#I respect anybody who likes the skin it IS a nice skin

[odessastone]

there's just something about Cleric Lifeweaver I can't quite put my finger on about why I don't rly like it that much... tbh I think I got a bad taste for it when it first dropped and all the annoying dudes on Reddit were like "Finally, a LW skin that doesn't look ridiculously gay". So now whenever I see it I'm like Ah yes, the Acceptable LW Skin For Straight People. It's not the skin's fault but it's been kinda tainted for me ig lol

[skipper1331]

Secret // Alexia Putellas

| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | extra |

Everybody knew that Alexia was a private person - she only shared the information she wanted to share as she was very selective in her choice of words and very careful about whom she told what.

And even though that facade dropped around her friends and family, she still kept you a secret - she preferred it that way - having you to herself and not having to deal with headlines like 'Alexia Putellas dating her Barcelona teammate.' and the drama that it could cause.

Whenever it was just the two of you she was the sweetest girl, treating you like a princess and being totally in love with you while when other people were around, she kept her distance, acted strictly professional and didn‘t show any signs of affection.

The only person who knew about you was her sister, Alba and she only found out by accident.

-

"mi amor, you‘re so beautiful" the midfielder admired, kissing along your jaw, "I can‘t get enough of you" she found her way down to your neck, completely lost in the feeling of you before a certain spot on your neck caught her attention where she gently created reddish marks.

Just because nobody knew about you, didn’t mean that it would stop Alexia from silently claiming you.

Her fingertips ran along your exposed skin as your shirt had riddled up, leaving the midfielder craving for more.

The Barcelona player continued to mumble sweet nothings, planting some last even sweeter kisses on your neck before she reached up to your lips, kissing them with every ounce of love. Alexia always kissed you like that, letting you know that you caused the butterflies in her stomach.

Tugging on your shirt, she signaled that she wanted it off. Happily obeying, you took it off, her hands now wandering around your bare upper body as she was back kissing you with so much passion and love.

"Ale- do you know what-" both of you froze at the same time, your girlfriend shielding your exposed body as her sister stood in the door frame, "oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!" she covered eyes, rushing out of the room and slamming the door shut.

"mierda!" Ale was off of you in an instant, throwing your shirt back to you.

"I‘m Alba!" the younger Putellas called threw the door, "we haven‘t meet yet. I‘m her sister!"

You chuckled - wrong move as Alexia glared at you, marching out of her bedroom.

"Do you ever knock?!" she said angrily, pulling her sister away, giving you the time you needed.

"I thought you were asleep! You didn‘t open the front door when I knocked" the sister defended herself in their mother tongue.

Alexia huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose, "so, who‘s she?" Alba asked.

Perfectly timed, you exited the bedroom, walking towards the sisters in the living room, "I’m Y/N" you smiled nicely, offering your hand.

"Alba" she introduced herself once again, returning your smile and shaking your hand.

"She‘s my girlfriend" the midfielder huffed, annoyed that her little sister caught you, "20€ if you don‘t tell anyone about it" the older one said.

She would pay money to keep you a secret? Don‘t get me wrong, you didn‘t want to be public as you loved the privacy both of you had as individuals and together but you did hope for that she would at least tell your friends and family. All you wanted was to hold her hand and not to worry about standing too close to her.

The sparkle in your eyes died down, feeling stings in your heart but nonetheless respecting Alexia‘s wishes.

"I don‘t need your money" Alba stated when she saw the way your face fell, "you could have just said please."

You felt more than rejected in that moment.

"You won‘t tell anybody about this" she ordered this time now, her jaw clenched and voice firm - captains order.

Alba walked towards the door, "I‘m going to the car, mamá is waiting. Hurry up" before she left, only Alexia and you left in her apartment.

"I‘m sorry amor, I forgot that we were having lunch together." the midfielder explained, not knowing nor realizing that her behavior had hurt you as she was just apologizing for the incident of Alba walking in.

"You can stay if you‘d like" she smiled, putting on her shoes.

After she had laced her last shoe, she pulled you in by your hips, kissing you good bye, getting a bit carried as the feeling of your lips locked was addicting.

-

You loved being Alexia‘s girlfriend but you didn‘t like being her secret.

To be honest, it didn‘t bother you at first but after 6 months, you started to think about at least telling your family (officially you hadn‘t even met Alba before) and friends but every time you proposed the idea of it, she got defensive and annoyed, so you didn‘t bring it up again.

After one year, you slowly started to think that maybe she was ashamed of being seen with you, just being with you or of you as her behavior got more and more secretive day by day - she didn‘t even act like your friend in training.

You didn‘t know where it was coming from because whenever you were behind closed doors, she was the most affectionate person who loved to cook for you or just sharing the same air made her heart and brain go love sick. She was indeed very much in love with you yet afraid to show this love outside of either of your apartments.

Sometimes you wished that she would take you out for dinner - it didn‘t have to be fancy at all, McDonalds would be simply enough - you just wanted to experience a date night.

And even though, she made home as romantic as possible, it wasn’t enough anymore. You craved for more.

Sometimes when you saw Ingrid and Mapi openly in love, you felt jealous. You wanted that too.

They were your friends and you were so happy for them as they matched each other perfectly but you couldn’t help but feel envy. You envied what they have, imagining how it would feel like with Alexia - hoping to have that with Alexia, one day.

-

"Do you want to go out tonight? Frido told me about this new restaurant!" you said smiling.

The midfielder looked up from her notebook, pausing the tv as she replayed Chelsea’s matches (the club Barcelona would face in the uwcl semi finals)

"Is it takeout?" she asked.

You shook your head - no. "We can go out" you tried again, flopping next to her on the couch.

"Amor!" she grumbled as all her notes fell to the ground, now not sorted anymore.

"Sorry"

"I‘m preparing for our upcoming matches, you should join me in fact, so you know how Chelsea will play. We can order takeout - you know I don‘t like going out with you" she sorted through her notes, grumbling and huffing at the non existing order. She hadn‘t realized that her words were harsh and in fact rude.

You got the message - she didn’t like going out(side) with you, she had made that very clear.

"I can get you some food from there tomorrow" she added, her voice gentle and the wrinkle between her brows gone as her notes were back in the correct order.

It didn‘t help though, you felt hurt. Was it that bad to be seen with you? You‘re a Barcelona player, her teammate - and friends get food together all the time, so why can‘t you get food together as friends? Nobody would suspect that the two of you were more than friends, right?

"Are you hungry? Do you want me to cook something for you, mi amor?"

Again, you shook your head, scrolling through your phone while you acted tough and unbothered by her comment as she didn‘t even notice how harsh her words had sounded before.

You sent a message in the group chat with Ingrid and Frido, asking if they wanted to try out the restaurant which the Swedish woman had discovered. Both of them agreed within seconds.

-

The two of you laid in bed, Alexia‘s arms wrapped around you as she whispered sweet nothings in your ear. It became a routine for Alexia to lull you to sleep while tracing patterns along your skin. She loved doing so and she loved watching you sleep - you looked at peace.

Something about tonight was different though. Normally, it wouldn’t take long for the captain to soothe you to sleep but after 30 minutes, you still were awake, mind seemingly not finding any rest.

"¿Qué pasa?" she whispered in the dark, gently pressing a kiss to the exposed skin on your shoulder.

"It‘s been over a year, Ale, when will you introduce me as your girlfriend? Or take me out on a date that isn’t in here?" your voice was almost inaudible. You knew it was a sensitive topic for Alexia, the girl always denying your requests on telling someone and shutting you out after the conversation and also avoiding you for the rest of the day. "Amor.. we‘ve talked about this" she said, pulling her hands off your body.

Coldness hit your body while the parts were her hands had rested burnt down.

You turned around, looking at her, the moonlight the only light source "all I’m asking is for some recognition." you admitted, almost pleading for her attention outside of either of your homes.

"But I see you. I see you in training and after training, why is it so important to you that people now? We won‘t have any privacy!" her voice raising slightly.

"Alexia… this has nothing to do with the media. I want to meet your family! Or go on a date and wear very nice clothes. Is that too much to ask for?"

"You‘re right. Lo siento, amor" her hands cupped your cheeks, resting her forehead against yours, "I‘ll try to be better"

-

Over the next few months, Alexia’s home started to become your least favourite place - you felt like you were trapped in a cage.

Nothing had changed.

She loved you behind closed doors while she couldn’t even look at you in training.

Each day that passed, more of your heart broke. Your motivation faded - football was your work and no longer a passion.

And Alexia could tell. Your passes were sloppy and your tackles were harsh.

As soon as you had arrived in her apartment, she began complaining about your attitude.

You were not having it.

You started yelling at each other, rude comments leaving both of your mouths,

"You promised me!" you shouted, all hidden anger and hurt discovering the surface, "you promised me and nothing has changed! I‘m your dirty little secret!" you spat.

"Alba knows about you, isn’t that enough?!"

"You offered her fucking money to keep her mouth shut!"

"What do you want?!"

"I can‘t do this anymore, Alexia. I don’t want to think about whether my girlfriend is ashamed of me or not."

"What are you talking about- amor?"

"I‘m worth more than that."

"Please- give me a chance"

"I did, Ale, more than once" you walked towards the front door, bending down to put on your shoes.

The captain followed, so overwhelmed by what was happening that her persona took some turns, "If you walk out that door, we‘re done!"

your hand was resting on the doorknob, ready to leave.

You looked at her, "Behind that door, we never existed anyway."

And with that being said, you left.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

How will the kids react or feel towards there mum ( the reader) gently stroking the back of their head to there shells which makes them sleepy as they lay or as she holds them on her chest? :D

I thought this might be cute

A Mother’s Touch (Fluff)

Bayverse!Turtles x reader

A/N: Cuteness overload! This stuff and my internship is giving me baby fever!😭💕 I love how, whenever I’ve written one of these, the kids at my internship do exactly as I’ve described my OC’s would do it. What kind of black magic is this?! One of them even called me mama today😭💕

Warnings: Cute things💚

Leonardo:

Romeo:

You could still clearly remember the time where newborn Romeo was laying on your chest, enjoying the heat of your skin as you and Leo were getting ready for bed. You started to stroke his little shell the same way you would do to Leo, when the two of you would cuddle while falling asleep. Your baby son yawned, letting out a small chirp at the sensation on his shell. You and Leo looked at each other with a shocked expression, as if your son had already started walking, before letting out a collective “awwww”, waking your son up from his little sleep.

Marcello:

Your little warrior of a son would never admit it, but he is an absolute sucker for when you stroke his head or shell. Even when his father does it, Marcello can’t help but like it, and will sometimes involuntary chirp or churr. However he would find it extremely annoying when you would do it, while he was trying to be angry. Both you and Leo have tried gaining the anger of an angry toddler Marcello, who got angry that you wouldn’t let him brud. If he is brudding, you’ll have to wait until he lets you pet him, which usually was when he was about to fall asleep, and then he’ll be as happy and calm as can be.

Gerardo:

This boy will always and have always loved it when you stroked his head or shell. He would let out all kinds of happy sounds, the turtley once and the human once, before leaning into your touch as a way to tell you to keep going. However, as a child, Gerardo would never tell you he wanted you to keep going. Instead he would let out a bunch of displeased turtle noises, with an angry yet very adorable look on his face that made you chuckle, before you would stroke his shell once more, his little tail wiggling happily.

Valentina:

The drama queen herself - at least when it comes to head pats and shell scratches. This little angel would very loudly demand her shell getting scratched as a toddler, if she saw her mother scratch anybody else. Even her father. She could be walking into your room in nothing but a diaper and a Marcello’s Nintendo in hand, only to let out a bunch of “No! No! No! Me! Me! Me!”, running to the bed where you were scratching Leo’s shell. However, it never got to a point where she would scream or cry, as her family members were quick to give their little princess whatever she wanted.

Raphael:

Joan:

Though Joan did not show or act like she wanted you to pet or caress her. She acted like she hated it, at times even telling not to do it. And each time you respected her wishes, knowing it had nothing to do with her few of you. She just didn’t like it all the time. But that did not mean that she never wanted it. At the few times where Joan found herself crying and seeking you out for comfort, she found it very nice and soothing when you held her close, tracing your fingers up and down the shapes on her shell, swaying you both from side to side.

Minerva:

It wasn’t uncommon for both you and Raph to pet Mini’s shell whenever she came to sleep in your bed. With her many nightmares as a child, both of you quickly learned how to comfort her. Although she would usually go for Raph in these situations, there had been times where she would climb up to you, and ask if she could stay with you for the night. With a tired yes, you could let her cuddle up against you, relaxing against you as you traced shapes on her little green head. It worked wonders and made her fall asleep real quick.

Ragnar:

Ragnar was the kind of child that wouldn’t ask you to stroke his head or shell, instead he would climb on top of you or nuzzle himself up against your side, and place your hand on his head, hoping that you would take the hit, which you of course did every time. Like his cousin Gerardo, Ragnar would make all sorts of happy sounds, along with extremely disappointed ones when you stopped. However, did he feel like he didn’t get enough scratches, he would climb into your lap and rest his head against you, and churr like the happiest turtle in the world when you caressed him once more.

Donatello:

Galileo:

As a newborn, Gali was one of those kids that wouldn’t sleep unless he could smell or feel his mother nearby. You could try to lay him down to rest, and he would cry as soon as you stood up, still fully awake. However, you and Donnie quickly learned that scratching his plastron or stroking his head would calm him down immediately, and after a few minutes of doing that, he would fall asleep. As he got older, you found that he always would calm down whenever one of you stroked his head or shell. You once noticed him scratching his own plastron in an attempt to calm himself down, and it worked.

Dorothy:

Dear little Dorothy preferred it when you scratched her shell while she was awake, so she could fully enjoy it. As a child, she knew nothing better than staying in your bed with you and Donnie, laughing at the picture book Donnie read out loud for her and her sister, while you did those shapes that she loved on her shell. She would smile and point out the pictures, engaging in conversation with her father, while you soothed her and her sisters backs.

Marie:

While her sister preferred being awake while you stroked her head and scratched her shell, Marie preferred being asleep. During your night readings with Donnie, she would rest on top of you, her head on your chest, silently following along in the story Donnie was reading and the conversation he had with Dorothy, while she slowly fell asleep, churring quietly as you followed the shapes of her scuts. You had to fight not to aww out loud, whenever she started burying herself closer against you in her sleep, hiding her face against you.

Michelangelo:

Sunny:

Sunny loves getting her shell scratched, she really does. But sometimes, she prefers petting other people, instead of letting them pet her. It was not that she didn’t like it, it was just her way of showing that she cared. It was a type of love language she had developed, after both you and Mikey would scratch her shell and stroke her head. So whenever you would hold her close and do any of those things to her as a toddler, she would afterwards get up and walk behind you, where she would start to scratch your own back. It was a heartwarming gesture that made you melt everytime. Your little Sunny truly was a ray of sunshine.

Luis:

Mr ‘No one gets pets other than me’, himself. Luis isn’t the biggest fan of sharing his mother and her caring touches with anybody else, when he is in an emotional state, and neither does he like other people receiving shell scratches when he is getting them. It would usually happen in extension to whenever he would run to you for comfort, claiming that your shell scratches helped him, even if it was his leg that was hurting. During those times he would stare very intently at Mikey whenever he came close, not wishing your attention to go anywhere else than on him.

[hi-i-love-u-bitch]

Okay I see your "if Hobie and Noir meet they would be besties and punch nazis together" and I totally agree with that! But also consider:

Hobie is Spider Noir's biggest fanboy!

Like in the comics he's like a HUGE Gwen Stacy stan and he's such a goofy little dork about it. In ATSV him and Gwen's relationship is more like chill friends, and I'm okay with that. But I think it be so funny that when Hobie was recruted into Spiderverse society and Miguel was showing him all the other universes with the different Spiderman variants he pauses by the computer screen with that one gritty black and white universe cuz he just saw some guy in a fedora and trench coat PUNCH A FUCKING NAZI!!! WHO IS THAT GUY?!?! HE'S SO COOL!!!

He asks Miguel a million and one question about the guy and when the old grump annoyingly shoos him away he asks Peter as he briefly met him during that one incident in Miles is dimension. When that still isn't enough he asks Lyla to tell him everything she knows on Noir. Now obviously Lyla has no obligation to do this but she's also never seen Hobie this giddy and excited over something other then music. Its adorable, he's almost like a little kid wanting to know everything about their favorite cartoon. Also she low key likes to annoy Miguel and Hobie's rebellious spirit that gets under her straight laced boss is skin which is hilarious.

You know when Gwen first met Hobie she was a bit intimated cuz he just had that "too cool" vibe about him. But as soon as she mentions that she has worked with other Spider people before, which includes Noir, he did a whole 180 and became a complete dork!

Hobie: Get out, you actually met him! 🤩

Gwen: Uh, yeah?

Hobie: How was he like? What did he say? Did he talk about fascist corruption that not only plagued the system back then but even now as well? Was he super cool during the fight?! 😃🤩💫😻

Gwen: ..........He was nice.

Hobie: That's so rad! ✨️🤟🤩

I also feel like, aside from Miles, Gwen keeps in contact with the other Spider peeps from the first movie and tried to recruit them into the Spider society but obviously Noir and Porker didn't join. Porker because he’s a cartoon that follows "toon logic" and Miguel's ideologies are too serious for his taste. And Noir because, and I quote: "The last I heard of a secret society designed to 'keep the peace for the greater good of humanity at any cost' a whole world war came about it. I know fascism when I see it, kid."

Gwen relays that message to Hobie when explaining why Noir isn't joining and Hobie's response to that is: "He gets it! He just like me fr! 😭💕"

I think it be really cute that in the next movie when they finally meet Hobie is kinda awkward and shy. Like this guy has never respected an adult in his life (at least not any that didn’t deserve the disrespect) and with Noir his all like "Hello sir" "How are you sir" "It's very nice to meet you sir!" And Noir is actually just a really nice guy if a little broody but he's heard so much about this kid from Gwen and how much of a good friend he's been to her so Noir already likes him on principle.

Hobie: Uh Mr. Noir-- Parker, sir! It is such an honor to meet you! The work you do in your universe is amazing and I hope to learn more while working alongside you however briefly.

Noir: Ah, Peter is just fine really, or Noir if it gets to confusing. No need to be so formal, we're all on equal footing here. I've heard a lot about you and your world as well from Gwen. Although it does sadden me that such a young man has to take on the burden of saving the world from such a corrupt society yet again, you're going about it quite well. War is hard and ugly and violent but you are amazingly brave to be able to stand up for what is right in the face of it all. If anybody is honored here it is me, for being able to meet such a remarkable young man like you. And knowing that my friends have made such honorable allies in the midst of all this chaos.

Hobie, externally: Yeah, it's whatevs 😎

Hobie, internally: Dont cry dont cry dont cry dont cry dont cry dont cry dont cry dont cry YOURE GUNNA LOOK SO UNCOOL IF YOU CRY IN FRONT OF HIM NOW 😭💕😭💕😭

I just think it be really cute if they had a wholesome father-son sort of relationship where they shit talk corrupt government systems and punch fascists together. You know, regular father-son bonding!

(Also I think that's another reason Miguel didn't invite Spider Noir to the Spiderverse, cuz he knew that both of these menaces together would cause a bigger headache than its worth 🤣🤣🤣)

[7-wonders]

reader has a strong personality, but sometimes she feels unsure of herself, her personality, her looks. in one of these days, feeling her bad mood, Dream reassures her, telling how much he admires and loves her, the way she's beautiful in every way, etc.

Jealousy, Jealousy

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

It started with Calliope.

To be clear, you absolutely supported Morpheus both coming to his ex-wife's aid and reconciling with her after their disastrous end (though the details were vague, you knew it had something to do with the son they shared, the one that Morpheus still couldn't bring himself to talk about). What had happened to Calliope at the hands of mortal men was absolutely horrific. If you had it your way, you'd hunt them both down and serve up a bit of vigilante justice. Morpheus forbade you from doing so, on the grounds that he had also been told no when wanting to do the exact same thing.

When Morpheus finally decided that it was time for the two to actually talk, you had met the Muse on your way out of the Dreaming to give them some space. After spending maybe three minutes with her, it was easy to reach the conclusion: Calliope is wonderful.

Not only is she stunning on the outside, but she has a kindness within that refused to be stamped out by her captors. She's so nice that, coming from anybody else, it would seem insincere. On Calliope, though, it's effortlessly natural. She seems like she's actually interested in talking to you, and not just playing nice because of societal conventions and you being Morpheus's current lover.

You trust Morpheus implicitly, but, considering how easy it was to see how Morpheus could have fallen head over heels in love with Calliope, you felt just a tinge of reluctance at leaving the two to resolve their issues. It was okay to be a little jealous, you reasoned with yourself; after all, everyone has that one ex that seems like "the one that got away." You're okay, and secure in who you are and your relationship.

Until Queen Titania came waltzing into the Dreaming.

The entire realm was in a tizzy over the sudden request from the Court of Faerie to send a delegation so that matters "concerning the two respective realms" could be discussed. According to Merv, Titania was going to again extend an offer of marriage to Morpheus. While this was quite the shock to you, a sympathetic Lucienne explained the regularity of such a proposal when you hid out in the library to escape all the excitement of the impending visit.

"Isn't she married, though?" you asked, shoving a dreamer's book harshly into its appointed spot. If you were going to be taking up space, you had figured that the least you could do was help out with some shelving.

"Queen Titania and King Oberon have...what you would call an open relationship, I suppose," Lucienne said. "If anything, their relationship is never as strong as it is when both parties have paramours to entertain them."

"Hm." The laws and customs of other realms were something you had yet to get used to, and you assumed that it would remain that way. "But why is she so fixated on Morpheus? I mean, obviously he's insanely powerful, but surely there's other eligible rulers?"

Lucienne's lips quirked at your subtle dig towards Titania. "There are, but she has never truly been capable of moving past the dalliance that she and His Lordship had."

"A 'dalliance?" Your voice came out high-pitched, the shock of what you learned making you forget how to talk.

When it was merely lighthearted gossip, Merv had shown you a portrait of the Faerie queen in a book detailing the various realms and those that rule them. She had blue-tinged skin and flowing black hair, and though her features were incredibly dainty, there was a strength carried in her regal posture that screamed that she was not to be trifled with. Though she looked nothing like Calliope, she was just as beautiful. Now, you hated that stupid picture, because she was probably twice as pretty when face-to-face with her.

Lucienne realized the error of what she said only after you reacted, and suddenly found herself interested in checking off something on the parchment she was holding.

"It really was nothing more than just that: a simple dalliance," she attempted to reassure. "They only carried on with the affair for a couple of decades, if that."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? I'm only a couple of decades old!" Breathing through the panic that had risen in your throat, you held your hands out in a placating gesture (who you were placating besides yourself, you're not sure) and nodded. "Okay. Okay! So, who ended things between them?"

"Lord Morpheus. He was entirely unimpressed with Queen Titania, and he remains so. Honestly, I believe that the only reason he agreed to the fling in the first place was because of boredom." Lucienne took your hands in hers. "You have nothing to worry about, I promise."

"I know!" You hoped that she couldn't tell how blatantly you were lying. "Um, I think I'm waking up. I'll see you after the Faerie delegation visit."

Since fae were masters of deception on their best days, and you were painfully human, it was safer for you not to be in the Dreaming proper during their stay. Thus, the next time you went to bed and each subsequent night until the delegation left, you would be back in your own dreamscape like every other normal dreamer. Probably for the best, considering how you were currently feeling.

When Lucienne let go of your hands, you used your handy dandy skill of being conscious of your dreaming to wake yourself up. Back in your bedroom, you laid against the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, feeling as the green monster of jealousy began to eat at you.

Honestly, how could you not be jealous? You had just found out that your boyfriend—who, by the way, is an all-powerful, eldritch ruler of dreams and nightmares—has had relationships with a literal goddess and the queen of Faerie. And those are only the two that you knew about! Considering said boyfriend is also probably billions of years old, you weren't sure that you want to know about the others.

If they're anything like Calliope and Titania, then they're surely perfect beings of unfathomable legend. You could see them now, the long line of gorgeous hearts left broken by Morpheus. All of them well-suited to be the partner of the Dreamlord, yet none of them able to pass his test.

That did not bode well for you, neither perfect nor of unfathomable legend, neither ethereal nor regal. You're simply you: loud and outspoken and a little bit clumsy and painfully, utterly human. Normally, such a thing wouldn't bother you. If anybody had an issue with you, then that was their problem, not yours. But what happens when you have an issue with yourself?

You've never deluded yourself into thinking that you were equal to Morpheus in any way. In your relationship, yes, you're on equal ground with him. As just the two of you? You're leagues below him, which, again, has historically not bothered you. It was just a fact of life, until you encountered one ex and heard all of the buzz surrounding another and learned that there are others who would very much be equal to Morpheus.

The jealousy and inadequacy that you're feeling creates a burning pit in your chest that threatens to swallow you up. You needed to do something in an attempt to try and take your mind off of the invasive, all-consuming thoughts, which is how you find yourself sitting on a large blanket spread out underneath a tree in the park and angrily biting into grapes so that Matthew—keeping you company since he was banned from the Faerie visit on account of his cheeky insubordination and how that may look to guests—can eat the other half. Unfortunately, Matthew's doing more avoiding being hit by the grapes of your wrath than actually eating said grapes.

After the fourth grape you've tossed at him with far more force than necessary, Matthew squawks indignantly and puffs out his chest. "Jeez, you don't have to throw them at me!"

"Sorry," you mutter.

"It's okay. I mean, I like grapes just as much as the next guy, but dodging them does not make for a fun eating experience."

You don't laugh, not even a pity laugh if you didn't find it funny, so it shouldn't be a surprise that Matthew hops onto your lap and looks up at you. If anybody can tell that you're not a hundred percent, it's Matthew, whose emotional intelligence is far more keen than one would expect.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Matthew asks.

You shrug. "Just...thinking."

"About what?"

There's no point in lying, especially to Matthew. "About how cool and pretty my boyfriend's exes are."

"Oh no, Killala?"

You look at him in bewilderment, not expecting to hear a name that's not at all the two that you've been stewing over. "Who the fuck is Killala?"

"Nobody, don't worry about that," he hurries to cover his tracks. "You were obviously talking about..."

"Calliope and Titania." You throw a little bit more venom into the latter's name, but in your opinion, it's deserved. She really needs to learn how to take 'no' for an answer.

Matthew shakes his head and affectionately nips the bottom of your shirt. Despite your foul mood, you appreciate the gesture. "Aw, there's nothing to worry about with either of them!"

"Really? I shouldn't be worried about the goddess and the fae queen?" The sarcasm comes out pretty thickly, and you close your eyes and breathe through your nose to try and tamp down the flames of anger licking at your tongue.

"Calliope and Dream have so much baggage between them. Seriously, I'm not going to get into it, because it's not my place to do so, but trust me when I say that their relationship completely ran its course. And Titania? Dream can't stand her!"

"Yeah, but what if one day he and Calliope decide to put the baggage aside and try again? Or what if Titania's proposal makes sense for the realm?"

"That would never happen. They're his exes for a reason."

You sigh and scritch at Matthew's little head. "His exes are goddesses and fae and queens and who knows what other ethereal type of classification! And I'm just me."

"And 'just you' are quite remarkable." You don't have to turn around to see who's speaking, because their voice is as familiar to you as your own.

"Morpheus," you greet, choosing to focus your attention on Matthew. "Finish your business with Faerie?"

"Yes. It went about as expected, which is to say, it was a train wreck."

You can't help the smile that twitches your lips upwards at the use of such casual slang. Morpheus takes a seat next to you on the blanket, but you still refuse to look at him in a stubborn attempt to hold onto what little pride you have left after spilling your heart and being overheard by the very person you were most afraid of hurting with these feelings.

"The Faerie court has departed for their own realm, Matthew. You are free to return to the Dreaming."

"Awesome! I actually think Eve has a couple of tasks for me, so I think I'm gonna head out." Matthew says this like it's his own idea and not Morpheus's. He hops up onto your shoulder, nipping lightly at your ear in farewell. "Good luck," Matthew whispers to you before flying up into the air and back to the Dreaming.

You and Morpheus are left alone together, a prospect that normally thrills you. Now though, you're simply thinking that you've never heard silence quite so loud. Is he mad at you, or is he simply unsure of what to say? You're not sure you want to know the answer, but this stalemate can't go on any longer.

Hesitantly, you ask, "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you feel that you are inadequate compared to my previous relationships." Morpheus gently grabs your chin with his cool fingers and turns your gaze to meet his. "Which, I must add, is completely and unequivocally false."

"Sorry. You, uh, caught me at a pretty self-conscious moment."

He shakes his head. "Do not apologize for how you feel. I simply ask that you might explain why it is you feel this way."

"How could I not feel this way, Morpheus?"

He looks at you with a blank stare that says that he really doesn't understand why you feel this way. It's kind of frustrating, honestly. Not only do you have to have stupid human feelings, but they make no sense to your partner.

"Are you really going to make me repeat what I told Matthew?" you ask. "Your exes are all far more evenly matched to you than I am. They're goddesses and fae queens and other beings who I've probably never even heard of because my human mind couldn't fathom such power."

"And you do not believe that you possess such power?"

"Uh, no." It's pretty obvious that you don't (you'd know if you did, with how many hours you spent staring at household items and willing them to levitate after watching Matilda for the first time).

"You do not know the power that you hold over me, a power which I am glad to let you have. It is far more dangerous than what any previous lover of mine has wielded, for I do not believe I have ever loved someone as wholly as I love you. I am passionate, and have often been told that I am 'too much.' Yet, my realm and my function always came first, and would be placed above all else.

"For you, though? I would give you any thing you wished for if you only were to ask. I would pluck the stars from the sky and string them onto a necklace to decorate your neck. I would raise armies to defend you from the most minor of slights. I would create entire worlds for you, and destroy them thusly if that was what you wished. I even believe that I would abandon my function if you requested it of me."

You gasp at the sheer weight of Morpheus's words, knowing the solemnity of them. "I would never ask you to do that."

"I know. But you needed to know the lengths that I would go to in order to make you happy. That is how much I love you."

"I'm hardly consort material. I laugh too hard at stupid videos and I try really hard to garden but usually end up killing my plants and I get shy around new people."

Out of the examples you listed, only the last could potentially transfer over to any consort activities you would be expected to do. But you're already feeling vulnerable, so you're just laying it all on the line today.

Next to you, Morpheus smiles besottedly and shakes his head at your antics. Instead of calling you out on it, he simply picks up one of your hands and kisses the back of it before enclosing it between both of his hands.

"None of those are disadvantages to you or your personality. I want you, my starlight," he says earnestly. "And do you know why that is?"

You shake your head.

"Because you are exceptional. You are wonderfully kind to everyone, person and creature and dream and nightmare. You are incandescently beautiful in a way that makes me keenly aware of the fact that I don't need to breathe, because I suddenly feel as though I need to catch my breath when I see you. You make me feel alive for the first time in a long, long time. You make me want to be better, to create something better."

God, you're going to start crying. Any doubts that you may have had about yourself and Morpheus are simply gone, with just a few words uttered. That's just what Morpheus does, though: he always knows just what you need to hear.

The only reason you keep the tears at bay is through sheer force, and even then a couple slip past your waterline and fall down your face. Morpheus looks a little bewildered at the sight, but you shake your head.

"These are happy tears, don't worry," you assure him. "I'm just...so happy, and I love you so much."

Morpheus's gaze turns soft, and he kisses you sweetly before laying his forehead against yours. "And I love you. Never doubt that, for my love for you comes as naturally as your breathing, and it is as endless as I am."

"Y'know, you're quite the romantic, Morpheus." You can't resist kissing him again, not when his lips are literally an inch away from yours.

"Only for you."

Morpheus smiles against your lips before begrudgingly pulling away so that he can stand up, and you stand with him.

"Shall we return to the Dreaming, my witty, beautiful love?" He dips his lips to your ear before whispering, "I'd quite like to see just how in your element you look when sitting on my throne."

Saying yes is one of the easiest things you've ever done.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Harriet Vane: Peter, have you ever considered this?

Lord Peter Wimsey: What?

Harriet Vane: Harriet Vane, murder suspect.

Lord Peter Wimsey: oh, really!

Harriet Vane: No, listen. Personal characteristics: once tried for the murder of her lover, and acquitted by the skin of her teeth. Says she found Alexis death at 2.10 but can bring no evidence to prove that she did not see him alive. Took three hours to walk 4 and a half miles to inform the police. Is the sole witness to the finding of the razor, the time of the death, and the conditions of the flat iron. Was immediately suspected by Perkins and is probably still suspected by the police.

Lord Peter Wimsey: Nonsense, Harriet. I really...

Harriet Vane: who have been searching her room.

Lord Peter Wimsey: Have them, by Jove!

Harriet Vane: yes. Don't look like that. They couldn't very well do anything else, could they.

Lord peter Wimsey: I have something to say to Umplety.

Harriet Vane: No, you can spare me that.

Lord Peter Wimsey: But it is absurd!

Harriet Vane: It is not! Do you think I'm witless? Do you think I don't know why you came galloping down here at a five minutes notice? It was very nice of you and I should be grateful, but do you think I like it? You thought I was pretty brazen, I expect, when you found me getting publicity out of the thing. So I was. There's no choice for a person like me to be anything but brazen. I can't hide my name, it's what I live by. If I did hide it it would only be another suspicious circumstance, wouldn't it? But do you think it makes matters any more agreeable to know that it is only the patronage of Lord Peter Wimsey that prevent men like Umplety from being openly hostile?

Lord Peter Wimsey: I've been afraid of that.

Harriet Vane: Then why did you come?

Lord Peter Wimsey: So that you might not have to send for me.

Harriet Vane: Oh. Now, of course, everybody will say "look what he's doing for that woman, isn't it marvelous of him? I suppose every man thinks he's only to go on being superior, and any woman will come tumbling into his arms. It's disgusting.

Lord Peter Wimsey: Thank you. I may be everything you say, patronizing, interfering, conceited, intolerable and all the rest of it, but do give me credit for a little intelligence. Do you think I don't know all that? Do you think it is pleasant for any man who feels about a woman as I do about you to fight his way along under this detestable burden of gratitude? Damn it! Do you think I don't know perfectly well that I'd have a better chance if I was deaf, blind, maimed, starving, drunk or dissolute, so that you could have the fun of being magnanimous? Why do you think I treat my own sincerest feelings like something out of a comic opera if it isn't to save myself the bitter humiliation of seeing you try not to be utterly nauseated by them?

Harriet Vane: No, don't talk like that.

Lord Peter Wimsey: I wouldn't if you didn't force me to. And you might have the justice of remembering you can hurt me a damn side more than I can possibly hurt you.

Harriet Vane: I know I'm being horribly ungrateful.

Lord Peter Wimsey: Grateful! Good God am I never to get away from the bleat of that filthy adjective? I don't want gratitude! I don't want kindness! I don't want sentimentality! I don't even want love -I could make you give me that, of a sort-; I want common honesty.

Harriet Vane: Do you? But that's what I've always wanted. I don't think it is to be got.

Lord Peter Wimsey: Alright. I can respect that. Only you have got to play the game. Don't force an emotional situation and then blame me for it.

Harriet Vane: But I don't want any situation. I want to be left in peace.

Lord Peter Wimsey: But you are not a peaceful person.

Harriet Vane: Perhaps not, but all this is so dreary and exhausting.

Lord Peter Wimsey: Call me anything you like, but not dreary! Great Scott that I have been boring you interminably for 18 months on end! I know you once said that if anybody ever married me it would be for the sake of hearing me piffle on, but I expect that kind of thing pulls after a bit.

Harriet Vane: *laughs*

Lord Peter Wimsey: I'm babbling, I know I'm babbling, what on Earth am I to do about it?

Harriet Vane: oh, it's not fair, you always make me laugh. I can't fight, I'm so tired. You don't seem to know what being tired is. Stop. Let go. I won't be bullied, Peter, I won't be bullied! And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make myself ready for an appointment.

Excuse me, I'll be right here stuffing my face into a pillow.

[specialagentlokitty]

Giles x reader - my immortal love

Giles + Vampire pt 2 please! 😅🙏🏻 - Anon 💜

Part two:

Giles tried to keep his distance from you after that revelation, he would stay on the other side of the room and found any excuse he could to stay out all day.

You noticed what he was doing, though you didn’t understand why you let him take his distance from you, after all, you were a vampire and it made sense.

Wanting to respect the fact he wanted distance you would stay in your little corner, even when they came over to discuss what to do with your brother.

Of course you didn’t want to hurt him, but you couldn’t let him keep doing what he was doing, it wasn’t right, and he was sending himself on a death mission and you knew that.

Sitting in the library next to Angel, you sighed, pushing yourself up as you walked away, listening to how they would kill him.

“(Y/N)?” Willow asked.

Angel raised his hand, gesturing for her to stay there.

“I’ll go, if she’ll talk to anybody it’ll be me.”

Angel jogged out of the room, following you to the front of the school where you sat down, a hand on your head.

“I.. I can’t listen to it Angel. That’s my brother.”

“I know, but he’s done horrible things (Y/N), you really don’t think they’ll just let him go alive.”

You looked at him.

“We’ve all done horrible things!” You hissed.

You clenched your jaw.

“I spent all this time cleaning up after his messes just so slayers wouldn’t come after him. Just to keep him safe!”

“And how far did that get you? How many times have you been hurt or nearly killed, and for what? You know Spike would never do the same for you, he doesn’t care.”

You sighed, nodding your head.

“I know… but he’s family Angel… I can’t listen to them threaten to kill my family…”

He sighed.

“It’s either them or him, and it’s about time somebody puts him down.”

With that, Angel got up and walked away, not saying another word to you and you just sat there.

You knew he was right, if nobody stopped Spike then none of this would get any better, he would keep on killing until he managed to achieve what he wanted.

You couldn’t bare the thought of him winning, destroying everything.

Most of the time when vampires went on about destroying the world it was just big talk to scare people, but with him it seemed like he was going to do it.

Like he wanted to do it.

You heard someone else come over and you looked up, smiling a little as you saw who it was.

“Well hey there Rupert Giles, what brings you out on this cold night?”

He chuckled a little bit, sitting down next to you.

“Angel came back inside without you, I.. I thought perhaps it would be best for someone else to come talk with you.”

You shook your head slightly.

“No, no it’s alright. I understand, trust me I do. You must do what you have to in order to protect everybody.”

“We’re talking about.. about killing your brother… right in front of you.”

“Yes, well, there hasn’t been a time I haven’t thought about killing my brother either, he has that affect on people.”

Giles chuckled again.

“Yes, he does. We should know better than to discuss these matters right in front of you however.”

You glanced at him.

“You needn’t worry about me stopping you from killing him if that’s what you must do.”

“You wouldn’t?” He asked.

“No, you must protect not only what you care about Rupert, but protect the whole of humanity. You have a good heart, that much I can see, you all do, I may survive on human blood, but that does not mean I wish to see humanity wiped out, or see my brother go any further down the rabbit hole than he has.”

Giles watched as you turned away, and you ran a hand over your head.

You were stressed out, upset, he could see that clear as day.

Reaching out, he hesitated.

“I never thought I’d help kill my own flesh and blood…”

Giles didn’t hesitate this time, he took your hand and you whipped your head around to look at him in shock.

You moved your gaze down to his hand holding yours, it felt nice. How warm his skin was compared to yours, how small your hand was compared to his, and how gently he held your hand.

“You don’t need to help, we won’t make you help kill your own brother…”

“Thank you…”

He gave a nod.

“Take all the time you need, we’ll be inside when you’re ready to return.”

“If you’d allow, I’d like to take a small walk, just a few minutes then I’ll return you have my word.”

“Yes of course.”

You smiled, bringing his hand to your lips and you kissed his knuckles before letting go.

“Thank you. Take this, as insurance I’ll come back.”

You took your necklace off and set it down next to him before you wondered away.

You smiled a little to yourself, you heard how his heart had sped up.

Somebody could argue maybe he was scared of a vampire bringing his hand so close to their mouth, but you had been around long enough to tell the difference between fear and anything else.

Only his heart sped up, nothing else, his breathing stayed the same and he didn’t immediately pull back.

Truth be told you did like being around the man, human or not there just something about him that you enjoyed being around.

Maybe it was the fact he was so calm, he had a calming presence.

Maybe it was because he actually treated you like you were a human, not just another demon or monster who was to be hunted or killed.

He looked at you and he still saw a person, maybe not all that human anymore, but still humanity inside of you.

That’s all you wanted.

All you’ve been wanting this entire time, just somebody to see that you were more than a vampire.

You wondered in thought before you stopped, a sound making your turn around.

It sounded like glass breaking and you turned back to the school.

“No…”

Breaking out into a sprint, you ran as fast as you could back to the school, sliding through the hallways, straight to the library.

Glass covered the floor, and there was signs of a struggle.

“Willow! Xander!”

Rushing over to the pair, you placed your ear to their chests to make sure they were still breathing.

You placed your hands on the bookcase, pushing it up and throwing it aside.

Picking up Willow, you rushed down the stairs, setting her next to her friend.

“Buffy?! Angel?! Rupert?!”

Hearing a groan, you turned around to see Angel standing up.

He rubbed his head, walking across to a part of the room you hadn’t looked and helped Buffy up.

“Is everybody here?” Angel asked.

“No, I don’t know where Rupert is, have you seen him?”

“Giles…?” Buffy asked.

You got up, walking over to help Angel set her down in a chair.

“Buffy… where is he..?” You whispered.

“There was an attack, vampires, a lot.” Angel said.

You nodded, placing a hand on the slayers face to get her attention.

“I.. I think they took him..” she mumbled.

You clenched your jaw, slowly standing up.

“Angel watch them.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watch them Angel!”

You marched back towards the door.

You knew exactly what had happened, who had caused this, and where you had to go in order to find him.

You wasted no time, there wasn’t long left until daybreak, and you couldn’t risk being caught out in the sun, so you ran to the old factory.

Throwing the door open, you grabbed the nearest vampire, putting him in a headlock.

“Did they bring him here…?” You whispered.

“W..who…?”

“The human? Did they bring him here? The slayers watcher?”

The vampire quickly nodded, and you snapped his neck, throwing him aside.

You carried on walking, following the noise to where you needed to be, and you threw the doors open.

“Spike!”

He spun around.

“Ah, my dearest sister returns!” He grinned.

You looked around, finding Giles hanging by his wrists above the table.

“Let him go.”

“Excuse me?” He scoffed.

You marched forward, killing another vampire who attempted to stop you and everybody froze.

“I said let him go, now, or I swear to god I’ll make you wish the slayer was the least of your problems.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“Have you gone insane?!”

“No! But you most certainly have! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?!”

“Me?! You’re the only paling around the damn slayer!”

Spike stormed over, attempting to hit you but you caught his hand, throwing him aside.

You ran over to Giles, jumping on the table you placed your hand on Giles’ neck, feeling for a pulse and you felt one.

“You’re insane if you think they’re going to accept you! You’re a vampire, act like one damnit!”

You scoffed, spinning around and you kicked spike back, killing another vampire who tried to attack you.

You hadn’t felt that kind of rage in so many years, that it was blinding, you didn’t even think as you attacked your kind, killing them all in seconds aside from you brother.

You kept kicking him back every time he tried to get closer, to the point where he was bleeding but you didn’t have a single cut on you.

Spike spat some blood on the floor.

“You can’t seriously be doing all of this for him?! The same man who tried to kill you!”

“He had a reason! They all did!”

“So you’d turn your back on your brother?!”

You watched Spike as you wrapped your arms around Giles, slowly lifting him up before slowing lowering him down on the table, and you crouched behind him, an arm wrapped tightly around him for security.

Spike scoffed.

“You’re really going to pick him?”

“I care about him Spike. You have Drusilla as much as I hate the insane bitch, I have Rupert, he’s mine, do you understand? Mine.”

“He’s got you whipped, the moment you aren’t needed that slayer is going to put a stake through your heart.”

You broke the chains holding the watched and rushed your brother, this time he put up more of a fight.

He grabbed a stray metal pipe and threw it at Giles, and you barely managed to block the attack, the pipe lodging in your shoulder and you pulled it out.

Spike walked over and you hit him with it, knocking him to the ground, and you knelt down, grabbing a wooden beam, holding it over his heart.

“Go on and kill me then!” He yelled.

You looked at him, watching as blood trickled from the wound you made in his chest, and he groaned in pain.

“I’m not going to kill you you idiot.”

You tossed the wood aside, and you stood up, holding your hand out to him and he took it, letting you pull him up and you shoved him aside.

Walking over to Giles, you wrapped his arm around his shoulder and stood him up.

“Despite your behaviour you’re still my brother Spike, I never agreed with your motives. Your choices, but you are my family, my blood. One day you’ll remember what that means, but you need to stop this nonsense about killing the slayer, trying to destroy everything because of some insane bitch.”

“Don’t you dare talk about her that way! She made you!”

“You made me! And I wished you had just killed me instead!”

Spike watched as you slowly walked out with a half conscious Giles.

Spike knew better than to chase you, he knew better than to face the wrath of your anger because you would always be more dangerous.

You had anger that had been building for years, and even as a human you were protective of what you loved, now it was worse.

So, he let you go.

You took Giles back to his apartment, and you cleaned his face, putting bandaids on his wounds.

He was awake of course, he knew what you were doing, and you knew he was awake, but you didn’t say anything to him.

He just watched you quietly.

“I know you’re mad that I never killed him.”

“I’m not, I understand. He’s your brother, nobody could ask you to kill your own brother.”

Giles went to sit up, but you placed your hand on his shoulder, urging him back down.

“Your friends are alright, they’re at the hospital.”

He nodded, looking to the bloodstained part of your shirt on your shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“It will heal, you know that. In fact, it already has for the most part.”

Giles nodded his head, watching as you stood up.

You leant over, pressing your lips to his forehead.

“Angel is going to come after sunset.”

“You can’t go out there, you’ll burn.”

You held up a thick blanket and grinned a little bit.

“I’m covered don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours Rupert.”

He chuckled a little, sitting up, putting his glasses on so he was able to see you better.

“(Y/N)?”

You turned around and he walked over, placing his hand on the side of your face, thumb running along your cheek.

You leant into his touch slightly.

He smiled, leaning down he kissed your cheek carefully, gently.

“Thank you…”

“Anytime…”

You placed your cold hand over his.

He sighed, putting his forehead against yours and you closed your eyes, brushing your nose against his which made him chuckle.

“Stay here, I know you’ll be safe here.”

“Rupert…”

“Stay…”

He’d grown used to your company and he didn’t want to see you go, he wanted you to stay with him, but his side where he knew you were safe, and he would be safe

[breakbeatbun]

i did a lot of "boy things" as a kid and I've always felt less "girl" because of it, i never played with stuff that was considered feminine, partly because i was afraid of judgment, but also i found "boy stuff" more appealing. it's tough not relating to one's peers in a binary way. i would love to play cars

tags on this post for context

i was raised by a mechanic and carpenter so a lot of my early free time was spent in a barn full of tools, machines, welding masks, piles of cut-up BMX bikes we'd find in the garbage, stripped-bare sandrails and their engines, couple rifles or compound bows here or there, probably listening to whatever crusty old rock music my dad put on. hell, i was rowing through the gears of my mom's old square body S10 while she drove us to the store before i was barely tall enough to see over the dash. "hanging out with friends" was playing Guitar Hero or Racing & Skateboarding Video Games, or riding our bikes and skinning our knees. "hanging out with dad" was often target shooting in the backyard or building something; I rarely ever held the flashlight, i had the tools in my hands and grease under my fingernails.

that's a lot of exposition but i'm trying to paint the most specific picture i can! TL;DR, a lot of arguably "boy things" in my upbringing, and i fit right into it, lot of fondness in my heart for it still!

around the time i had my big Gender Awakening at the tail-end of high school i had already been Online for a bit - hell i learned what it meant to feel non-binary from this very website circa 2013 - but it wouldn't be until maybe 2019 or so when i moved out that i really started making other queer and trans friends, and it was pretty immediately obvious that i was extremely different from the rest of my community, both online and offline. of course, nobody was rude about it, everybody was VERY respectful of my name and my pronouns and my identity, but it was still really easy for me to feel "othered" because our shared experiences didn't line up at all; At most maybe i got made fun of for having long hair. it made it really easy to feel like i wasn't doing enough work to justify my queerness.

at the other end of that spectrum, i recently tried on she/her pronouns at the front of my bio, just to see if i was missing something, and i was quickly met with an IMMEDIATE outpour of support from friends and community alike. SO many people were loud about being So Proud of me, Knew i Had It In Me, i had multiple friends message me privately to offer information and easy routes to HRT "just in case ;)" i was thinking about it! and, yeah, it's nice to have that kinda support, i'll admit! but it was hard not to feel a little invalidated in not wanting to change. it really felt like a lot of people, close friends even, just kinda saw me as a trans woman waiting to have a bigger realization, as though being non-binary was just a meaningless stepping-stone to something greater. and i mean, i can't blame them, they just wanted to help!!

today i'm pretty firmly Queer/non-binary (with a little bit of Girl on the side when it's either Appropriate or Funny), and my body and voice are very much unaltered from the ones i was born with. virtually indistinguishable from a cishet version of myself, just with the he/him lopped off and they/she sloppily appended in its place; simply because i don't have the energy or don't care to put much effort into change, and that's very much fine for me. I know damn well i don't owe it to anybody but myself anyway, granted none of it tends to matter much when you present as a rabbit girl on the internet LOL. I'm thankful to have built myself a little space where i can engage with others like me, or where other queers feel welcome to express interest in the things that I'M all about! even if it's a little few and far between. still struggle with feeling like i fit in with The Girls tho LMAO.

IDK! this post is my half-baked love letter to my fellow AMAB NB folks who get treated like Cis Men, Trans Women who don't "put the effort in," or Anyone who can Otherwise Relate in the same, or even an opposite sort of way. we are playing cars together

[alumort]

Ao3

The end!! Enjoy :>

One day, his body stopped hurting, and he didn’t feel exhausted anymore. Getting out of bed on his own wasn’t a challenge, and walking was easy once more– Neji was back to normal in a few months, though Tsunade still wanted to make sure he would be okay. So his time in the hospital wasn’t over yet, against his will.

That annoying nurse had stopped appearing in his room after he had mentioned the incident to the fifth Hokage, so at least nobody was bothering him too much apart from his physical therapist and his own mind. Quietness was better than being bothered by strangers all the time, as his friends and his partner were still busy with helping rebuild Konoha pretty much from scratch.

So, Neji had a lot of time to think without interruptions, unable to do much apart from reading a book and pacing through his room for a few minutes before getting bored. It was a boring routine that only changed whenever there was a visitor with him, someone to talk with.

Yet there was something that was still well hidden in the depths of his heart, something that he hadn't even told Lee about– it was like small cinders that began to burn brighter and brighter with every passing day, making him question everything he knew about himself until waking up at last.

Like a wildfire, doubt had spread in his mind, and he was once again questioning his own identity. Who he was, apart from a member of the Hyuga Clan and Team Gai. It hurt on his chest, somehow, but not in a bad way– only making him wonder his true identity, if there was one after all.

Neji knew he hated the name his parents had carefully picked for him, no matter how much love was behind it; it didn't suit him at all, though. Whenever someone referred to him like that, his skin itched so much that he just wanted to tear it apart without warning, or to attack the other person seemingly unprompted. His eyes saw bloody red and nothing else upon hearing that word.

But he had also noticed something else after some weeks, only upon the well-meaning doctors’ mistakes– Neji didn't mind being called a girl, a boy, or anything like that. Nothing felt quite wrong in his heart, just… the name in his legal documents, that Tsunade gladly helped him change during his stay without making a single question or doubting his decisions, allowing him to get a ‘weight’ off his chest in the meanwhile as well (albeit, making him stay longer in the hospital against his will). Tsunade never confronted him, not even when he had requested her for his gender to remain the same in the documents, no matter how strange it might have seemed to anybody else.

Lee had been right when he called her a nice person, more in regards to diverse things. Tsunade made other staff respect his identity or leave, like with that one nurse (or that's what he suspected, anyways).

He would always be grateful to her, even if it was just part of her job as Konoha's head doctor. He felt hopeful for his future for once, and so his motivation to get better became endless after his new documents were made.

Though Neji hadn't told anyone else yet, not even his partner– who excitedly snuggled with him on his hospital bed whenever he got a break between missions. Lee was affectionate and loved to hug him as much as he could, still in disbelief of his survival. Of his recovery, that he had woken up at all.

So every chance they had, the brunet would let his boyfriend pamper him with love, kissing his cheeks and cuddling with him in return. Sometimes even reading out loud whatever was in his hands, resting his head on Lee’s shoulder without commenting on it, relaxed by his presence alone.

He made his soul feel complete, somehow, more when he saw him resting so peacefully by his side.

And words just… began to flow from his lips, his mind being faster than his tongue while he absent-mindedly caressed his overgrown bowlcut, even if his hair didn’t quite seem to be styled that way anymore.

“Love, once I leave the hospital, I… I don't want to go back to the compound so…” the brunet began, noticing that his partner stirred up upon hearing him talk, a drowsy smile on his lips. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, live with you… and if you want, I'd love to marry you as well. To be your wife.”

He wasn't surprised to see that Lee had begun crying with his whole heart, hugging him immediately after listening to him, unable to say anything comprehensible due to his neverending joyful tears– Neji couldn't help it but grin, a nice kind of warmth spreading through his chest as his boyfriend gently kissed his cheeks, still sobbing every now and then.

So, that was a yes, based on how happy his partner seemed; a huge smile and teary eyes were common in him, but now Lee was even more affectionate than before, not wanting to let go of their embrace. Although, once he calmed down a bit more, he became curious about something judging by his expression.

“Wait, darling, you said ‘wife.’ But you are not a girl,” his partner noted, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

That was right– Neji hadn't yet explained his recent discovery to his rival, who still had some emotional tears in his gaze. He grabbed a napkin and gently cleaned his face, receiving confused puppy eyes in return.

“I've had a lot of time to think, Lee, and… I think I might be a girl. But being called a boy isn't wrong, either,” the brunet began to say, receiving silent nods in response as Lee let him go on. “I'm still Neji, but.. that's all I know. I know it’s confusing.”

Another hug, this time unexpected, made him yelp by mere surprise. His boyfriend was gentle as always, allowing him to hide between his arms without questioning it– knowing well it’d help him feel less nervous about everything.

He pretty much asked for his hand in marriage and technically came out at the same time, and anxiety was starting to kick in– Neji knew well that his rival wouldn’t judge him or be rude, yet his chest hurt due to his sudden nervousness.

“Darling, I am happy you told me. I will always support you! You are my eternal rival, after all,” Lee exclaimed with a tender smile, so soft that the brunet felt like he had fallen in love with him once more if that was possible somehow.

Neji felt safe with him, understood in a way that he had never imagined could ever happen since his father had died; Lee made him feel complete, allowing him to talk about anything that was on his mind without ever judging him… it made him the happiest person in the world.

~

Soon enough, Tsunade finally discharged him from the hospital, freeing him from the place at last and giving him some weeks to recover his strength. Although, he had other plans.

His few things from the compound had been saved in Gai's home, before Hiashi had decided to give away his home to another Hyuga– just another one who mistakenly never expected him to wake up.

His uncle seemed happy to see him opening his eyes once more, talking about his courage and honor by defending Hinata at the risk of his own life, making attempts at sweetening his ears by complimenting him like he had never done; wanting him to return back home, mentioning something about his faded mark…

But Neji was no fool. The moment he stepped into the compound once more, he would get the seal again, and Hiashi would keep being an asshole as usual. He didn’t want to return– and the man knew it well, judging by his failed attempts at wooing him by being “nice”. So he didn’t tell anyone but his teammates when he was getting discharged from the hospital, wanting it to be a small secret between the four of them and nobody else.

Plus, his plan was to do something in order to avoid Hiashi from insisting for him to return to his watch, something that both his boyfriend and him had agreed upon before. Both Lee and Tenten were beside him as he walked through the village, helping Gai move by pushing his wheelchair as his companions made sure he didn’t trip at all.

“Are you ready, dearest?” his partner mumbled in his ear once they got to the Hokage’s office, though they weren’t going to get any mission that day.

After asking around, Neji learnt more about what the village’s leader could do apart from managing complex tasks. And Kakashi was happy to help him do anything if it meant he could just throw his paperwork at Shikamaru, who was definitely underpaid for the amount of documents his boss made him arrange on his own.

“Yes. Let’s go,” Neji replied, and the four entered the room, where Kakashi waited for them with a bouquet full of pale roses and a smile behind his mask. “Thank you for doing this, Lord Hokage.”

An annoyed sigh, and everyone chuckled at the same time– Gai got closer to the other man and held his hand, knowing well that would cheer him up immediately. And it worked, judging by how relaxed his husband seemed now.

“Maa… I told you to not call me that. Just Kakashi is fine,” he said, making a motion with his hands for everyone to come closer to his desk, where a paper laid in the center of it with Neji and Lee’s names written on them.

A marriage document, and they only needed to sign for it to be official. It didn't take long, and soon enough they were spouses, known only by the rest of their team and Kakashi– for now that was the idea, to avoid everyone else's prying eyes, particularly Hiashi's.

Neji was the one to hug his boyfriend– his husband after the paper had been signed, kissing his forehead in silence as Lee cried out of pure joy, unable to do anything else but embrace him back.

After so many years spent hiding their relationship, sneaking out just to be together and just… trying to be safe while still enjoying each other's presence, they finally were free to love without any kind of risk, without Hiashi's breath underneath their necks following them close by.

“Lee, I love you. I love you so much… ” the brunet mumbled with tears in his eyes, which disappeared as his partner began to kiss all his face, excited once more.

“I love you too, my dearest! You make me the happiest person in the world!” Lee replied, hugging him once more just to whisper something in his ear, only for him to listen. “My handsome princess.”

His chest felt warm as he heard the nickname, finally making his tears flow out of pure joy– a soft sob escaped from his lips as he hid between his husband's arms, feeling how Lee gently caressed his long hair.

Neji knew then that everything would be alright as long as they were together, that he was free in more ways than expected– he could be himself without being punished in any way, respected and loved by his dearest people who had always been by his side.

[destinyc1020]

I have a confession for this Sunday and I’m stating right now that I’m aware I’m gonna get backlash. Im a dark skinned black woman and though I’m fan of Zendaya I’m quite passive when I see comments that attack her or her brand or I don’t defend her online or on social places as much as I would do as a dark skinned actress. I think this opinion was sparked from the Spice and Erica Mena situation and Pinkydoll controversy.

Im aware this is very problematic to admit and honestly feel. I’m here for the backlash lol. I’m in my late teens and I’ve really learned about colorism especially in the entertainment and I know that Z has acknowledged her light skinned privilege and goes for roles meant for white women. I support her but not as much as I do darker skinned actresses. I obviously want to change this way of thinking because I love Z and I’m aware this is really on me than her but, I really want to see a dark skin black girl win. Just one.

One who is under the age of 30 and over 18 being considered a desirable love interest who isn’t no shade in the demographic of Viola and Angela. One especially that isn’t ratchet as Sexyy Red and Sukiana(I love them as artists but love the message they leave out of black girls isn’t ideal). It pains me that the last it girl was Lupita and before ppl say what about Keke, first Keke is brown and second I love her but her personal life is a lil messy for me.

Again, I want to reiterate that this is a confession that might get me jumped and I’m prepared for it lol. I just find it sad that as black girls when don’t have our The Summer I turned Pretty or actress who is a Florence Pugh equivalent meaning that she’s everywhere lol. I’m also aware that Z truly has broken so many boundaries, no other light skin black actress has won a Emmy not once but twice in history. I’m aware of her limitations in that industry. I find it crazy that Challengers is her first leading role backed by a big studio at the age of 27 when her yt peers have been offered roles from as young as 16 maybe. The black actresses previous to her usually get their first leading roles in their early 30s or if your Viola 50s. It’s triumphant actually.

Now that I’m typing this all out, I’m aware I’m more angry at entertainment industry than Z as an individual. She didn’t ask to be the token black girl of Hollywood. I realise that it’s a competitive industry, no one can predict anyones career arch one could have in that industry. I’m sorry for this long winded confession but I really love blog and as a black woman I find comfort on how open you are to opinions that aren’t your own and are still so respectful. That’s my confession and I hope you have a nice Sunday!!!!!

Hey Anon!

Awww....first of all, let me give you a hug... 🥰

Don't worry, you are in a Safe Space here on "Confession Sunday". That means, I won't judge, and no Anons should be jumping down your throat as long as you're respectful, honest, and are genuine in your feelings.

Anyway... Whew! Where do I begin? I feel like you spoke a word with your post. I actually feel like your ask was worded very well? I think you got your point across, and you even came to the realization of where your REAL frustration lies: And that's with the Entertainment Industry itself.

I can't tell you how many times Anon I have felt the same exact way. Like you, my disappointment isn't really with Zendaya or any other biracial/fair-skinned actresses out here. My disappointment and frustration lies with the racist and colorist society in which we live in, and hence also the racist and colorist ET industry that exists. 😔

First off, I don't enjoy seeing ANYBODY getting hate for things they cannot control, especially if they seem like a decent person, and the hate seems undeserved. I really don't enjoy seeing that. So, whether it's Zendaya, or someone else in the industry, I just think that a lot of hate is uncalled for, so I don't really care for it, no matter who the individual is.

I think it's a shame too how Hollywood seems to have regressed in some manner when it comes to "black women" representation for the 18 - 30 age group. 😔 When you look at older films and TV shows, it almost seems like there was far more young unambiguously black female representation onscreen maybe in films and TV 20 some years ago than there is today in 2023. 🥴

I love Zendaya (as you all know) and I LOVE seeing the success that she's having. 🥰 But every once in a while, it would be nice seeing some other young actresses who look more like me (brown-skinned) getting some shine, and getting the same level of success and "household name" status that Z or Florence get.

Like you, I've grown up with Keke and root for her.... 🥰 But yea, it's just kind of sad how her promising career in film kind of fizzled out a little bit. She's still successful (imo), but let's just say, she's not getting the LARGE, blockbuster roles or love interest roles that Zendaya gets, and that's because Z represents (like you said) the more "acceptable" form of a "black girl" these days. It's just sad that this is what society has turned into. 🥴 Black women are not one monolith. We don't all look alike. We come in various shapes, sizes, skin tones, hues, etc.

I've also rooted for actress Aja Naomi King. She's another one who I think is pretty talented, and used to be on a hit TV show (HTGAWM), but then, after that it was like...... NOTHING. 👀 At 38 years old, she might be a bit older than the age range you had in mind, but you get my drift.

It does make you wonder sometimes.... Like, I know there are so many talented, young, beautiful, darker-skinned actresses out here just trying to make it in Hollywood. Why aren't we given a chance? Why are we continuously passed up?

I keep rooting for many of my darker-skinned sisters in Hollywood, cuz I know it can't be easy. If it hasn't been easy for Zendaya, then you KNOW it hasn't been easy for women darker than her.

I root for Keke, I root for Lupita, I root for Aja, Janelle Monae, Ajiona Alexus, Halle Bailey, Nicole Beharie, Kiki Layne, Letitia Wright, Teyonah Parris, etc. The list goes on and on.

Hollywood (and society) would love to make you think that there aren't any talented, BEAUTIFUL, young darker-skinned black actresses out here that are desirable, but that is simply NOT true.

There are some BEAUTIFUL darker-skinned ladies in Hollywood, but you're right... It's rare we become a household name.... Where is our "To All The Boys I've Loved Before" movies? Why aren't we considered when it comes to romantic films or playing the love interest?

I think we all know the answers to those questions. 😒

But don't feel like you have to "hate" on another actress like Zendaya simply because society/the industry caters more towards black women with her look. Don't dislike her, dislike the racist and colorist society that we live in! People literally CANNOT help who they were born to, nor how they look. I don't think anyone should be shamed or hated on for something they literally CANNOT even control, which is their skin color. It's just foolish to me.

Anyway Anon, I just want to say that I see you... I hear you... and I totally get what you're saying. 🥰❤️

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Awestruck - a Bobnix Fic

At Javy and Jake's engagement party, Bob realises something about Phoenix.

~~~

For a prompt list, this was "You're beautiful, you know that right?"

Words: 745

To say they were all surprised was an understatement. Most of the Daggers knew that Jake and Javy were together but none of them thought they’d get engaged. Well, let him rephrase it, none of them thought Hangman would be one to get married. But judging by how he was showing off the ring, it almost seemed like he’d suggested it. 

Maverick was the only one who had absolutely no idea. At first, he’d asked who their fiances were, and why they were having a joint engagement party until they told him that they were a couple. For a guy who’d been secretly, at least in the eighties, dating another man for decades, he was rather oblivious.

They’d gotten dressed up and milled about the rented hall while watching Javy’s family fawn over the happy couple. Hangman didn’t have a lot of family, and by not a lot, they basically meant none. He’d grown up in care, as far as Phoenix had told him, and didn’t really have anyone at all. Bob got the feeling that they were acting as Hangman’s family for this whole engagement and wedding business. 

Bob moved to the side as he sipped his beer. This shirt was getting a tad uncomfortable in the Louisiana humidity. Yet again, they were at Javy’s home instead of Texas where Hangman was raised, he had no connection there anymore.

He heard them talking to Rooster in the distance. 

“So I told him I want a big do, all that middle class wedding shit,” Jake said. “Arguing over menus, trying to figure out who we can sit next to who to set people up, picking the playlist and the flowers, everything.”

He and Javy were wearing coordinated outfits. Jake wore a red shirt with black tie, Javy wore a black shirt and red tie. They were wingmen in the most perfect way. Coyote was the only guy Hangman ever really listened to or respected in the field.

Then a comfortable presence shadowed him. He knew who it was before he looked. His pilot, Phoenix.

She smiled at him when he looked. He hadn’t focused on her too much so far into the night, he was still awestruck at the idea that soon Hangman would be Jake Machado instead of Jake Seresin, because of course he was taking Javy’s name, he had no connection to his. But now he was seeing her, instead of just looking, he felt his jaw hang open.

Instead of her usual Navy regulations bun, her hair was wavy down just past her shoulders. She wore a blue strappy dress, something else shocking him as he’d only really seen her in her uniform or pyjamas when he crashed in her barracks, it came to her knees with some ruffles that swished as she moved. Her skin, slightly tanned, made the royal blue pop against her eyes. 

“Can you believe those two are getting married?” She chuckled. “I mean, I never thought I’d see the Hangman admit that he cares about anybody enough to marry them, I guess I was wrong.”

Bob still didn’t say anything. He knew it was rude but, Jesus, she looked so good. Fixing his glasses, he swallowed his rush of attraction and nodded. 

“You good? Your face is going red.” She asked

Of course it was. Of course in the one moment he needed to rely on his ability to hide, even if he couldn’t hide from her, it had failed him. 

“I-I just-” he started, then sighed and decided to just admit it, it wasn’t like she would hate him for a compliment. “You look beautiful, that’s all.”

Now it was her turn to go bright red. Maybe it was because of how little the Navy let you express yourself, or maybe because, as a woman in the navy, she was never really seen as a woman. He didn’t know, but something didn’t sit right with him when he realised she couldn’t take a compliment, at least not about something to do with work. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that right?” he insisted. 

She blushed a deeper red, “Yeah, yeah,” then added, “But it’s nice to hear you say it.”

He smiled at her and their fingers graced. Sparks seemed to fly as she stepped closer. He hoped he wasn’t insane or weird to be imagining them in Jake and Javy’s place, as if this was their engagement they were celebrating instead of feeling awkward on the sidelines.  

Just something simple because Monica Barbaro is very pretty and Macheresin is underrated. Thanks for reading!

[lan-star]

I've been scrolling last night liking any Laserhawk post I thought was either wholesome, funny, generally nice, or was something I've seen around on Google or Pinterest already and I figured I'd share to my fellow members in the Laserhawk community one of my ocs for a fan project I currently have a prequel Q&A for (the project basically follows the show's plot but in my ocs' perspective as citizens mostly in the background) [FT. Some others for some context/mentions]

Her name is Rosea (I have yet to confirm ages for any of my ocs in the project but most of them are adults) she is a mushroom hybrid who was raised with her brother Robert with her aunt and uncle who work with a friend of hers at the diner (the one shown near the end of the show) she's a swordfighter (based on Scarlet from Brawlhalla even though I've never played the game so apologies to Brawlhalla fans if Rosea doesn't have any similar traits to Scarlet her design is based on multiple skins from the game that I looked up on Google)

I'll drop a link to my tiktok for the prequel Q&A but first some art I have of Rosea already

^

| Redraws of two Bullfrog Screencaps (+ a bonus version with Rosea blushing I kinda hated how I drew her mouth for the open mouth one although I was trying my hardest to get it to match it's respective screencap)

^

| More flustered Rosea doodles because I felt silly when I made these

^

| A frame from an animatic for the project (Robert [Rosea's brother], Rosea, and Billy Gruff [Another one of Rosea's friends] helping Rayman/Ramon rescue Bullfrog from the execution- the animatic was a joke about Billy Gruff's little buddy Pistachio- a tiny chipmunk distracting one of the Eden workers/guards and failing)

(For context this is Pistachio- I used a real photo of a chipmunk when making Pistachio on the spot for that animatic)

Getting back on track

A panel from the Q&A intro (spilt it into two parts, the first part already up and the second to be up when I get some asks to have the cast respond to)

|

v

"At least you have a love life unlike my sister here"- Robert

For context the first mentioned friend of Rosea and Robert is Sheila- a fish hybrid is distressed about how she's never had a long lasting relationship {all of the relationships she's had were short lasting and kinda crappy} meanwhile Rosea has never shown any interest in pursuing a relationship with anybody mainly out of focus for her swordfighting in case of an event where she would need to protect her friends and family (I don't have a good refrence in my artstyle to reveal Sheila yet but I do have a picrew refrence to share with you all)

[CREDIT TO RAWRAVERA ON PICREW]

Her design is inspired by Ariel from the Little Mermaid (The animated one from Disney not Live action also from Disney- but if I were to make a human design for her, her skin tone might be like the Live Action one) She's also a huge fan of Rayman's show and wants to have of show of her own one day, to start she decides to provide a sort of phone hotline service at the diner to provide entertainment for patrons who are there by having her and her friends respond to any questions or comments for whoever calls the hotline (thus the Q&A)

If you have tiktok and you would like to leave anything for the Q&A I'll drop the link here (if not you can leave any asks in the comments here and I'll share the responses on both here and my Tiktok)

I might also drop the animatic I shared some frames for in the future depending on if the Q&A for my fan project gets anywhere (yes the project is called Secrets Of Eden as mentioned in the Tiktok to save any confusion)

[masonjarcollector]

Guilt

Caiden knew that Alix would get pain that made her feel like her joints were corroded and her muscles were atrophied, and on some days it was hardly noticeable, but on other days it was so bad, they’d stumble around lifelessly and down ibuprofen like there was no tomorrow. Similar occurrences happened to everyone within the Unit, but it was Dmitri, Sig, and Alix who seemed to bear that weight the most.

Guilt manifested similarly to that pain, Caiden noted, as she pulled her knees tighter against her torso and attempted to curl deeper into the couch. It was a complex feeling that thrummed dully behind their sternum–embarrassment, nausea, hollow rage. Chattering that whispered endlessly in her ears. A burning itch crawling over their body that would only subside after they ran their calloused fingertips over old scars. 

Sometimes, they would barely notice the sensation. They could joke and smile genuinely and leave the house with little fear and be okay. Sometimes, the day would start out good, and then maybe she was being watched a little too intently by a pedestrian, and then she would spiral. Sometimes, she just woke up like this. Woke up lethargic and malfunctioning.

Symptoms: Disinterested in doing anything involving getting up and moving, hazy attachment to reality, loud thoughts (way too loud), discomfort with reflection, injurious desires, crippling sense of shame.

Official Diagnosis: Known colloquially through the Unit as a “bad day”. Recommended Course of Action: Die. No, wait.

Crash the car in the middle of an intersection.

Fuck, that still isn’t right.

What could possibly be done to make her any better? Sleep? (And what, be disturbed by nightmares and memories and horrible visions of the future, uh, no thanks.) Drink some water? (Caiden was incredibly thirsty, but such predicaments were better left for the living and breathing.) Go outside? (Absolutely not. The outside was crowded and loud and packed to the brim with danger. Threats lurked around every corner, watching and waiting until they found the perfect moment to strike, the perfect moment to grab the little malfunctioning fuck up and run syringes into her spine, wrap chains around her neck, turn her back into the well oiled machine she used to be, or otherwise make her pay for every sin she had committed when she had the foolish idea to live among the innoce–)

“Can I assist in some way?”

Dmitri spoke gently. They stood over her, motionless but ready to spring into action, with their luminous eyes full of concern and hesitancy. They knew they couldn’t help her. Nobody can help anybody when they are like this. But, a thought broke through Caiden’s fog, it was still nice of them to ask. If she hadn’t been so tired, Caiden might have even felt warm gratitude towards them.

Instead, she just stared at them. Burning, itchy, guilty, exhausted. They got the point and left.

***

The Unit had given Caiden her space, and when they had to encroach into her existence (passing through the room to get to another, looking for something misplaced, following an order of Dmitri’s) they were as respectful and gentle as she was when they were having a bad day. For the most part, she hadn’t seen them.

At some point, Caiden had abandoned the living room to go back to the room shared by Dmitri and her. The blankets were cool and soft, and if she pressed the pillows against her head hard enough, her thoughts would be quiet for a heavenly second. Dinner was skipped. The sun went down.

When Dmitri entered the room, they set a glass of water down on the nightstand, and immediately went to Caiden’s bed. Lightly, they sat down next to her, waiting for her response.

“Caiden?”

The chattering in her thoughts was far too loud. And the pillows over her head weren’t doing enough. It was hard to see Dmitri as a caretaker and not an enemy. She was numb and guilty and her skin didn’t feel right.

Caiden realized. With some sort of disordered clarity. That perhaps the recommended course of action. Was to wrap her arms around Dmitri. And press her face against their shoulder. And inhale deeply. And accidentally emit a low keening noise. And relish the feeling of them wrapping their arms around her.

“You’re safe,” they murmured to her. “It’s okay, you can be like this here.” They held her tightly with both arms.

“Why,” croaked Caiden, suddenly afraid that they were going to pull away, and subsequently clutching at them with clenched hands, “why can’t I just be fucking normal?” It was a wail. A forlorn sob. The origin of shame, the insidious child of Guilt, the demonic presence of self-awareness. Why can’t they be normal one way or the other? Must she be a freak of nature, scorned by the two sides she had once called home? Why is divinity dangled right in front of their face yet so far out of reach?

Why does she fall apart during thunderstorms? Feel sick when she’s in a crowd? Grin in the face of adversity? Question morality? Discover autonomy? Why can’t she take what is given, accept what is given, and just. be. fucking normal?

“I know,” said Dmitri, plainly. Because they did know. They didn’t know it exactly like Caiden did, but they knew what it felt like to be a half-programmed mess, yearning for instruction while craving forgiveness for what they did under the instruction. 

They knew how badly Caiden wanted to have friends who hadn’t seen her worst moments, they knew how hard she tried to communicate and how poorly she failed at it, they knew how jumbled her thoughts were, and they knew how thirsty she was and had brought her water.

[bothsidesnow-plog]

Bitter rivals. Beloved friends. Survivors.

There is an audible rhythm to a Grand Slam tennis tournament, a thwock-tock, tock-thwock of strokes, like beats per minute, that steadily grows fainter as the field diminishes. At first the locker room is a hive of 128 competitors, milling and chattering, but each day their numbers ebb, until just two people are left in that confrontational hush known as the final. For so many years, Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova were almost invariably the last two, left alone in a room so empty yet intimate that they could practically hear what was inside the other’s chest. Thwock-tock.

They dressed side by side. They waited together, sometimes ate together and entered the arena together. Then they would play a match that seemed like a personal cross-examination, running each other headlong into emotional confessions, concessions. And afterward they would return to that small room of two, where they showered and changed, observing with sidelong glances the other’s triumphalism or tears, states beyond mere bare skin. No one else could possibly understand it.

Except for the other.

“She knew me better than I knew me,” Navratilova says.

They have known each other for 50 years now, outlasting most marriages. Aside from blood kin, Navratilova points out, “I’ve known Chris longer than anybody else in my life, and so it is for her.” Lately, they have never been closer — a fact they refuse to cheapen with sentimentality. “It’s been up and down, the friendship,” Evert says. At the ages of 68 and 66, respectively, Evert and Navratilova have found themselves more intertwined than ever, by an unwelcome factor. You want to meet an opponent who draws you nearer in mutual understanding? Try having cancer at the same time.

“It was like, are you kidding me?” Evert says.

The shape of the relationship is an hourglass. They first met as teenagers in 1973, became friends and then split apart as each rose to No. 1 in the world at the direct expense of the other. They contested 80 matches — 60 of them finals — riveting for their contrasts in tactics and temperament. After a 15-year rivalry, they somehow reached a perfect equipoise of 18 Grand Slam victories each.

On some slow or rainy day, when the tennis at Wimbledon is banging and artless as a metronome or suspended by weather, do yourself a favor. Call up highlights of Evert and Navratilova’s match at the 1981 U.S. Open. They are 26 and 24 years old, respectively, honed to fine edges. It’s as if they were purposely constructed to test each other — and to whip up intense reactions from their audiences, the adorable blond American middle-class heroine with the frictionless grace against the flurrying Eastern European with sculpted muscles who played like a sword fighter.

Evert played from a restrained conventional demeanor, with ribbons in her hair, earrings in her ears. Yet she was utterly new. Audiences had never seen anything quite like the compressed lethality of this two-fisted young woman, who knocked off the legendary Margaret Court at the age of just 15 in 1970. She was a squinteyed, firm-chinned executioner who delivered strokes like milled steel.

She had mystique. And she refused to be hemmed in. As she held the No. 1 ranking for five straight years, she reserved the right to court romantic danger with a bewildering array of famous men, not all of them suitable for a nice Catholic girl, from the surly Jimmy Connors to superstar actor Burt Reynolds — and to put them second to her career. Her composure cloaked one of the toughest minds in the annals of sport, and her .900 winning percentage remains virtually unrivaled in tennis history.

Navratilova was her inverse, a gustily emotional left-handed serve-and-volleyer who challenged every traditional definition of heroine with an edgy militancy. Her game had an acrobatic suppleness that was also entirely novel — never had a female athlete moved with such airborne ease. Or acted so honestly. Navratilova was as overtly political as Evert was popular. Her defection from communist Czechoslovakia in 1975 was an act of unimaginable bravery, and her struggle to win acceptance from Western crowds was compounded by her defiant inability to censor herself or mask her homosexuality. Advised to put a man in her box at Wimbledon, she refused. Once, when asked whether she was “openly” gay, she shot back, “As opposed to closedly?”

More prideful generations can’t comprehend how in the vanguard Navratilova was when she came out in 1981 or the price she paid in lost endorsements. The New York Times that year announced that homosexuality was “the most sensitive issue in the sports marketplace, more delicate than drugs, more controversial than violence.” Male sportswriters fixated on the veins in her arms. Newsweek veered out of its way to accuse her of “accentuating some lifestyle manifesto.” She repaid them all by becoming the first female athlete to win a million dollars in prize money in a single year.

Small wonder Evert and Navratilova’s matches seemed like such colossal encounters. As they competed, the TV cameras zeroed in on their faces and found mother-of-dragons expressions, a willingness to play to ashes. That too was new.

It once had been considered “unnatural” for a woman to contend with such unembarrassed intensity. As Evert’s own agent said in 1981, female sports stars were expected to be “ladylike” and not too “greedy” in their negotiations, while their male counterparts could win “every nickel and feel quite comfortable about it.” Not anymore. Evert and Navratilova had established their common right “to go to the ends of the earth, the absolute ends of the earth, to achieve something,” Evert says.

By the time Evert and Navratilova retired from singles play, in 1989 and 1994, respectively, they had reached a mutual understanding. Not only were they level with an equal number of major titles, but the rivalry was so transcendent, it had become a kind of joint accomplishment.

After their retirements, they followed strangely similar courses. They were neighbors in Aspen, Colo., and Florida, at times living just minutes from each other. Evert’s longtime base is Boca Raton, while Navratilova has a home in Miami Beach as well as a small farm just up the road in Evert’s birthplace of Fort Lauderdale, where she keeps a multitude of chickens. “She brings me eggs,” Evert says. Each eventually went into tennis broadcasting, which meant they continued to meet at Grand Slam fortnights. “Our lives are so parallel, it’s eerie when you think about it,” Navratilova says.

They became the kind of friends who talked and texted weekly, sometimes exchanging black-box confidences deep in the night. And who could tease each other with a mischief they wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. On Navratilova’s 60th birthday, she received a Cartier box from Evert. Inside was a necklace with three rings of white gold, signifying the two and their long friendship. “I guess I’m kind of the guy in our relationship, giving her jewelry,” Evert cracks.

The parallels were funny, until they weren’t.

In January 2022, Evert learned that she had Stage 1C ovarian cancer. As Evert embarked on a grueling six cycles of chemotherapy, Navratilova pulled the Cartier necklace from her jewelry box and put it on, a talisman. “I wore it all the time when I wanted her to get well,” Navratilova says. For months, she never took it off.

Only one thing made her remove it: radiation. In December 2022, Navratilova received her own diagnosis: She had not one but two early-stage cancers, in her throat and breast.

“I finally had to take it off when I got zapped,” Navratilova says.

On a late spring day, Evert and Navratilova sat together in an elegant Miami hotel, both finally cancer-free at the end of long dual sieges. Evert was just a few weeks removed from her fourth surgery in 16 months, a reconstruction following a mastectomy she underwent in late January. Navratilova had just finished the last session of a scorching protocol of radiation and chemo, during which she lost 29 pounds. She toyed with a plate of gluten-free pasta, happy to be able to swallow without pain.

They were finally ready to look over their shoulders and tell some stories. New stories but also some old ones that felt fresh again or came with a new frankness.

Evert recalled the day she phoned Navratilova to tell her she had cancer.

“She was one of the very first people I told,” she says.

Wait a second.

Is Evert saying that the rival who dealt her the deepest professional cuts of her life, whose mere body language on the court once made her seethe, was among the very first people she wanted to talk to when she got cancer? It’s one thing to share a rich history and be neighbors and swap gifts and teasing, but they are those kinds of confidantes?

And is the same true for Navratilova, that Evert — whose mere existence meant that no matter how much she won, she could never really win, who at one point dominated her with an infuriating superciliousness — was among the first people she called when she got cancer? Is that what they are saying?

Indeed, it is.

“When I called her, it was a feeling of, like, coming home,” Evert says.

Hang on, you say.

Go back.

Guts and glory, together and apart

They met Feb. 25, 1973, in the player lounge of a Florida tour stop. Evert, 18, was playing backgammon with a tournament official at a table by a wall. Though she had been a top player for two years by then, she was by nature shy and felt isolated by her fame and the circumscribing stereotype that came with it. Sports Illustrated would paint her as a “composite of Sandra Dee, the Carpenters, and yes, apple pie,” which she dealt with by cultivating a clamped, sardonic purse of the mouth.

Evert glanced up and saw a new girl approaching, pale and plump as a dumpling, with a guileless face beneath a mop of hair. “Hi, Chris!” she recalls Navratilova blurting.

From the 16-year-old Navratilova’s point of view, it was Evert who spoke first, giving her a sweet murmured “Hi” and a small wave. Oh, my God, Chris Evert said hello to me, Navratilova thought. Navratilova recognized Evert from the pictures she pored over in World Tennis magazine, one of the few subscriptions she could get in her home village of Revnice, outside of Prague.

Let’s stipulate that the greetings were simultaneous, the reflexive reactions of two girls who were the antithetical of mean, more sensitive than their other competitors ever realized, “both always underestimated in our empathy,” as Navratilova says. And who had the mutual desire to break the “taboo” of competition, as Evert once called it, that inhibited so many girls.

Later in the tournament, Evert spotted Navratilova again. “Picture this,” Evert says. Navratilova was walking straight through the grounds in a one-piece bathing suit and flip flops, oblivious to stares at her crisscrossing tan lines. It was Navratilova’s first trip to the United States; she was granted an eight-week leave by the communist Czechoslovakian government to try her game against the Western elites’, and she was determined to luxuriate in it. She’s got guts, Evert thought.

Their first match a month later, in Akron, Ohio, on March 22, 1973, is crystal to them both a half-century later. Though Evert won in straight sets, Navratilova pushed her to 7-6 in the first. “Five-four in the tiebreaker,” Navratilova says instantly, as soon as it’s mentioned, bristling, “And I actually had a set point.”

Evert had never faced anything like it. The curving lefty serve caromed away from her, and so did the charging volleys. “She had weapons that I hadn’t seen in a young player — ever,” Evert says. Two things gave Evert relief: Navratilova’s lack of fitness — she had put on 20 pounds in four weeks on American pancakes — and her emotionalism. “She was almost crying on the court in the match, you know, just moaning,” Evert says. Nevertheless, Evert had never felt such a formidableness from a new opponent and never would again. “Overwhelming” is the word Evert searches for — and finds. “More than any player coming up in the last 40 years.”

To Navratilova, it was equally memorable, for the simple reason that she had nearly taken a set off Evert. “For me, that was unforgettable. But, yeah, I made an impression. … I was pretty confident that I would beat her one day. I just didn’t know how long it would take.”

Friendship was easy enough at first — so long as Evert was winning. She won 16 of their first 20 matches. In their first Grand Slam final, at the 1975 French Open, she smoked Navratilova 6-2, 6-1 in the second and third sets after casually sharing a lunch of roasted chicken with her.

Evert was so utterly regnant and aloof in those days she seemed to Navratilova like a castle with a moat. She had a forbidding self-containment, a stony demeanor that one competitor from the 1970s, Lesley Hunt, likened in Sports Illustrated to “playing a blank wall.”

Navratilova could not fathom how Evert cast such a huge projection with such an unprepossessing figure. “I was like, ‘Holy s---, how does she do it?’ ” Navratilova remembers. Evert stood just 5-foot-6 and weighed a slim-shouldered 125 pounds. But she had a superb economy of motion — and something else. One day Navratilova watched fascinated as Evert practiced against her younger sister Jeanne Evert, who also played on the tour. Both Everts had two-handed backhands, and they wore skirts with no pockets. Which meant that to hit a backhand, someone had to drop the ball she carried in her left hand and it would bounce distractingly around her feet. As Navratilova watched, she realized with growing amusement that Chris was engaged in a subtle contest of will.

“It was kind of a mental fight,” Navratilova recalls. “Who was going to hit the first ball? Because whoever didn’t hit first would have to drop their ball.” Chris never missed the chance to hit first. “It was a small thing, but it took a steely determination,” Navratilova says. “And she never missed.” It registered. By the end of the session Navratilova understood that Evert’s greatest weapon was “her brain.”

Navratilova herself was so mentally distractible that she would follow the flight of a bird across the stadium sky. Her thoughts and feelings seemed to blow straight through her, unfiltered. Evert could not help but be disarmed by this openhearted, unconstrained young woman who seemed hungry to experience … everything. Pancakes. Pool time. Freedom. Friendship. Fast cars.

Evert’s urge to befriend Navratilova won out over her reserve. Evert invited her to be her doubles partner and even took her on a double date, with Dean Martin Jr., son of the entertainer, and Desi Arnaz Jr., Martin’s actor friend and pop-band collaborator. The teen idols squired Evert and Navratilova to a drive-in movie.

Evert and Navratilova traveled together, practiced together, even brunched before they met in finals. “I was a tough nut to crack,” Evert observes. “But she was so innocent and almost vulnerable when she was young, I trusted being safe with her.”

Over dinners and glasses of wine, Navratilova discovered the mutinous side of Evert, which expressed itself with an unsuspected saltiness. Evert delighted in telling Navratilova scandalously dirty jokes. The outward banality of the girl hurling herself off the pedestal compounded Navratilova’s outbursts of laughter. “The curtain would fall,” Navratilova says, “and the funny Chris came out. The filter was gone. The walls were gone. And that’s when I realized she just kept the cards close to her chest. But she was soooo mischievous underneath it all.”

By 1976, however, Navratilova began to score more victories over Evert. In that year’s Wimbledon semifinals, it was all Evert could do to hold her off, 6-3, 4-6, 6-4. “I was nipping at her heels,” Navratilova says. “I was becoming a threat.”

Which is when all the trouble started and they entered the narrowest part of the hourglass. Evert believed she had gotten too close to Navratilova. She broke up their doubles partnership. “She ditched me,” Navratilova says.

Evert did it politely, telling Navratilova she would have to find another partner because she wanted to focus on her singles. But it stung. And Navratilova knew the real reason. “Chris, by her own admission, could only be close friends with people who never had a chance of beating her,” Navratilova says.

Evert hated to play someone she cared about — hated it. “I thought, ‘God, I can’t be emotional towards these people,’ ” Evert says now. “… It was easier not to even know them.”

Evert’s on-court demeanor was a facade, developed to please her father and coach, Jimmy Evert, a renowned teaching pro at the public Holiday Park in Fort Lauderdale. Jimmy was a man of such rigor and unbending rectitude that he refused to raise his $6 hourly fee for lessons because of his daughter’s success. But he was not right about everything. He demanded that Chris commit to tennis to the exclusion of all else — friends were incompatible with rivals, he told her. “I was raised in a house that did not encourage relationships,” she says. And he brooked no dissent. “It was a fearful sort of upbringing,” she adds. The result was a young woman who beneath her stoicism roiled with insecurity and anxiety.

Navratilova observes that, in its way, Evert’s childhood was as stifling as her own had been in Czechoslovakia. “We are much more the same than different, really,” she says. “So much of it was imposed on both of us, one way or the other, with her Catholic, proper girl upbringing and me being suppressed by communism.”

Evert convinced herself that she and Navratilova had become too familiar with each other and that it cost her an edge.

So “I separated myself from her,” Evert says.

It was bad timing for Navratilova, who was feeling doubly cut off. A year earlier, she had defected. Czech authorities had increasingly expressed the ominous sentiment that Navratilova was getting too Americanized — partly thanks to her budding friendship with Evert — and she feared they were about to choke off her career.

Navratilova struggled with homesickness; concern for her family, whom she would not see for almost five years; mastering a new language (she studied English by watching “I Love Lucy” reruns); and the stresses of hiding her homosexuality. As she related in her autobiography, by the time Evert ditched her at the U.S. Open, “I was a walking candidate for a nervous breakdown.” She lost in the opening round to a grossly inferior player, Janet Newberry, and dissolved into sobs on national television.

But Navratilova emerged from the catharsis a firmer character. She watched with a mounting, gnawing dissatisfaction as Evert dominated the Grand Slams, challenged only by Evonne Goolagong. At one point, Navratilova heard Evert talk in an interview about how her rivalry with Goolagong was “defining” her.

Navratilova bridled at the statement. “I remember thinking, what about me?” Navratilova recalls.

When it finally came, Navratilova’s breakthrough — and the role reversal — was breath-snatching. By 1981 she had developed some armor. Training with Nancy Lieberman, the former basketball great, she dropped her body fat to 8 percent. Lieberman told her she had to get “mean” about Evert and showed what she meant by being intentionally rude to Evert in player lounges. Evert would start to greet them, and Lieberman would turn her back or say frostily, “Are you talking to me?” It quietly infuriated Evert. “They weren’t very nice to me,” Evert says. “I mean, Nancy taught her to hate me.”

From 1982 to 1984, it was Navratilova’s turn to be cold. She reached 10 Grand Slam finals — and won eight of them. In that stretch, she beat Evert 14 straight times, with an abbreviating serve-and-volley power that seemed almost dismissive. “She was in the way of me getting to No. 1,” Navratilova says. “So I kind of created that distance. She was my carrot when I was training. You know, I would imagine beating Chris. She became the villain, even though she really wasn’t.”

Evert struggled not to lose heart, especially when Navratilova beat her by 6-1, 6-3 in the 1983 U.S. Open. “It was not a good feeling to know that I wasn’t even in the game,” Evert says. About to turn 30, she had fallen behind in a variety of ways, from her fitness to the fact that Navratilova was using a graphite racket while she still used wood. She was also trying to sort her personal life and separated from her husband of five years, British player John Lloyd.

Navratilova paraded her triumph by whipping around in a white Rolls-Royce convertible, one of six cars in her garage. She won so much that by 1984 it made her generous again. She now trained with a more amiable tennis tactician named Mike Estep, and her partner, Judy Nelson, a former Texas beauty contestant, liked Evert and worked to repair the relationship. At Wimbledon that July, after beating Evert, 7-6 (7-5), 6-2, to even their all-time match record at 30-30, Navratilova was sensitive to Evert’s quiet devastation. Navratilova said sweetly into the victor’s microphone, “I wish we could just quit right now and never play each other again because it’s not right for one of us to say we’re better.”

“So does that mean she’s retiring now?” Evert said in a news conference afterward, wisecrackery intact.

Navratilova’s dominance of Evert that summer made her more of an antiheroine than she had ever been — and resulted in one of the most wounding days of her career. On the afternoon of the 1984 U.S. Open final, they had an interminably tense wait as Pat Cash and Ivan Lendl engaged in a five-set men’s semifinal that went to two tiebreakers and lasted nearly four hours. There was nothing to do but stare into space or chat. Evert became starving. Navratilova, who had a bagel, split it and handed her half.

When they finally took the court, they needed a while to find their form — and then they suddenly went into full classic mode. When Evert began to lace the court with passing shots as if she was running out clotheslines, taking the opening set 6-4, the crowd leaped to its feet and roared like jet engines.

But when Navratilova took the second set 6-4, there came a smattering of boos. As Navratilova turned the match in her favor, some grew surly. They began to applaud her errors and cheered when she double-faulted. When she won it with a knifing volley, 4-6, 6-4, 6-4, there was a barely polite ovation.

Navratilova was unstrung by the rejection. As Estep gave her a congratulatory hug, she burst into tears in his arms. “Why were they so against me?” she asked Estep. The answer: Because she had won too much against Evert. It was Navratilova’s sixth straight Grand Slam victory — and the most ambivalent feeling she ever had. She buried her head in a towel, shoulders quivering.

One person knew how Navratilova felt that day: Evert. For years she had lived with the “ice maiden” label and frigidness from crowds that considered her too impassive. Goolagong, the wispy, ethereal Australian, had always been more favored by fans, to the point that on one occasion Evert came back into the locker room after a loss and flung her rackets to the floor and spat bitterly, “Now I hope they’re happy.”

Evert and Navratilova wanted to be appreciated for who they were. But it felt impossible with all the media caricatures of them as princesses, robots, “Chris America” vs. the foreigner, the delicate sweetheart vs. the bulging lesbian. “All that stuff hurt,” Navratilova says.

Evert refused to play into any of the tropes that day — or any other day. For which Navratilova felt deeply grateful. “Chris never did anything to make it worse, you know?” Navratilova says.

At some point in the wake of that difficult year, they struck a private agreement: They would not respond to the stereotypes or any egging on from the media or their own audiences. If either had a question about something, she would speak directly to the other, “so that we knew where we stand,” Navratilova says.

Early in 1985, Evert beat Navratilova for the first time in over two years, at the Virginia Slims of Florida. “Nobody beats Chris Evert 15 times in a row,” she deadpanned.

The renewal set up another masterpiece, the 1985 French Open final. The match is a fascinating revisit — and reveal. After they took the court, what’s striking is how they had borrowed from each other, forced the other to adapt. It’s Navratilova who wins some of the longest baseline rallies and Evert who presses the net first on some points. Navratilova has fully appropriated imperiousness, blond and bejeweled, diamonds in her ears, gold bracelets and rings. Evert is the one who is stripped down — her hair is shorn short, and there is nothing on her wrist but a sweatband. It’s clear she had gone back to work, developed ropes of muscle in her arms and stealthily broadened her game over those two seasons of losses.

Right hand against left, they went at each other like flashing sabers.

As their rallies wore on, they played with apparent curiosity. “There had been so many matches. How do you surprise one another?” Navratilova says. “How do you find something new or different? When you know everything already?” Sometimes, as the ball flew, one of them would just nod before it landed and acknowledge that it was too good with a “Yep.”

Evert would never be better; she found ways to wrong-foot the charging, slashing Navratilova. She always had been irritated by the shoulder swagger Navratilova could show after a great point, but she was fully capable of her own show of supremacy, and she showed it here, with the head tossing of an empress and a mincy little walk that could only be called a sashay.

A point-blank volley exchange at the net, won by Evert, had broadcaster Bud Collins screaming: “OHHHHHH! Eyeball to eyeball!” On one exchange, the force of Evert’s shot knocked the racket from Navratilova’s hand and sent her sprawling to the red clay. On match point, she lured Navratilova to the net with a short forehand, then pivoted to deliver an unfurling backhand winner up the line past a diving Navratilova, through an opening as narrow as one of her old hair ribbons. And it was over. Evert had won, 6-3, 6-7 (7-4), 7-5.

The embrace at the net is one of their enduringly favorite pictures. They threw their arms over each other’s shoulders, mutually exhausted yet beaming over the quality of the tennis they had just played. “You can’t tell who won,” Navratilova says.

It seemed as if they no longer were playing against each other so much as with each other. And that’s how it stayed. From then on, their locker room atmosphere became more than just companionable. It was … consoling. Someone would win and someone would lose, and the loser would sit on a bench, head dangling, and the other, unable to look away, would drift over and sit down. Sometimes, hours afterward, one of them would open her tennis bag and find a sweet note in it.

“We were the last two left standing,” Evert says. “… I saw her at her highest and at her lowest. And I think because we saw each other that way, the vulnerable part, that’s another level of friendship.”

In 1986, Navratilova was scheduled to return to Czechoslovakia for the first time since her defection to play a match for the U.S. Federation Cup team. “Will you come?” she asked Evert. “I don’t know how they’ll treat me.” Evert was nursing a knee injury, but she went. Navratilova was overjoyed to be teammates for a change. “We could be happy at the same time for once,” she says. Evert was rewarded with an extraordinary experience: She watched her friend get a standing ovation from crowds standing three deep while Czech officials stared at their shoes.

At Evert’s final Wimbledon in 1989, one more remarkable scene played out between them. Evert by then was flagging, her intensity worn thin. In the quarterfinals she was in danger of an undignified loss to unseeded, 87th-ranked Laura Golarsa. She trailed 5-2 in the third set, just two points from defeat. This isn’t how I want to go out, she thought grimly. Navratilova, watching on TV in the player lounge, stood up and dashed out to courtside. She took a seat in the grandstand.

“Come on, Chrissie!” Navratilova’s voice rang out.

Evert had just a moment to feel moved. Touched. Just then Golarsa delivered a volley. On a dead run, Evert chased it. Stretched out, pulled nearly into the stands, her backhand fully extended, Evert drove a screaming pass down the alley that curled around the net post and checked the opposite corner, a clean winner. Navratilova shrieked with the thrill of it like a little girl. Evert swept the rest of the set and won it 7-5, arguably the most astonishing comeback of her life.

“She’s got my back,” Evert says now. “I’ve got hers.”

‘Cancer makes you feel alone’

Friendship is arguably the most wholly voluntary relationship. It reflects a mutual decision to keep pasting something back together, no matter how far it gets pulled apart, even when there is no obligatory reason, no justice-of-the-peace vow or chromosomal tie.

Evert and Navratilova just kept finding reasons to hang on to the relationship. To the point that they became hilariously entangled in each other’s personal affairs. It’s a fact that Navratilova set up Evert with the man who remains the most important one in her life, Andy Mill. Toward the close of Evert’s playing career, Navratilova knew Evert was lonely and depressed after her divorce from Lloyd, which caused Jimmy Evert to briefly stop speaking to his daughter. Navratilova invited Evert to spend Christmas with her in Aspen. She took her skiing and to a New Year’s party at the Hotel Jerome, where she knew there would be good-looking men in droves. That night Evert met the impossibly handsome Mill, who the next day gallantly coached Evert down a steep slope, skiing backward and holding her hands.

At the end of the week, as Navratilova packed to leave for the Australian Open, Evert appeared in her doorway. “Do you mind if I stay on for a few days?” Evert asked. Navratilova arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Sure.” With the house to herself, Evert had her first tryst with Mill, causing the gentleman to exclaim the next morning, “My God, I’m with Chris Evert in Martina Navratilova’s bed.” Evert’s 1988 wedding to Mill marked the rare occasion when Navratilova wore a skirt. Years later, Navratilova was still teasing Evert. “I should have put that bed on eBay.”

In 2014, when Navratilova wed longtime partner Julia Lemigova, she did not have to debate whom to choose as maid of honor. Evert was by her side. “But of course,” Navratilova says.

Navratilova had never properly told Evert how much her unwavering support against homophobia had meant. Especially in crucial moments such as 1990, when Australian champion Margaret Court called Navratilova a “bad role model” for being gay. “Martina is a role model to me,” Evert snapped back publicly. As Navratilova put it, Evert was “gay-friendly before it was okay to be.” It made Navratilova’s public life incalculably more bearable. “It was more than nice,” Navratilova says now of Evert’s stance. “It was huge.” On matters of character, Navratilova says, Evert “underrates herself.”

Here’s where they stood when the cancers came. Evert had just finished rearing three adored sons to adulthood and was resolutely single again, after a psychological reckoning. Her long emotional containment finally imploded in 2006: She left Mill for former pro golfer Greg Norman; a terrible mistake, the union lasted just 15 months. Determined to know herself better, she went into counseling “to figure out what makes me tick and how I’m wired, why I’m wired the way I am and why I have made mistakes the way I have” and emerged with a piercing self-honesty. She reestablished a closeness with Mill and reinvested herself in her second calling as a mentor to young prodigies at the developmental tennis camp she founded, the Evert Tennis Academy. At over 60, she could still go for two hours on a court with women a third her age.

Just down the freeway from her, Navratilova had found her “anchor” with Lemigova, with whom she step-mothered two daughters and cared for an assortment of animals: donkeys, goats, dogs and exotic birds, including a talkative parrot named Pushkin. One of the most broadly read great athletes who ever lived, she absorbed tomes such as Timothy Snyder’s account of encroaching fascism, “The Road to Unfreedom,” with a lightning intelligence that could light up a hillside.

In February 2020, a funeral notice appeared in the Fort Lauderdale papers: Mass for Jeanne Evert Dubin would be said at 10 a.m. at St. Anthony’s Church. Evert had watched with mounting grief as her precious younger sister fought ovarian cancer until her arms were bruised by needles and ports and she wasted to less than 80 pounds.

Sitting in a pew was Navratilova, who would spend the next 12 hours by Evert’s side. She attended the graveside services, then sat with Evert and her family at home until 10 that night.

Nearly two years after Jeanne’s death, in November 2021, Evert got a call out of the blue from the Cleveland Clinic. Genetic testing that Jeanne had undergone during her illness had been reappraised with new study, and she had a BRCA1 variant that was pathogenic. The doctor recommended that Evert get tested immediately. The very next day Evert got a test — and she, too, was positive for the BRCA1 mutation. Her doctor, Joe Cardenas, recommended an immediate hysterectomy.

Evert called Navratilova and told her about the test and that she was scheduled for surgery and further testing. “It’s preventive,” Evert told her reassuringly. On the other end of the phone, she heard Navratilova exhale, “Ohhhhhhhhh,” a long sigh of inarticulate dismay. In 2010, Navratilova had been diagnosed with a noninvasive breast cancer after making the mistake of going four years without a mammogram. Her cancer was contained — but still. Navratilova wouldn’t feel comfortable for Evert until all the tests had come back.

“The first thing, the very first thing I thought of was, if I’m going to go through these trenches with anybody, Martina would be the person I’d want to go through them with,” Evert says. “Because she’s … strong. She doesn’t take any nonsense from people. She just gets the job done. And I think that’s the mentality I had.”

When Evert’s pathology report came back after the surgery, however, she felt anything but strong: Surgery revealed high-grade malignancy in her fallopian tubes. Evert would have to undergo a second surgery, to harvest lymph nodes and test fluid in her stomach cavity, to determine what stage she was. Jeanne’s cancer had not been discovered until she was Stage 3; “I knew that anything Stage 3 or 4, you don’t have a good chance,” Evert says.

For three days, Evert waited for the results with the understanding that they were life-or-death. “Humble moment,” Evert says. “You know, just because I was No. 1 in the world, it doesn’t — I’m just like everyone else.”

Evert got unfathomably lucky. The cancer hadn’t progressed. Had she waited even three more months to be tested, it probably would have spread. As soon as she was able, Evert would go public with her diagnosis to encourage testing. An estimated 25 million people carry a BRCA mutation, and like her, 90 percent of them have no idea. “I had felt fine, I was working out, and I had cancer in my body,” she says.

Evert still had a hard road ahead, with six cycles of chemo, but her chances of recovery were 90 percent. Her eldest son, Alex, moved in to support her daily care and even designed a workout regimen so she could sweat out the poisons. Mill took her to every chemo treatment and held her hand. Her good friend Christiane Amanpour, also diagnosed with ovarian cancer, sent her healing ointments from Paris. Her youngest sister, Clare, flew in monthly to nurse her through the sickish aftereffects, even climbing into bed with her.

But nothing can really make cancer a collective experience; it’s an experiential impasse. Everyone responds differently to the treatment and the accompanying dread. Late at night, Evert would be sleepless from the queasiness and a strange sense of small electric shocks biting into her bones. She would have to slip out of bed and walk around the house, by herself with it. “Cancer makes you feel alone,” Evert says. “Because it’s like, nobody can take that pain from you.”

Compounding Evert’s sense of aloneness was the abruptness with which she had toppled from a sense of supreme athletic command to feebleness. There was one person who could understand that. “What can I do for you?” Navratilova asked. They were in a room of just two, all over again. “I can tell her my fears,” Evert says. “I can be 100 percent honest with her.”

Navratilova came by the house and called regularly, but she also knew how to “lay back.” Sometimes she would call and Evert would answer right away. And sometimes it would take three or four days before she answered. It felt, in a way, like the old locker room days when she knew Evert was laboring with a loss. “I think because we were there for each other before, we kind of knew what to do or what not to do, instinctively, even though this was a first,” Navratilova says.

In the middle of Evert’s treatments, a gift arrived from Navratilova. It was a large piece of art. The canvas was lacquered with Evert’s favorite playing surface, red clay, and painted with white tennis lines, on which a series of ball marks were embedded, including one that had ticked the white line. The piece was by Navratilova herself, who in retirement took up art. The canvas was really a portrait — of Evert, of the exquisite, measured precision of her game. A tribute. Evert immediately hung it in a primary place in her living room.

After every cycle of treatment, Evert would rebound with a tenacity that astounded Navratilova. She would plead with her doctors, “Can I get on a treadmill?” Just days removed from an IV, she would start power walking again or riding her beloved Peloton bike until she was slick with sweat. She even did light CrossFit workouts with weights. “She’s an animal,” Navratilova observes admiringly.

By the summer 2022, Evert was healthy enough to go back to work as a broadcaster (although with a wig), and in November she joined Navratilova in a public appearance at the season-ending WTA Finals in Fort Worth. The pair went shopping together for cowboy boots and hats, strolling through the Fort Worth Stockyards historic district. And that’s when Evert delivered a piece of news that undid Navratilova. “I’m having a double mastectomy,” Evert said. She explained that her BRCA mutation meant she was at high risk of developing breast cancer on top of the ovarian.

Navratilova was so affected, she burst into tears. “It was such a shock to me because I thought she was done,” she says, and as she retells the story, she weeps again. She had watched Evert go public with her diagnosis and slug her way through chemo, and she hoped she was past it. Now she would face more months of convalescence. “I knew what she was going through publicly and privately,” Navratilova says, “and it just knocked me on my ass.”

Navratilova was still grappling with Evert’s news when she was floored by her own cancer diagnosis. During the Fort Worth trip, Navratilova felt a sore lump in her neck. She wasn’t taking any chances and underwent a biopsy when she got home. Evert got a text from Navratilova. Can you call me as soon as possible? I need to talk to you. Evert checked her phone and saw that Navratilova had also tried to call her. Evert thought, Oh, s--t. That’s not good.

Navratilova’s sore lump proved to be a cancerous lymph node. Like Evert, she had to undergo multiple lumpectomies and further tests, with a frightening three days waiting for the results, worried that it had advanced into her organs. “I’m thinking, ‘I could be dead in a year,’ ” she says. She distracted herself by thinking about her favorite subject, beautiful cars, and browsing them online.

Which car am I going to drive in the last year of my life, she asked herself. A Bentley? A Ferrari?

The verdict when the testing came back was a combination of relief and gut punch. The throat cancer was a highly curable Stage 1, but the follow-up screening also revealed she had an early-stage breast cancer, unrelated to her previous bout. She was so stunned she had a hard time even driving herself home. But by the time Evert reached her by phone, Navratilova was in an incredulous, fear-fueled rage. “I sensed that it really pissed her off more than anything,” Evert says. “She was mad about it.”

“Can you believe it!” Navratilova stormed. “It’s in my throat. And then they found something in my breast.”

For a minute, the two of them considered the bizarreness of both fighting cancer at the same time. Navratilova had always chased Evert, but she didn’t want to chase her in this pursuit. “Jesus. I guess we’re taking this to a whole new level,” Navratilova said.

And then they both started giggling.

“Because it was just so ironic,” Evert says.

But then Navratilova grew serious again. She admitted to Evert, “I’m scared.”

It was the same sudden whiff of mortality, the same you’re not so special after all jolt that Evert had gotten. “As a top-level athlete, you think you’re going to live to a hundred and that you can rehab it all,” Navratilova says. “And then you realize, ‘I can’t rehab this.’ So sharing that fear was easy — easier with her than anybody else.”

Navratilova’s cancer was not as dangerous as Evert’s, but it was more arduous. It required three cycles of chemo, 15 sessions of targeted proton therapy on her throat, 35 more proton treatments on the lymph nodes in her neck and five sessions of conventional radiation on her breast. Navratilova arranged to do it at Memorial Sloan Kettering hospital in New York, hunkering down at a friend’s vacant apartment.

Unbelievably, Navratilova chose to undergo most of it alone. She wanted to protect her family from worry over her. “You just keep it in because you don’t want to affect the people around you.” She also wanted to cultivate her former big-match mentality, to focus on the fight. “Even just answering the question when somebody says, ‘Can I get you anything?’ it takes energy,” Navratilova says now. “And it’s just easier to not have to think what you’re going to say or to deny help 10 times.”

The proton treatments were a series of slow singes. Her sense of taste turned to ashes, and swallowing felt like an acid rinse. As her weight plunged, she shivered on the cold medical tables, unable to get warm, to the point that she wore a ski vest to the hospital. She developed deep circles under her eyes from insomnia.

As the poisons mounted in her, it was as if she aged 50 years overnight. “Everything felt just wrong,” she says. This was a woman who had trekked up Mount Kilimanjaro at the age of 54, reaching 14,000 feet before she was felled with a case of pulmonary edema. At 65, she could still do 30 push-ups in a row. Now she needed two hands to drink a glass of water.

Evert had an almost intuitive sense of when to check up on Navratilova. Just when she would be near despair, not trusting herself to drink from a glass with one quivering hand, the phone would buzz, and it would be Evert. “What stands out is the timing,” Navratilova says. “It was always spot on. Like she knew I was at a low point. I don’t know how she knew, but she did. It was like some kind of cosmic connection. Because it was uncanny.”

Evert would be briskly sympathetic and to the point. “Don’t tough it out,” she would say, then just listen. There was no need for question or explanation. There was just understanding. “It was always there,” Navratilova says. “So we didn’t have to, like, try to find it.”

Sometimes the only sound on the line would be two people breathing, wordless with mutual comprehension.

Evert says, “With all the experiences we had, winning and losing and comforting each other, I think we ended up having more compassion for each other than anybody in the world could have.”

Their finest rally

As Evert and Navratilova finish picking over lunch salads, their senses of renewal in the Miami sunshine make them seem almost radiant. Life feels clearer, “uncluttered,” Evert says. From a distance, they cut the figures of teenagers. Evert is as neatly trim as ever, an impression enhanced by her newly grown pixie-length platinum hair. Navratilova, too, is slender as a youth. Only up close do you see lingering creases of fatigue around their eyes and sense the scars beneath their clothes and the tentativeness of their confidence.

Evert admits she is “hesitant” to say her cancer is really gone. “It could come back. Look, it could come back. It’s cancer, right? It’s always peripheral.” Navratilova agrees. She compares it to waking up on the morning of an important match, a Wimbledon final, with the reverse of anticipation. For the first few seconds of semiconsciousness after opening her eyes she feels peace, and then the awareness of something important and pending seeps in. And then it hits her: cancer. “It’s always hovering,” Navratilova says. “You just put it out of sight. You go on with what you’re doing.”

The way they go on is as follows. They go public with their diagnoses and accounts of treatment because all those years that they were clashing over trophies, they also had a sense of a larger public responsibility, to “the game or women athletes or women,” as Navratilova says. A sense that it wasn’t enough just to be great; they also had to be good for something. “To help,” Evert says.

They work out as much as the doctors allow, maybe even a little more than they advise, at first provisionally and then with growing defiance, even though each of their bodies is “still fighting the crap that’s inside it,” as Navratilova says, in her case doing just two push-ups and going skiing before her radiation was done. (“Skiing! During radiation!” Evert crows in disbelief.) They lift weights above their shoulders though the sore scars in their chests aren’t entirely healed, and they hit on the tennis court, though in Navratilova’s case, the effort to chase a ball even two steps leaves her winded, and in Evert’s, it makes her feel clumsy-footed and angry, until she reminds herself, Chrissie, who do you think are? And then she calls Navratilova, and they both laugh at themselves in this companionable frailty.

There are statues of Arthur Ashe at the U.S. Open, Fred Perry at Wimbledon, Rod Laver at the Australian Open and Rafael Nadal at the French Open. The blazers who run the major championships have not yet commissioned sculptures of these two women, who so unbound their sport and gave the gift of professional aspiration to so many. Yet who exemplify, perhaps more than any champions in the annals of their sport, the deep internal mutual grace called sportsmanship.

But then, they don’t need bronzing. They have something much warmer than that. Each other.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/interactive/2023/chris-evert-martina-navratilova-cancer/?pwapi_token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWJpZCI6IjIyMzAzMzIiLCJyZWFzb24iOiJnaWZ0IiwibmJmIjoxNjg4MjcwNDAwLCJpc3MiOiJzdWJzY3JpcHRpb25zIiwiZXhwIjoxNjg5NTY2Mzk5LCJpYXQiOjE2ODgyNzA0MDAsImp0aSI6Ijg3NjU5MWRmLTE5Y2YtNDZhZS1iNzZkLWNmMGNiMWFiMWZiOCIsInVybCI6Imh0dHBzOi8vd3d3Lndhc2hpbmd0b25wb3N0LmNvbS9zcG9ydHMvaW50ZXJhY3RpdmUvMjAyMy9jaHJpcy1ldmVydC1tYXJ0aW5hLW5hdnJhdGlsb3ZhLWNhbmNlci8ifQ.ExafF0SDohGSQznY3dAmgzH4QCMvUA2eA2rk2KlOc_A&itid=gfta

[ladyimaginarium]

helloo, i hope its okay for me to send this here… but! i saw you made a post on @multiplicity-positivity and mentioned indigenous people with a low quantum bloodline, and it got me thinking.

my maternal grandfather was a member of the blackfeet (specifically aamsskáápipikani) nation. he was born and grew up there, but moved to florida in the 60s, where he met my grandma. i never met him (he died before i was born), but i heard a lot about him growing up. his name was something like “barking yellow coyote” but everyone called him frankie, and thats how hes referred to by my grandma when we talk about him.

no one in my family is very interested in connecting with our indigenous roots, and i never would have considered myself indigenous since my family is so white passing. my mom turned out pretty light skinned despite being mixed, and all of my siblings and i are very white. but ive always felt so pulled to the blackfeet nation for my whole life. i used to ask about my grandpa all the time, and even though ive never met him i feel so connected to him and ive always felt this drive to immerse myself in his culture and learn more about the blackfoot nation. i feel guilty about it though, since im basically white and i dont want to intrude in a space that isnt for me.

i guess what im wondering is… is it okay to want to connect with the blackfoot nation if i have never been to the actual reservation, and have never even met my only relative who was a full-blooded member? am i considered partially indigenous, and am i allowed to try and explore that aspect of my identity?

idk your post really spoke to me and so i wanted to reach out. im sorry if this is breaking any of your boundaries or something. if im being totally honest i didnt really check out your blog too much before i hit the ask button… you can just delete this if you’re uncomfortable responding. either way thanks for reading, have a great day!

-🍓🌙 (my emoji tag just in case you do post this)

Hi, uh. Sorry, we& just woke up from an unexpected nap and I& guess I'm& fronting now? This shit is weird, it never happened to me& before but here we& are. Anyway, nice to meet you. To answer your question, we're& not bodily Blackfoot or anything like that but I& think it's only natural that you'd wanna discover and reclaim your heritage. Usually there's a reason for it. I'd& say go for it as long as you be respectful about it and do it for the right reasons. Blood quantum is colonizer bullshit. But keep in mind there's no "part" indigenous of anything, you either are or you aren't. That's all I& really gotta say on the topic. We're& glad it touched you and collectively wish you the best if you do end up reconnecting to your heritage, just know it's a long and hard journey and from experience, it isn't always fun because you also have to dig up intergenerational trauma and all that other shit, and you also have to be active and fight for your community, it's definitely not all fun and games, but it's worth it. To anybody else who's disconnected and who reads this: please don't give us& your whole entire life story and ask us& if you're Native enough, don't ask us& questions about your place in the Native community, or whether you're Native or not, or on whether you can do certain things, especially if you haven't even started your reconnection journey. I& realize we're& very vocal on our& indigeneity and the issues our& communities face, we're& collectively flattered you guys come to us& about these things, but that doesn't automatically mean that it's an invitation to come into our& inbox and seek validation, especially if we're& not from your nation. We're& not elders or knowledge keepers. Thanks.

— 🍊 / Clementine Maria Jasmine Cree&, she/her; they/them.

[moxfirefly]

Well! You ask I deliver. The 'only one bed' trope with Donnie and his crush? Doesnt have to be nsfw or anything, it can be pure pre-relationship fluff :3 (I also live for that trope even if irl sharing a bed isnt a big deal at all)

Have a nice day!!

*rubs hands together* you never let me down friend 🖤

Rated Fluff and Tension™️

This was stupid.

Absolutely dumb.

So why was he approaching it like it was a complex reconstruction of the truck and the tools just happened to be on fire?

Donnie sighed, there was no reason to blow this out of proportions. Everyone had already climbed onto their respective beds. While Casey and April had no issues sharing the small cot and Vern had been relegated to the couch, you were left to share a bed with anybody willing of. Before the sentence was done you had announced that you didn’t mind sleeping with Donnie.

Which earned you a snort from Mikey, who’s mouth was quickly covered, a smile from Leo and Raph basically telling you the bed would be yours since ‘Einstein don’t sleep shit anyways’

Baseless assumptions.

He slept. He slept plenty. He just slept really really really late into midnight…maybe dawn…sometimes around sunrise.

Point in hand though, he was genuinely tired right about now and you had drifted off a couple of hours ago and you were just…

Was it possible e to fall in love even more when somebody looks the way you do when they sleep? Your sleep shorts had little pineapples on them, that was downright the most stupidest thing that’s ever made him go keyboard smash in his life.

With a sigh he took off his glasses and bandana. Maybe you were an early bird, as soon as he crashed you would hopefully wake up and start your morning. Exhaustion reared it’s ugly little claws at his brain and with all the stealth he possessed he approached his bed.

Currently occupied by you.

The most beautiful thing on this fucking side of the galaxy.

“Do you usually watch people sleep?” Came your groggy voice. Donnie yelped, no his best sound, but he could’ve sworn you were asleep. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you, I’m just trying to-“ You scooted away before he could say or ask and patted the free space on his bed. “Climb on” You smiled sleepily, half closed eyes watched him get in and lay on his side to face you. “Sorry for the accommodations, we did vote to throw Vern out but dad insisted we remain kind” That brought a sleepy snort from you, which only made him smile more. “Crushed that he vetoed that, but I’m not gonna lie, this beats hotel beds by a long shot” You offered him more of the covers, making sure he was snuggled and relaxed.

It was interesting. The idle chat whispered between the two of you. Your scent on his sheets, the way the fairy lights casted a soft glow on your skin.

He quite liked this.

Man, he liked you a lot too.

“I’m a kicker by the way, hope that doesn’t put you off” You nudged his knee with your toes.

“Cant be worse than Leo, I’m convinced he trains in his sleep, I bunked with him until we were maybe 7 or 8, I don’t miss it” The both of you chuckled as quietly as possible.

“Would’ve taken Mikey for the kicker” He saw your eyes run across his maskless face and missing eyewear, he liked the tiny smile you gave him.

“Nuclear warfare could go off next to Mikey and he still wouldn’t budge” That made you cover your mouth to stifle a louder snort.

Donnie caught you looking at his face more, if he could get red faced he would’ve. “You alright?” He hesitated to ask. You in turn nodded before sticking a hand out from the sheets to pat his chin. “You look different without the eyeglasses and bandana” You noted softly to which Donne felt another wave of embarrassment hit. Different good? Different bad?

“I like it, the shape of your eyes is cute”

Cute?

“Thanks, never really saw myself like that” It felt like an autopilot response regardless of his heart threatening to wake up everybody in the Lair. You shrugged, already feeling sleep tickle your senses.

“You’re very cute, Donnie” You yawned a little and turned away and bid him a good night.

The shape of your back, the curve of your body, he could memorize this forever, recreate it in his brain perfectly.

“Think you’re beautiful, y/n” He spoke more to himself, the gentle rise of your back told him you were fast asleep again.

You weren’t.