the mirror I saw a young man staring back at me, not sad anymore, but daring, strong and willful.

I went to school and learned to read and count, I walked into the market as my father’s equal, I attended the gatherings of the community of elders, I laughed at risque jokes and I partook in the spirits. For almost seven years I was this person, this strange tall and beardless boy, and I became so at ease with my role that even the neighbors forgot that I’d been born a woman.

When the seventh year arrived and I approached the age of eighteen, my parents figured it was time to find me a husband, so they allowed my hair to grow and sewed me beautiful female garb, to ensure I attracted worthy suitors, but every time I looked into the mirror in the morning I saw a daring young man staring back at me, a man whose hair was allowed to grow long and reached all the way down to his waist now. For a whole year my sisters tried to give me a crash course in “womanhood”, they taught me how to walk, how to smile, how to lower my gaze, how to act obedient, but that daring young man in the mirror couldn’t be taught submission to save his life and no suitor in his right mind would take the challenge.

My father was angry, my mother decried her continued martyrdom of shame and disappointment in her offspring and to top it all, our village was at war. The eligible suitors had become fewer and my awkwardly ambiguous gender presence became increasingly contentious in the household.

One morning my father came home from the market with a jubilant smile on his face and announced proudly to the family that he had found a man willing to marry me sight unseen. The house was immediately engulfed into an effervescent bubble of relief and contentment, as the preparations for my upcoming nuptials took flight.

Very early the next morning I cut my hair short, dressed in male attire, took a last look in the mirror at that daring young man with the piercing eyes and joined the Foreign Legion.

[thejpfdude-blog]

The Week in Anime (Week of 1/23/16)

Hello and welcome to another edition of TWiA! Another week passes, and that means another batch of episodes to rant talk about! So let’s begin with those rankings, all up to date!

Rankings:

1 (0). Demi-chan wa Kataritai (9/10) [3/?]

2 (0). Kono Subarashii Sekai ni Shukufuku wo! 2 (great/10) [2/10]

3 (0). Gabriel DropOut (great/10) [2/12]

4 (0). Kuzu no Honkai (good/10) [2/?]

5 (+2). Kobayashi-san Chi no Maid Dragon (decent/10) [2/?]

6 (-1). Nobunaga no Shinobi (7/10) [16/?]

7 (+1). Little Witch Academia (TV) (6/10) [2-3/25]

8 (+1). Rewrite: Moon and Terra (decent/10) [2/?]

9 (+1). Sengoku Choujuu Giga: Otsu (meh/10) [2/13]

10 (-4). Masamune-kun no Revenge (meh/10) [3/?]

11 (0). Nyanbo (4/10) [16/26]

Awards:

Best “Is It Me Or Is It The Others Who Are Wrong” Award: Little Witch Academia

This show was hyped up to the max on /r/anime, to the point where there were daily posts with the number of days until the first episode would air. I didn’t really buy into the hype after watching the original OVA and leaving it feeling a bit underwhelmed. And after two episodes, I knew what I was getting myself into: it’s not anything amazing, but it’s not horrible either. It’s right in that middle ground of enjoyment, enough for me to continue with it even though it’s two cour. Yet there’s still a thought inside of me, wondering why I’m not enjoying it as much as other people seem to be. And after much thought, there’s two reasons that people are loving this show that I narrowed down: the great animation and the Disney-like story. Those two things are pretty much the reason for my lack of enjoyment for this series.

Good animation is nice, but it’s not anything that’s going to significantly raise the score of a show for me. And as for the second point, the show is Disney-like in the sense that it portrays the message of “if you believe, you’ll surely accomplish it”. It was prominent with the OVA, and so far with the first two episodes it’s been a thing as well. Unfortunately, I’m not really about the whole “with the power of believing/friendship/whatever we can surely win/accomplish this task/etc.”: it’s the main reason why I generally don’t watch shounens/sports shows, and it’s the reason why I don’t particularly like some CGDCTs with that message as well, such as Yuru Yuri sometimes or what GochiUsa’s second season is starting to look like from the episodes I’ve watched.

What it really boils down to is basically “it’s not for me”. It’s basically the same situation with Flying Witch: I’m not saying the show is bad or that I hate the show. In fact, I appreciate what Flying Witch contributed towards the iyashikei genre (healing show in a sense), and I appreciate the whole backstory with LWA and how it got Kickstarted. But in the end, I rate based on how I enjoyed a show, and for me at this point, LWA hasn’t been amazing, but is still okay. We’ll see how it progresses later because things can change dramatically, but so far this is how I feel about it.

Best “Random Action Scene” Award: Kobayashi-san Chi no Maid Dragon

Sasuga KyoAni. In a comedy/slice-of-life show, we get a pretty dang good action scene featuring the two dragons that have been introduced so far. I’m not watching very many action shows this season, so I’m not going to so far as to say that this scene was the best action scene of the young season. Instead I’ll just say that this scene is a good example of the versatility of this show. We got the laughs for sure, but it can go farther than that as there were actually some nice heartwarming moments as well with the kid dragon’s exile scene. I’m curious to see how the other characters will fit into the dynamic of the show, based on what I saw from the OP/ED sequences. We’ll see I guess.

Most Fucked Up Shit Award: Kuzu no Honkai

(Honestly it isn’t that bad, but compared to the rest of the shows I’m watching, this is like some horror stuff)

I try to keep myself from swearing in these posts because I’m trying to limit my cuss word usage, but no euphemism is accurately going to describe this award. Straight up, this is some fucked up shit. On the one hand, this show has been a really interesting take on romance in a genre which usually is filled with annoying tropes and disappointing nothings. On the other hand, the relationships themselves are really really messed up. You have both Hanabi and Mugi pretending that the other person is their actual love during the more intimate scenes, you have the main relationship itself which I’m sure is going to end up self-destructing at some point during the season, and now you introduce more characters into the love polygon, with no expenses towards the gender of the person. It’s messy, but really fun to watch. I don’t know if that makes me a bad person, but I already knew that from the start anyway so I’m ready for the rest of this messed up ride.

Most Oregairu-like Show: Masamune-kun no Revenge

I’m seeing some similarities with this show and Oregairu, specifically in the characters. The most obvious one is Yukino and Aki: both ice queens with long black-ish hair. Then there’s the less obvious Yui and Futaba, both sort of the cheerful genki-type characters (with similar figures...). And then there’s the traps.

But really, that’s it for the similarities. And even then, these similarities aren’t really that good when you look deeper. Let’s start with the traps. Well, first let me start off by saying I don’t like traps. They usually have absolutely no point other than “oh look it’s a trap character”. That’s the case for Re:Zero and that’s the case for Masamune-kun: basically they just added the trap because they could, although they could have put a non-trap character and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Yet with Oregairu, Totsuka (the trap) actually has a purpose, and it’s the reason why I actually like him unlike the other traps out there. He basically acts as the main source of comedic moments with 8man, and him being a trap is essential to those comedic moments. In that way, him being a trap served a purpose, and so I was fine with it.

Going further, the comparison between Yui and Futaba is ruined by the fact that Yui is a main character in her show while Futaba isn’t, meaning we get a rejection in the second episode and her time on screen very much cut down. Unfortunate because I liked her the most out of all of the characters so far. And then there’s Aki and Yukino, both characters of an archetype I don’t really like: the tsundere. It’s obviously too early to tell, but from the first three episodes Aki just seems like a worse version of Yukino: she flip-flops too much between tsun and dere mode, which I think is more frustrating than just sticking with the tsun and slowly moving towards the dere like Yukino does.

So overall, Masamune-kun so far has been hit-and-miss so far. It’s had its moments and misses, but overall it’s a decent to average show. Time will tell as to how this continues, but with how it’s progressing, I’m honestly not too excited to see. Oh well, I’m in this ride for now.

The “Landfill Info Dump” Show Award: Rewrite (Moon and Terra)

First off, I have to say that this season of Rewrite so far has been much better than the first season. Unfortunately, that also leads us to this award, which was sort of a given with how unorganized the first season was. Because of the amount of stuff they glossed over, they now have to explain all of the stuff they missed, leading to a lot of information being dumped to the viewer. Now I’m not sure if this is because I’ve already read the VN or something else, but the info dump made the episodes go so slowly, and just made the show boring to watch. That might also just be the slow pacing of the show though, so I can’t really tell if it’s the same for an anime-only viewer. Well, hopefully this continues to be a decent adaptation.

The “Nisekoi” Award: Demi-chan wa Kataritai

Now before I get into my spiel, let me say that this show is some really good stuff. It’s so good that I already bought volume 1 of the manga, which tells you something given that I almost never get manga. Having said that, this episode revealed some things that I didn’t really like, namely the harem-y feels I’m getting (hence the Nisekoi award). From Machi’s crush on the sensei to Sato-sensei’s crush on the sensei to Hikari’s ambiguous crush on the sensei, I’m a bit wary. I have been told that nothing actually happens romantically, so I am optimistic that it’s just me being super pessimistic. Still, it’s something that’s been bothering me with this show, and is really the only complaint I have for it. But really, it’s a minor minor issue compared to the great things this show is doing. Still the best anime of the season so far.

The “Red Flags Dropped Show of the Week” Award: Fuuka

This last episode was the breaking point. Well actually, every episode was the breaking point, but this episode just pushed it over the edge. Firstly, why is the MC such a basic biatch? Secondly, how the heck did he end up in the position he was when he fell on Fuuka? Thirdly, how did I end up watching four episodes of this? For the time I was watching this, I think I had to pause at least five times per episode because I had to recollect myself and prevent myself from facedesking too hard. There were so many stupid decisions and turns that were made during this show, and watching it was probably bad for my health. It’s not even worth it anymore for “that point”, and so I say no more.

Best Episode of the Week Award: KonoSuba S2

Okay, this episode was significantly better in the face department. No noticeable derp, and the derp that was there was purposeful and added to the humor. And speaking of that, this episode was even better than the first episode, making me laugh more than any show from last season combined. It’s stupid, yes, but it uses its stupidity in a humorous way, parodying cliches and such to turn scenes in unexpected directions. I’m interested to see if the bad derp and good derp alternate, because apparently the animation directors for episodes alternate between odd and even numbered episodes. Would be interesting if that was the case. Still, this show was the best comedy last year, and it’s making a strong case for this year as well.

And that’s all for this week: thanks for reading! Random side note: there’s a certain show on my radar that’s been recommended to me, so I’ll give that a shot and see if it’s worth watching. If you know of Youjo Senki, well that’s it. We’ll see if it’s any good considering the genre isn’t really my thing.

So until next time, I’ll see you in the next post!