#It’s a funny stand thing that’s apparently our assessment

[tsubno1007]

Silly thing for school

My camera quality sucks tho

[crystalelemental]

This was going to be held off until I could get pictures, but circumstances as they are, we have something too funny to not share.

We have adopted two new cats.

This was about two weeks ago. My wife found them listed on the website as a bonded pair that...apparently just fits the profile of our kind of pet. Quiet, reserved, looking for a downplayed home, apparently were strays for like the first two years of life. The main thing we noted is that, because of their early history, they were spayed late. Meaning they'll have the same issues as our previous cat Tatiana. Apparently, if a cat is spayed/neutered past the age of like two, it creates a very likely chance of them developing cancer at the site of operation around age 7. I do not know why, but this is what killed Tatiana.At least this time, we know it's something that can develop, and can catch it earlier than we did with her.

The new cats are named Coco and Gia. They are hiding from us. Unlike Tatiana, who was immediately affectionate and jumped in my lap within an hour of coming home, these two have been under the guest room bed for two weeks. They come out at night to look around, and are starting to move around in our presence, but they're still cowards. Coco is a black cat, so she hides behind Gia and it's really hard to tell when she's there.

Initially, we expected Gia to be the problem child of the two. She was an absolute brat about getting in her case when we adopted her, and immediately jumped into my kitchen cabinet upon getting home and knocked out my beans. She then began screaming as night fell and ran around the house to find her sister. However, this initial assessment was wrong.

They're starting to come out for their wet food dinner, even when we're still awake. Gia did this two nights ago by herself, but Coco decided to be brave yesterday and do the same. Well. Sort of. See, there's two dishes that get set out on a little mat near the TV stand, but because of how they're positioned, one is closer to us than the other. This is primarily so they can watch us without having to put their backs to us while eating, which they're never going to do. Gia came out last night, and ate from the first dish, further away from us. Coco took a look, realized that the other one was closer, and instead decided to push her sister to stuff her face in the same bowl, despite Gia's protests. Gia then sulked a minute, and turned to the closer dish to eat. When Coco finished eating, she immediately bolted away and abandoned her sister. So it turns out, Coco is the bastard child, and Gia is the put upon older sister.

[lololollywrites]

So I’m honestly looking for help or advice here. I’ve gone my entire life believing that I’m neurotypical, despite never quite feeling like anyone else or fitting in. I just always thought I was... I don’t know. Quirky, weird. It’s mostly been internalized. I doubt my family would agree, for example, despite any one of them being the first to say that I’m a loner with special interests (they don’t know the half of it - not about tumblr or fanfiction, for example) who has carved out my own little niche of the world in which I can feel most comfortable (academia and travel, amongst other things). “Oh, Lauren’s the smart one who corrects our grammar and doesn’t want a typical life and doesn’t notice when men hit on her and can talk for hours about anything and remembers every detail of her childhood! She was reading novels at 6 years old, isn’t that funny?!”

But recently I’ve come across online content about ASD in adult women and how it looks different than we have long been told (and therefore how it gets overlooked and undiagnosed) and, well. It’s been resonating with me. Hard. I’m not necessarily struggling with life, but I’m also lacking a long-term relationship, a core friend group (it’s hard to fully connect with people or reveal my full personality, though part of that is also because I move a lot), and am finding myself more and more alone. Which is okay for the most part. It is. Honestly, the idea of sharing my apartment and giving up decision-making autonomy and even decorative control stresses me out. I’ve tried to work on myself by expanding my comfort zone - I’ve worked at it my entire life, which is why I traveled - but also... what if I could understand myself better? What if there’s more to it? (I did discover that there might be more but it got long, so... sorry in advance. But if you can relate, I would LOVE it if you did read and could help me!)

I just took the RAADS-R assessment (a bit frustrating, as many of my answers would generally depend on the situation and there was no option for that); I tried my best to be conservative and practical with my selections. I still scored a 104. Scores range from 0-227, and a score of 65 is when ASD is considered (and even likely), though obviously one online test is not enough for a diagnosis. Non-autistic people can score as high as 90, apparently (and autistic people can score as low as 44), so 104 is not conclusive, but it’s made me think.

It’s sort of a relief in a way, but it’s also something I don’t think my family would ever be on board with or understand since I’m the “normal”, stable, level-headed, successful one. Which obviously doesn’t preclude autism (honestly many of these traits have helped me tremendously), but there are so many misconceptions out there. And they love me and mean well, but I know they’d also ask why it matters, since I’m 33 years old and have done fine until now. But they don’t know what it feels like to scratch at your skin and never truly feel like you’ve figured yourself out. Why you’re different and why nothing has ever made sense. Why other people are so infuriating.

My traits? Well, they don’t all fit. Or at least I didn’t think so until I started typing them out.

I am easily overwhelmed by social situations (I can’t stand nightclubs and had an anxiety attack before I first went out in college), but I’ve gotten better. I’ve practiced. Interrupting can be a problem for me because I get excited when people say things that interest me. I don’t find sarcasm or jokes or social cues difficult to understand, but I’ve also... practiced. I’m very, very aware of what I say, how I act, and how others perceive me, though this has become more natural with age. I was always so gullible as a kid that it was a joke in my family. I’m compassionate and empathetic to a fault; I believe the best in people, which has hurt me. Textures and noises don’t particularly bother or overwhelm me, but I did once burst into tears in a Shanghai bar because it was too much. Just... too much. I never once believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy and grilled my parents with very specific questions regarding why I should be expected to (though only when my little sister wasn’t around). Despite this, between the ages of 5-7, I slept at the very edge of my pillow so as so leave plenty of room for my parents to take my tooth in the middle of the night and not accidentally wake me, as I knew it would be embarrassing for them and potentially also wake up my sister.

I once slept in an inflatable raft for an entire summer as a kid because I felt like it was a safe cradle. I used to be such a perfectionist that my parents considered homeschooling me. I got in trouble for reading too quickly because teachers thought it was impossible to complete the assignments at the rate I did. I always completed all the group work at school - not because my group mates took advantage of me (though there was a little of that), but because I couldn’t stand what they turned in to me and wanted to do it myself. Travel was my way of proving to myself that I didn’t need the same daily routine; I learned to create my safe space wherever I was in the world. I didn’t want my worries and anxiety to limit my experiences, so I didn’t let it. Then travel just became a new part of my comfort zone. I would self-soothe and reassure myself it would be okay by imagining my new safe space, which would always involve my computer, my Kindle, an internet connection, and being alone. With those things, I’d be okay.

I used to talk so fast as a kid that my mom joked I should be the person who spoke at the end of radio commercials (when they share all the legal disclaimers at high speed). I’ve practiced that too and gotten better, but I always need to be aware of my rate of speech. I went into teaching to sort of... practice public speaking, eye contact, and increasing my confidence (as well as to try to build that natural cadence). And it’s helped. This has always led me to the assumption that yes, see, I’m neurotypical. Everyone has these thoughts and foibles. When I discovered fanfiction in high school I told everyone about it, mind-blown at how miraculous it was, before I realized that people were looking at me funny and thought I was weird. So I stopped. And then discovered online communities.

Even as a 24 year-old, on a Fulbright orientation in an Indonesian hotel, sitting in a circle on the floor in a group of 30 fellow Fulbrighters about to embark on a year-long placement around the country, I apparently talked too much. I had no idea. I was two-months fresh off a year in China and we were participating in ice breakers, sharing advice and travel stories, and I thought I was being helpful. I felt free - finally I was in a community of fellow travelers, and I guess I let my guard down. My family couldn’t relate to all of my China stories and eventually got bored, and I was still processing my experience. I thought that these fellow travelers cared what I had to say. That it was safe. One of the girls I liked (and we did later become friends when she apologized months later) came up to me after one of these sessions and said “As much as I like your stories, Lauren, don’t you think you talked too much?” I was mortified. I totally shut down. I felt pushed to the side in that group - my only real friends, looking back, were the few other loners, including one girl who openly discussed her ASD. We were in contact for years after that and we naturally understood each other. She asked me to talk *more* about China with genuine interest. Maybe that says something.

Anyway. I’m having a bit of an emotional moment right now. I guess this could all be nothing. Or something. I know maybe I should pursue an official diagnosis, but I don’t know if that’s worth it or not. I trust people here. Has anyone else had a similar experience? Or have you self-diagnosed at any point? Does the truth of that label impact your life, and in what ways? Thank you. And sorry for the very, very long ramble. (And that’s something I’ve become accustomed to doing - apologizing!) And I truly hope I haven’t offended anyone or made it seem as though I’m acting like this is a confirmed diagnosis. That’s not it at all - I am very unsure. I just truly would appreciate some guidance. ❤️

[starglow-xx]

hello! may i request headcanons for chuuya having a crush on someone who's dense? like he could ask them out in the most straightforward way possible and it would still go over their head?

yes, yes of course you may!

sorry this took so long! my computer was out of commission for abt a week (or two..??)

but this is also my birthday writing piece for chuuya!! (4/29/21) i even added a small drabble thingy in addition to the hcs for the occasion hehe

from where i am, it is about fifteen minutes past midnight so it’s officially chuuya day here!!

happy birthday chuuya i love you! you deserve the whole world and everyone is willing to fight tooth and nail to ensure your happiness! we love you! 💗💗

anyways, i hope you all enjoy this! i kinda had some writer’s block but it was still a lot of fun to write! there might be some mistakes, but i’ll scan over it again later. reader is gender neutral! have fun!

chuuya having a crush on a dense! reader

nakahara chuuya x gn! reader

im cackling somebody help him

he’s frustrated bc you can’t take a hint or a thousand but he can’t even be mad bc he’s whipped

“look at you all dressed up today, wanna go out later? my treat?”

“oh really? thanks chuuya-san! you’re such a nice friend. i’ll go invite the others right now, i’ll see you later!”

“...”

fast forward to later in the evening and he finds himself at a little restaurant with the black lizard + higuchi and akutagawa

sigh

in unison all of them go, “thank you for the meal chuuya-san!” (except aku and hirotsu are quieter & and gin just a nods hehe)

“no problem” (ꐦ ´͈ ᗨ `͈ )

gin only pats him on the back in sympathy

he spends a lot of time trying to think of ways to make it absolutely and undeniably clear that he has feelings for you

he always fails

“(y/n) i like you”

“i like you too chuuya-san”

“really?”

“mhm”

“t-then will you—”

“you’re a really great friend! and superior too”

“...nevermind”

“oh were you saying something?”

“nah, just forget about it”

tachihara is laughing in the corner of the corridor

dont worry, chuuya made sure to get back at him

chuuya’s been pinning after you for years and frankly, his failed attempts to woo you has lead everyone to the breaking point

and i mean everyone

yes, even aku

hell even dazai

but dazai also thinks it’s funny, so he doesn’t mind all that much

okay bye bye dazai-san this headcanon set isn’t abt you rn

PLEASE EVERYONE FEELS SO BAD FOR HIM

they knew even if he kissed you, you still might not get it

so they decided to help him

super secret mission get chuuya and (y/n) together is a go!

they’re still working on a proper mission name, don’t mind them

they had a super secret strategy meeting!

you can bet your ass that they nearly got nothing done

akutagawa & kaiji weren’t much help, neither was higuchi, mori, or elise

tachihara nearly got killed for a thoughtless comment

“just tell them chuuya-san!”

“i already fucking did you ass!”

gin, hirotsu, and kouyou were the most helpful !!

hirotsu and kouyou both agreed on the idea that chuuya should try courting with bouquets of flowers instead of flat out asking you bc they knew you found them pretty

(even if you don’t identify as a female, flowers are for everyone no matter gender or sexuality! so let’s normalize giving flowers to everyone <33 )

gin didn’t speak but she used cards to communicate

everyone knew that you weren’t stupid (you wouldn’t have survived in the mafia if you were) but they did know that you were only stupid when it came to all this lovey dovey stuff

i mean, if chuuya gave you flowers every so often, there’s no way that you wouldn’t piece it together at some point

right...??

but kouyou assured him that even though you wouldn’t get it right away, you’d appreciate the gestures and that he’ll stand out more

she even said that if someone gave her flowers, she would appreciate it, whether or not she reciprocated their feelings

it takes guts to be so up front with your feelings after all

gin and hirotsu only nodded with her explanation

once again, this only provoked a reaction out of tachihara

“what do you know gin? i get the old man and kouyou-san, they’re grown, but you? what do you know abt courting? or flowers? what are you a girl?”

akutagawa choked on his cough, higuchi on air, and on the other side of yokohoma at the ada, dazai is cackling

yes, dazai somehow placed a listening device onto chuuya’s hat and was listening in

don’t ask how, it’s dazai

“DAZAI GET YOUR BANDAGED ASS OFF THE COUCH AND STOP LAUGHING”

anyways

the next day, chuuya did what was barely discussed and for once, things actually started to look up

until they started look to down again

at first, it actually looked like you understood his intentions after he gave you a bouquet of flowers

literally everyone was leaning against the opposite hallway you two were in and then they got excited !!

especially chuuya !

but then your expression sort of changed...??

and then in their heads they simultaneously went, “oh no”

they knew that expression

it was very familiar when you tended to friend zone chuuya

but boy let me tell you what you said next made them facepalm and or make their jaws drop

“ah, so you really are friend zoning me huh chuuya-san; what a shame, i really did like you”

LEMME TELL YOU WHEN I SAY THAT CHUUYA WAS DISTRESSED I MEAN HE WAS DISTRESSED

you liked him??

him of all people??

he wasn’t complaining, no of course not, but he still couldn’t believe it

but that wasn’t what he was really focusing on right now

what in any form or language did it say he was friend zoning you?!

flower language apparently

chuuya chose to buy the bouquet of yellow roses, pink carnations, and yellow carnations bc he thought you would appreciate the brighter colors, and so that you’d remember them better (because remembering them, meant remembering him)

but ooh boy

altogether, they meant the exact opposite message he wanted to send

someone help him pls

“you see chuuya-san, yellow roses mean friendship, pink carnations mean gratitude, and yellow carnations mean rejection; sooo in a nutshell, these pretty much say ‘thank you for being my friend, but im rejecting you”

no one can tell if tachihara is crying or wheezing

and dazai is having the time of his life

yes, he started listening in on him again

and chuuya is just stunned

like speechless and unmoving stunned

is he just bad at this whole courting/dating thing?? it’s only been one day and of it and somehow he was the one doing the rejecting??

“thank you for the flowers chuuya-san, i’ll be going now; i’ll make sure to let this affect our friendship. i’ll see you tomorrow!”

you passed by the not so subtle group of people

“tachihara-kun..?? are you alright?”

just for context, he was leaning his forehead against the wall using his forearm

again, it was hard to tell whether he was crying or wheezing

“i-im okay (y/n)-san...i think c-chuuya-san has it worse than me”

“...okay..?”

BACK TO CHUUYA

he’s still frozen poor baby

but it’s okay bc after like 5 more seconds he’s chasing you down the hallway you were walking in

kouyou, with a knowing smile on her face, ushers everyone away towards the opposite direction

she received some whines (ahem, tachihara and mori) but silenced them by summoning golden demon

but it’s okay

if they run fast enough, they can see what happens through the security cameras

chuuya caught up with you and tried to explain everything but he was exhausted

emotionally, physically (bc since when did you walk that fast??), and generally just tired with the whole situation

he just wanted to call you his; was that too much to ask??

as explosive as he can be, he can be calm and collected too

and he really did try to be that way as he talked with you but it was very difficult at the moment

the dumbfounded and confused look on your face his face twitch with annoyance and his heart started beating faster bc god you were cute

BUT THATS BESIDES THE POINT RIGHT NOW

thank goodness after what seemed like years, you finally somewhat understood what happened

you didn’t understand completely but it was something

The two of you stood in the middle of the unusually empty hallway facing each other, you with the bouquet still in hand. It was quiet as you and Chuuya assessed the situation.

You looked at him skeptically and he stared right back you with his gorgeous blue eyes.

“...So you do like me Chuuya-san??”

“Yes”

“And you were trying to court me just now, not friend zone me??”

“Yes”

You got most of your questions out of the way, but there was something that you’ve been wondering about for quite a while.

“...So you’re not gay for Dazai-san??”

“Yes, im not wait—GAY FOR DAZAI?? THAT MACKEREL??”

Chuuya did a double take. What in heavens name made it seem like he liked that suicidal maniac?? Why would he choose him if he had you?

Like he would choose him anyways; or ever consider him as a possible romantic partner.

“Oh, so you are?”

“NO! I SAID I LIKED YOU DIDN’T I?”

“Well yeah, but I thought you liked Dazai-san too. As annoying as he is, he can be quite charming—”

He was out of patience at this point (nope definitely not because you were talking about Dazai who told you that?) and just decided to kiss you.

You immediately melted into the kiss and kissed him back with the same amount of love and feeling.

Letting the bouquet fall to the ground, you wrapped you arms around his neck and his put his on your lower back and brought you closer to him. After a few more moments, the two of you broke apart for air.

The two of you, slightly out of breath, leaned your foreheads against each other and just basked in each others presence.

Chuuya looked into your (e/c) eyes and asked you just a little bit above a whisper, “Now do you get my intentions and feeling?”

You blinked at him before breaking out into a grin, “Hmm I’m not sure; do you wanna do that again Chuuya?”

The red head only blinked back at you before rolling his eyes, a smile present on his handsome features, his heart fluttering at you using his name with the honorific.

“Dumbass”

Smiling cheekily at him, you pressed a kiss on his cheek and started dragging him towards the lobby to take a walk around the building perimeter, knowing that the two of you can’t be too far from work.

The way down to the lobby was mostly in comfortable silence until you said something that made Chuuya want to bash his head against the wall.

“You know, you could’ve just told me you liked me Chuuya. It’s not like I would’ve said no.”

Once again, as the rest of the more power mafia members watch from security cameras, it is hard to tell whether Tachihara is crying or wheezing of laughter.

omake !!

The two of you just started making your way around the building when suddenly a very familiar voice came from Chuuya’s prized hat.

“Chuuyaaaa!! It was about time you stopped being a chicken, Chibi!”

Removing his hat from his head, he started yelling at it not knowing exactly where the listening device was planted.

“TEME! HOW DID YOU—”

“And (y/n)! I would congratulate you, but I think I would rather offer you my condolences. Why him?! He’s just a slimy slug. OOH OOH how would you like to join me in a double suicide?! A shame it won’t be a lover’s suicide but it’ll annoy Chuuya so I think it’ll be worth it! ”

“YOU—”

“And please don’t kiss while I’m listening in. You made me lose my appetite! And it was such a shame! I was eating crab using Kunikida-kun’s money! Do you know what you’ve cost me?!”

“DAZAI YOU PIECE OF—”

“Ah! Kunikida-kun is here! I have to go!”

You can hear something is the background that vaguely sounds like, “DAZAI YOU WASTE OF BANDAGES STOP USING MY MONEY”

“DAZAI DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE IM NOT DONE WITH—”

*Click!*

The click sound from the hat revealed that Dazai disconnected.

Chuuya twitched and glared furiously at his signature hat hating that the voice he hated the most came out of it.

“Aww, I didn’t get to talk to Dazai-san”

Chuuya whipped his head towards you, a look of mock (or real) betrayal showing on his features.

You laughed at him before taking the hat out of his hands and placing it on his head.

He shyly looked away before muttering a thanks making you smile wider. Just as the two of you were about to start walking, a small explosion erupted from his hat; it was likely that Dazai made the listening device self destruct.

“DAZAI YOU BASTARDD”

At the Armed Detective Agency, a certain suicidal maniac hid from the wrath of his current partner as he thought about the wrath his old one.

“Hmmm I wonder if Chuuya would finally stop wearing his ugly hats if I blow all of them up...”

as always, reblogs and shares are appreciated! i hope you all stay safe! and just in case nobody told you they loved you today, i love you! you are enough! <3

writing belongs to me! please do not plagiarize! the reblog button is there for a reason

[writefightandflightclub]

Disarming (Santi x fem!reader)

Summary: you and Santi - good friends- are Best Man and Maid of Honour at Frankie’s wedding, and guess what? There’s only one bed!

What is this? This is 5/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. The prompt is “We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend”, requested by @woakiees​. Another double trope extravaganza! Hadley, I’m so pleased you suggested Santi for this one, as he immediately came to mind when I was writing this prompt :D Thank you so much for requesting! <3

If you’d like to  read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Apparently I get carried away EVERY time I write Santi. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! :-/

Word count: 7.5k. I’M SO SORRY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Rating: 18+ ONLY (minors out, please, do not read or interact)

Warnings: it gets angsty in the middle. Reader has nightmare- comfort offered. Mentions of reader being “hurt” in the past but vague and unspecified. They have a fight. One or two alcohol mentions- no actual consumption. Food mention. Swearing. Steam leading into smut but not explicit- mentions of masturbation, erections, making-out, one brief allusion to choking kink. Let me know if I missed anything.

Tagging: @isvvc-pvscvl​ @casifer-is-king​ (loads of the tags aren’t working :-/)

GIF: @nathan-bateman​

From the first moment you met Santi, you had simply fallen into step with him. It was effortless, and so, as soon as you found yourself by his side, you stayed there. What’s more, that’s exactly where he wanted you to be.

Despite the man’s hard, no-nonsense edge -which you also appreciated- he was warm and charming. It was easy to connect with him, in a way it hadn’t often been for you. For him too - or so the boys told you - the way you surpassed his defences was a rare thing. It shouldn’t have worked, perhaps. Usually, he was slow to trust and you were quick to love, but on this occasion none of that seemed to apply, the two of you tumbling squarely into a fast-friendship; one deeper and more intense, perhaps, than its duration might suggest. Still, despite the boys’ inferences that you would quickly become an item, and Santi’s continual attempts to blur the lines between this and… something more, “friends” is what you have remained.

You had felt it immediately with him. Something different. You simply... flowed. You fit. It was immediately evident, even on that first night, in the way you orbited around one another, setting up an impromptu beer pong of all things. You moved together with a fluidity and a precision that seems almost tactical- as though you too had run countless manoeuvres in the field with him. You could read him and understand him as though you had drilled his habits and patterns and idiosyncrasies over and over; learning him. However, he was never that much effort - the two of you came naturally to each other, little learning required. You knew each other with your gut.

At that fateful party, when you each escaped to the back porch steps for some air at a serendipitous moment, the conversation had immediately flowed, and not only as a result of his natural, disarming charm. The silence even came easily rightaway – a comfortable thing, the space between you stuffed with contentment, rather than the feeling of a gaping vacuum, needlessly filled. It turned out his best friend was dating yours (the pair to be wed this very weekend) but that almost seemed like the cherry on top, rather than the thing bringing you to each other.

Safe to say, what was true then is true now. You get on so well. You find him fun and easy and generous and you love the man dearly.

…Most of the time.

Those other times, though? Santiago “Pope” Garcia can be a pain in your ass. But that’s another reason you love him, you guess. Keeps things interesting.

“Please don’t kill me,” Santi says sheepishly, and it’s obvious to you he’s laying on the charm - actively trying to be as disarming as possible as he saunters over from the reception desk. For a moment, despite all his training, he looks as though he believes you could pull it off, too.

Your annoyance is already prepped; locked and loaded, as he pads squarely towards the banquette where you are sat - amidst a sea of luggage. You’ve been observing his attempts to charm the desk clerk with interest (his efforts, you surmise, at least partially effectual), and judging from the slight level of desperation in his efforts, you can already tell he fucked up somehow.

“What did you do?” you say impatiently, even as a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

“I booked all the rooms we needed, for all of the wedding guests, right? 13 rooms here, and all 10 at the hotel across town. 4 more in guesthouses,” he recaps. “Got Frankie and Mila a great deal too, remember?”

You remember. And yet, you fold your arms across your chest, looking up at him incredulously. Okay then. Rolling with your attitude, the man takes a different tack. He sits next to you. Smiles. Leans in. Pats your thigh. He’s trying to disarm you too, you realise. It’s going to take more than that - you’re not some flimsy desk clerk who will form a puddle and bat your eyes at the first sign of his charm.

“Well, funny story. I may have forgotten to book our rooms,” he blurts.

Oh? Oh, great. Yeah. This is a grand fuck-up. The whole damn town is booked-out. It’s a small town. No longer amused, your nostrils flare in annoyance as you tug in a slow breath, schooling your tone just a little before you speak. “You what?” Okay, you didn’t manage to school it all that much.

“Look, I already sort of fixed it,” he smooths. That explains the flirting with the clerk. Although, you think, glancing back at her. She’s pretty. That partially explains the flirting with the clerk, then, you mentally correct. “There’s just one, teeny-tiny issue.”

You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes. Well?

“We’re gonna have to share a room.”

You blink at him a few times, in surprise. Well, it’s not ideal. For a number of reasons. But you can think of worse things, truth be told. And he’s not wrong. It is a solution. Still, on his reveal, a succession of emotions and micro-assessments are bounced back and forth between your eyes and his, until you land on resigned annoyance, exhaling a long sigh. That is, until Frankie appears in the lobby, swanning in like he’s walking on air. He probably is, given that he’s getting married this weekend. His face splits with a smile so wide you reckon it should be painful to maintain, and you stand to greet him as he heads over.

You’re glad he’s happy. It means that you and Santi, as Maid of Honour and Best man, respectively, are doing a fantastic job of deflecting all of the stress away from the happy couple. Indeed, that assessment certainly feels true – you do feel stressed. Still, the two of you immediately paint your faces with masking smiles; though, in fairness, it’s hard not to smile while looking at Frankie – his obvious joy is infectious.

Frankie wraps you both in a hug, then rubs his palms together like an excited kid. “I don’t have much time. Just gonna say a quick hello to my parents. Apparently, my mom’s already started crying? Can you two sort some extra tissues for the ceremony or something? Oh, and is everything okay with the rooms?”

“With this guy? Are you kidding?”, you say before you think, throwing your thumb towards Santi. Immediately, his eyes submit a powerful plea to you to keep schtum- it is written all over his face that he doesn’t want to let Frankie down. Not even in the smallest of ways.

Frankie would find his little error funny, probably. But he can find it funny after the ceremony. “Everything is A-OK! This guy? He has every single detail taken care of.”

Frankie grins, his eyes narrowing proudly at Santi as he slaps him on the back, laying profuse thanks on the two of you; then, he floats away again, as if on a cloud. Santi’s brown eyes are big with gratitude when you look at him again, and you can’t help but weaken. You’ll admit, it’s really not that bad of a fuck-up. Besides, you’re tired. Between the drive out here, the wedding rehearsal, and a never-ending list of errands, the day has been long. You just want to get to the room, and maybe even clock a snooze before the rehearsal dinner tonight.

“Fine,” you agree, albeit through gritted teeth. “We can share a damn room.”

Santi looks visibly relieved, and squeezes your shoulder in thanks. You’d even been nice enough not to bite his head off. “Yeah. We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend.” Suddenly, he doesn’t sound quite as certain.

“Sure. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?” you smile nervously.  

He returns your smile and swivels, heading back towards the desk.

“Oh, wait!” you call after him. “Is it a double or a twin?” you ask in horror. Sharing a room is one thing, but sharing a bed?

He turns, looking over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter!”, he winks. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna have to take it.”

Oh. Oh dear.

You’re inclined to agree -you don’t have many options- but when you catch yourself stealing a glance at the man’s shapely butt as he walks back to the desk, you begin to chew your bottom-lip nervously.

Right. Ha.

What could possibly go wrong?

**********************

It turns out, sharing a room with Santi is resoundingly not bad at all. In fact, at first, it’s as easy as everything else is with him - even between your hurried preparations for the evening, unpacking, shuttling items to the relevant members of the wedding party, and calling down to reception several times to check the logistics for the rehearsal dinner. Even getting dressed, you find an easy flow as you each flit in and out of the bathroom, dancing around each other with ease and only a hint of friendly bickering.

Santi’s respectful too- always knocking and announcing himself before entering a space, and averting his gaze when he needs to, given that you’re rushing around and undressing. You even manage to ignore the fact there’s only one bed for the longest time, parking that specific panic for later. Even then, he has already made reception send up extra pillows and blankets, forming a barricade in the middle of the bed so you two can comfortably separate.

Thankfully, you are so busy that the idea of sharing a bed with Santi doesn’t even cross your mind until you’re finally ready, dressed in your finery. When you step out of the bathroom, Santi -sat on the edge of said bed- stands up, thrusting his hands into his suit trousers as he takes the sight of you in, pulling the material taut -in a rather pleasing way- across his hips and thighs. He ends up slightly slack-jawed for a moment as his eyes trail over you, brewing with a gentle, self-conscious heat. “Fuck,” he says softly, his voice gruff. “You look…” a little gulp trails down his throat as you give him a little twirl. “…hot”, he says, his eyebrow ticking up on the last beat.

“Wait until you see my bridesmaid dress,” you smile, and he returns it easily, those gorgeous creases appearing around his eyes.

Unconsciously, you lick your lips. You can’t help but wonder, vaguely, what it would be like to push him down on to the mattress. Maybe straddle him. Fuck, you should have known this would be a bad idea. A heat rising in your face at that thought of that, you distract yourself by lifting his suit jacket from the back of the chair, holding it out for him as he slips it on to his shoulders, and feeling the luxurious texture of it beneath your fingers.

It’s a grey suit, tailored, and it hugs him in all the right places. The cool colour is perfect against his warm-toned brown skin, and brings out the salt in his salt-and-pepper curls, and in the rough rasp of grey flecked through his stubble.

You try desperately not to notice how good he looks, but this may be your greatest challenge yet.

“Come on,” you encourage, nodding towards the door. “We better head down.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, half-heartedly. The way his eyes are subtly roving over you, though, he looks like he has something entirely different in mind for dinner.

“You’re probably going to spend all night being chased by the single bridesmaids,” you add casually as you collect your purse, and apply a final dab of lipstick in front of the mirror. You’ve already clocked a few members of the wedding party eyeing him up, and you don’t exactly blame them for being thirsty. Besides, Santi is a huge flirt; so perhaps he’ll be the one doing the chasing. You wouldn’t be surprised if he ended the night with his tongue thrust deep in someone’s throat, which -you assume- is typical Santi fashion.

“Isn’t it traditional, anyway,” he smirks cheekily, applying a splash of cologne, “for the Best Man to hook-up with one of the bridesmaids?”

Lord, does he have to smell so… edible.

“Got news for you, man. You fucked up. You can’t exactly bring a girl back to your room now, can you?!” you tease, nodding back towards your shared bed, a wall of pillows already arranged down the middle. You mean it to come out in good-humour, but you can’t scrub the hint of jealousy from your tone entirely.

You feel so silly for being jealous of whomever he may hook-up with. After all, Santi is always the one testing the boundaries of friendship with you. It’s not like he’s ever made a secret of the fact he’s attracted to you- and you are the one here will a firm line in the sand. A line you simply won’t cross with him. Can’t cross. You want to - of course you do, but after being hurt in the past, you have simply built-up far too many defences; or, more accurately, just the right amount of defences, you think, to protect you. So, no matter how disarming the man is, you simply have to keep your guard up; because if he breached your walls, you know everything else would come tumbling so easily down.

You had fallen so easily into friendship with him, and you are certain that you would fall just as recklessly in love with him.

You’re not ready for that.

You can’t take being hurt again. Besides; Santi? He’s an incredible friend. He’s tenaciously loyal and dedicated to his squad. But when it comes to love, and sex, you doubt whether serious is even his thing - and you’re too afraid to ask.

“You ready to do this?” he asks, with a wink.

“Yep,” you nod. “Let’s roll,” and with that, you turn, heading for the hallway.

“Princesa- that dress really highlights your ass,” he praises as he tags along behind you.

“Thank you, it’s true,” you smile devilishly, already beginning to let your guard down, just a little. He’s simply so disarming. “Speaking of, Garcia – did you get your trousers a size too small on purpose?”

“Oh, you noticed?” he retorts, smugly, guiding you through the door with a hand on the small of your back.

Okay. Sometimes you flirt back. After all – look at him.

Especially in that damn suit.

***********************************

The rehearsal dinner goes swell. Frankie and Mila are a picture-perfect, loved-up couple, and they grin their way through the evening as if they slept with coat hangers in their mouths. The speeches are well-received, including Will’s, thus setting a high bar for you and Santi tomorrow. (You may be biased, but Santi’s is ten times funnier, and it’s going to kill, in your opinion.) There are no dramas through the evening- logistical or familial, and thanks to you and Santi overseeing everything with a military precision, it looks as though -so far- it is shaping up to be the perfect wedding weekend.

Finally, once your duties are over for the night, you are able to let your hair down a little, so to speak, and enjoy the food and company on offer. Still, with a big day ahead tomorrow, things wind down relatively early, and -having lost track of Santi at some point- you find yourself back at the shared room a little while before him. You usually burn out more quickly than he does in social situations, but even taking that into consideration, you begin to fret about where he has gotten to. With the way he was flirting his way through the party, though, it doesn’t take a genius to guess what (or who) might be keeping him up.

You try to sleep but you can’t, your mind going to the worst places, so, by the time Santi does return -softly cracking the door, and padding in with his shoes in his hands so as not to wake you- you have stewed in your own thoughts long enough to have become a little cranky. A little… green-eyed.

“Hey,” he greets in surprise when he enters, immediately noticing the soft lamp glow, and seeing you still sitting up in the bed, mindlessly watching the flicker of the tv on mute.

“Hey,” you return, your voice noticeably strained. “Have a fun time?” You find yourself wishing you weren’t sharing a room, then you wouldn’t have to know what he got up to.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, slipping off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. “Did you? How come you’re still up? Thought for sure you’d be wiped out by now.”

So, he did think of you, then?

“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply neutrally, fixing your eyes dead ahead as he begins to slip out of his trousers and shirt too, until he’s dressed in only his tight black boxers. Next, he takes off his watch and sets it at the bedside, and you notice that he smells of perfume. A cloying, floral scent that makes you feel a little sick.

“Just gonna have a quick shower and then I’ll slip in with you, okay?” he says, his voice slow and deep and muted, matching the soft light.

You still don’t look at him. You can’t.

“Do what you want. You usually do,” you bite, the words tasting bitter as soon as they have left your lips, and tears of regret pooling as your anger dissolves.

You don’t blame him if he was with someone – you really don’t. You’re simply angry at yourself; because you wish you could be that person, and you can’t for the life of you seem to find a way.

“Okay. What was that for?” he bristles, reacting defensively, turning towards you. And perhaps it’s because it’s late and he’s tired, or because certain demons feel safer coming out under the cover of darkness, but he doesn’t stop there. Especially when all he gets from you is a stony, pointed silence. “You know what? Actually, no. You don’t get to do this”, he hisses, and it is the first time you’ve ever heard him direct any genuine anger at you.

It doesn’t half sting.

“Do what?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“You don’t get to be mad when I give my attention to someone who actually wants it,” his voice is hushed, but his words rattle through you as if he had yelled them. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Guess what, I’m not yours.”

“That’s not fair”, you snap back, and then things are quickly escalating.

“Isn’t it?” he asks, rasping a hand over his stubble in distress. “I mean, come on. Shit. You know that I want more but I…” he exhales a disgruntled laugh. “You shoot me down, which is your prerogative, honestly, but you can’t have it both ways. You can’t knock me back all the time and then be pissed off when I look elsewhere.”

You meet his face, the planes of it shadowed and angled harshly with anger, suddenly so unfamiliar to you, and it causes your eyes to bloom with tears. You two look the opposite of Frankie and Mila; of a picture-perfect couple. But you’re not even a couple at all, are you?

You see him try. To blunt the emotion which is bubbling up. To soften. But he has uncorked something he now can’t put back in. “Fuck, I just wish that….” he pinches his lips together and shakes his head, planting his hands on his hips and looking at the floor. “If you don’t want me, just put me out of my fucking misery. Just say it. Just fucking tell me.”

Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces at the thought you make him miserable. At the way his voice breaks. At the way he thinks you don’t want him. Maybe you were wrong, thinking that you could be friends at all. Thinking that could be enough for him.

Your lower lip trembles, and your fingers clutch the edge of the blanket. “I… I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that I don’t want you, Santi.”

You can’t because it isn’t true. It could not be further from the truth, in fact.

He puffs out air, an exasperated sound, his hand raising up to tangle in his grizzled curls. Raising his voice a little more. “Let me guess. You can’t tell me the other thing either?”

“I.. I..” You try, but no words will come. You simply shake your head, swallowing a sob, your eyes almost brimming over.

He nods. He nods, his mouth slanted down. “Great. Got it,” he huffs.

You hate this. You hate how much you’re hurting him.

“Santi,” you breathe weakly, but it is too weak to blunt the force of his emotion. To halt his trajectory, and so, resigned, he turns towards the bathroom, grabbing-up a fresh white towel from the counter. Before he closes the door, he turns to you once more, now speaking softly, his eyes as sad as yours. “You know,” he says, his index finger sawing back-and-forth over the stubble at his chin. “For the record, I wasn’t with anyone else. I can’t even fucking think about anyone else but you. I was late back to the room because I couldn’t face it.” His voice becomes small and pained. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just curl up next to you and act like I don’t care.” His eyebrow ticks up, and he adds, with a final flourish. “Guess I should have taken a lesson from you.”

Oh, how it stings, pain flowering in your chest like a bruise, but you hold yourself together until he’s out of sight. Then, when he’s gone, you immediately cave in on yourself, falling on to your side and screwing your eyes shut, clamping your hand over your mouth so that he can’t hear you crying as wet tears spill onto your pillow.

When he comes back into the room, after a long shower, you simply screw your eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. You hear him sigh heavily, and mumble something to himself under his breath, before dragging a few pillows and a spare blanket down on to the floor.

A few more silent tears roll over the bridge of your nose.

You guess you wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him after all.

***********************

You wake panicked in the night, sitting bolt upright in the bed. A cold wash of sweat over your skin chills you, even though you feel like you’re burning-up.

Immediately, you reach for him, for Santi, calling his name even as your fear strangles the sound in your throat. Your heart is thudding, and your breaths are sawing in and out of you, but your grasping hands find nothing to your side but pillows and blanket.

Unfortunately, you are used to this occurrence, and you quickly realise it was “only” a nightmare. Still, the feelings and images it conjured linger in your body, and around you in the shifting, seemingly fluid shadows of the room.

With a release of tension, you whimper, leaning forward and cradling your head in your trembling hands, and you try to ground yourself. To steady your breath and your heartbeat, like you’ve practiced. As you do so, the shadows to your left shift and change, and, even in the pitch-black you can feel him, a safe and warm presence, instantly travelling to your side, his weight dipping the mattress. His soothing, sandy voice filtering through the shadows and cutting back the tendrils of your nightmare like a Disney prince hacking through cursed vines.

You vaguely remember that he’s mad at you - but you can’t help it. Can’t help asking. “Hold me?” you plead, desperately afraid that he won’t.

Still, without questions or hesitation, you feel the wall of remaining pillows coming down, the defences around you quite literally being dismantled – a figurative wall between you shifting away along with it. He shushes you, and you focus on his voice, until he is close enough that the scent of him wraps around you, before his arms follow closely after.

You reach for him in return. You reach for him in every way possible.

“It’s just a nightmare,” he soothes. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you,” and there is pain in his voice on your behalf, as if he tries to bear the burden of it for you.

“Closer,” you plead, and before you know it, he is shifting you on to your side, slotting his sturdy yet soft body around you, not caring that you feel clammy and hot against his bare skin. He simply loops his arms and draws your back, closer to his chest, becoming your big spoon.  

He calms you, hands enveloping yours and bundling them against your chest, his nose nuzzling into your hair, and his deep steady breaths slowing your breathing as you let his calm and his rhythms overcome you. He holds you, until the feelings pass, not caring how long it takes – and with any anger from before apparently forgotten.

This pain is all too familiar to him, you know. It something that Santi understands. It is your own and it is not the same as his, true, but you know it is familiar enough that he will feel the ache of it echoing in his own chest. You know that he is accustomed enough to bearing his own pain, that when yours is too heavy to carry, he will help you hold it for a while. And so, he holds you, while you are a tender thing, bruised and afraid, and he keeps you safe; with all your walls down, all of your defences collapsed, he becomes your fortress.

You never thought that letting yourself be so vulnerable could allow you to feel quite as safe as this.

As you lie together, Santi continues to usher soft reassurances into your ear, his words like charms and incantations to ward off the ghosts which haunt you. And, after a series of slow, stretched moments, you become more settled, and Santi feels you relax against him.

After a few moments more, he eventually whispers a small question into your hair. In the dark, the question feels safe to come out, perhaps.

“Do you always call for me when you…?” he trails off, thinking better of it. “I’m sorry- forget it, you don’t have to answer that.”

You don’t. You know you don’t. You don’t even truthfully know the answer. It’s likely that you do call for him, though how would you know, when you’re usually alone? But, there is something else you can tell him, while it is safe to come out in the dark. Something you want to tell him, before you build your walls all the way back up.

“Santi,” you begin, timidly, and his fingers skim softly up and down your arms, encouraging you to go on. “I-I’ve been hurt before. And, I want to be with you. I want to let you in but… I’m. I’m not ready. I’m trying so hard but I… I can’t.”

There is a long beat, and you realise he has held in a breath only when he releases it all at once, fanning hot across the back of your neck.

You are afraid. Afraid of what he might say, in response – what he might feel, but you think, maybe, it might be something like relief? And, Santi squeezes you, just a little tighter. A little closer. “Don’t worry about that now, okay?” he soothes, his voice feather soft. “Just… know one thing, okay, Princesa? Whenever you are ready? I’m waiting.”

This time your heart fills with a different emotion, all the spaces in it flooded with contentment, Santi’s words followed by a perfect, happy silence.

A soft smile blooms on your face.

It was not a confession of waiting impatiently, you understand, but an invitation to take your time to arrive at him. He’s not trying to bring down your defences at all, is he? He’s waiting for you to open the door, and invite him in. He’s waiting until you are ready. He simply needed to know that you are on your way, even if your footsteps are getting you there slowly.

For now, though, the thought of it is too much. More than you’re ready for.

So, you simply let him hold you.

To disarm you further.

To walk yourself a little closer toward where you want to be. With him; by his side.

****************************************

In the morning, you wake up tangled around each other, Santi’s arm wrapped securely around your back and your head settled on his chest. He is still snoring lightly – cutely - when you awake, and so, as the night prior comes flooding back to you, you hastily try to extricate yourself from him; even if his bare skin feels so good against yours that you never want to move. You’re apparently not so subtle- or he’s a helluva light-sleeper – as, just when you pull away, Santi wakes up, quickly rushing to prove his innocence.

“You had a nightmare,” he croaks, still trying to peel his eyes open. “You asked me to- “.

“-I know. I remember,” you reassure, sitting up in bed, the blankets tugged to your chest. Santi shuffles, opting to assume the same position on his own side, mirroring you, rubbing his eyes.

You’re still not sure whether to apologise to him or thank him. Or maybe even to wait for an apology from him? Christ. Maybe all of those things or none of them, who even knows? You mentally spin a wheel and land on a casual “Uh. Thank you, for…. You know.”

“Anytime,” he says, turning his head to the side and looking at you earnestly. As if your bickering -your jealousy and his outburst- is all but forgotten. What’s more, you know that he means it.

Admiringly, your eyes wander over him, enjoying a side of him you’ve never quite seen before. Apparently, he’s even more handsome in the morning, with an even thicker, darkened brush of stubble, his grizzled curls dishevelled, and his swooping eyelids still heavy from sleep. Combined, it gives him a sultry, bedroom look. Feeling an involuntary rush of heat in the pit of you, your gaze drops to his corded neck, where, given the special occasion, he has substituted his dog tags for a silver chain, drawing your gaze down over his smooth, brown chest.

Your skin now cooling in the conditioned air of the room, you long for his body heat again, recalling how it felt to be held by him and wishing you had lingered a little longer while you could. Even with your interrupted sleep last night, you have somehow woken feeling refreshed, as though you had slept unreasonably deeply in his arms, reaching a whole new level of contentment - as though you just fit together, perhaps. As though it comes naturally for you to be held by him, and for him to hold you.

There is a silence and it isn’t awkward exactly; more… pregnant, with possibilities. Possibilities you see brewing with a gentle heat in his eyes. So, tearing yourself abruptly away from that line of thought, you lift your phone up from the nightstand, and note that there isn’t long before your alarms sound anyway.

Operation Wedding Day is go.

That should be enough of a distraction for you, shouldn’t it?

“You ready for this, Best Man?” you ask him, with a gentle quirk of your lips.

“Sure. Are you ready, Maid of Honour?”

Ready. Are you ready?

Thoughts of last night swirl in your head.

Well – as Santi flashes you a tentative, disarming smile, with hooded eyes, you certainly feel like you’re getting there. Like soon you could be ready.

“Sure. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Atta girl,” he encourages, folding his arms behind his head as you jump out of bed.

You suddenly don’t care that you’re in nothing but your underwear, as you stretch out your body and track towards the bathroom. “I’ll shower first?”

“We’re sharing a bed,” he teases. “Sure you don’t want to share a shower too?”

You scoff, flashing a mischievous smile right back at him. You’ve always had a soft spot for his flirting, but you feel like -after all that transpired last night- you truly see if for what it is now. You realise why it has never felt like he’s pressuring you - not once. He’s simply reminding you, that as soon as you call for him, he’ll be there. That he’s waiting, when you’re ready.

Reminding you, that as soon as your walls drop, he’ll be your fortress.

“I don’t think you’re gonna get quite that lucky this morning, Garcia.”

You do linger in the doorway, just a little longer than necessary though, so that he can get a better look at you. He’d never look without permission – he proved that yesterday, when you were in various states of disarray- but this time, sensing your invitation, his eyes graze over you slowly, keenly. So, when he strategically moves his hands from behind his head to hide the tenting covers, you don’t mind at all.

You smile devilishly as you slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You’re not sure if he will… take care of himself out in the room – how could you know? But, feeling inspired, you certainly do so in the shower, and it’s a pretty great wake-up call before you face the wedding day.

Maybe sharing a room isn’t so bad. Maybe you could even get used to it.

*********************************************

Frankie and Mila get hitched without a hitch.

Santi goes to the ends of the earth to make sure that Frankie has the best day possible- and at some points, he goes even further than that. His speech was moving and flawless, and pretty fucking funny; even if you are a little (or a lot) biased. Not a dry eye in the house, just as you predicted.

The man adores Frankie with his whole heart, and you could barely hold back the glow of admiration as you listened to him, feeling like it might burst from your chest like a beam of gold sunlight. You felt it especially strongly every time his eyes met yours during the course of the speech, and you couldn’t help but smile yourself stupid each time he did so. And, of course, you were overjoyed to see your best friend have the day of her dreams, with the man of her dreams. If you do say so yourself, you think your speech was pretty killer too.

Suffice to say, you ate until your belly was full, loved until your heart hurt, laughed until your sides ached, and danced until your feet ached.

Tonight, unlike last night, you and Santi retire to your shared room at the same time, your arm linked into his, and your shoes carried in your hand to spare your sore feet – there’s a reason you never normally wear shoes like this. Without your heels though, you keep tripping over the hem of your dress almost every few paces, causing you to giggle and Santi to steady you with a warm, rich chuckle, sometimes throwing you an extra hand to assist you.  

You look over at him, furtively, as he recounts some of the more choice moments from the day, immensely enjoying the simple pleasure of hearing him talk and smile and laugh. Seeing him happy. Of course, enjoying how he looks too, you have to admit - even more handsome than he did yesterday (somehow) in midnight blue dress pants, and a white, crisp shirt, now tieless. He’s only grown sexier as the evening drew on too, now with a wide open-collar and rolled up sleeves to accommodate all of the dancing; or, at least, as much dancing as his knees could handle, until he’d simply opted to sit to the side and watch you boogie, his eyes apparently transfixed on you and only you - the advances of the other bridesmaids be damned.

There is something that hits different about the way he looked at you today. His admiration shining deeper than usual. Less like a casual lust, and more like something… serious. You’re not sure why you doubted it before, exactly. Why you have been so inordinately afraid that he might hurt you. You broadly figured him for a smash and dash type of man, which is fine, but you have every reason to believe that he wants more with you.

After all, Santi can be deeply and tenaciously loyal. He has dedicated himself to things deeply and unwaveringly several times over in his life. To his country, to his missions, to his morals, to his squad. And there’s something about the way he looked at you today, you think, that suggests he might dedicate himself to you with the same tenacity. Something far deeper than appreciating how you look in this bridesmaid dress (and oh boy do you look hot). It’s more like the way he looks at Frankie. A little different to that, obviously. But you’re realising he looks at you like he’d never let you down. Not even in the smallest of ways. Like he’d rather go to the ends of the earth -or beyond- than do that.

At least… you think so.

You are sure about one thing though. The way he looks at you? It’s thoroughly disarming.

And so, you arrive at your shared room, utterly wiped out from the day (and night), yet still somehow buzzing with an energy. A gentle suffusing heat under your skin as you watch Santi walk inside and kick off his shoes at the end of the bed, before turning back towards you.

You have entered a few paces behind him, after nearly tripping on your gown all over again by the door, but now, you are quite steady on your feet - aside from that slight, nervous tremble in your quaking legs as he looks at you like that. As Santi looks you up and down, eyes skimming over the contours of your dress and hence everywhere it hugs your figure. Evidently, he likes what he sees.

“Wow,” he breathes, his brown eyes shining as if he’s looking at you for the first time that day, even if his gaze has barely left you all night. “I know it’s the bride’s day, but you look fuckin’ smokin’, sweetie.”

“You think so?” you ask humbly, suddenly feeling unreasonably shy. Flustered even.

“Yeah. I think so,” he nods, positively certain. “Shit, you’re so beautiful.”

You look at him. You look at him in a way which suggests an answer in your eyes instead of a question. A clear intention in your body, instead of uncertainty. But he doesn’t push you. He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t make a move. Instead, his mouth tugs up into a lopsided smile, offering you a lazy flash of teeth, and he shoves his thumbs into his belt loops.

“Well, we’re officially off the clock now, so I’m calling it. Well done, Maid of Honour. Think we nailed it? Made a pretty damn good team?”

A smile lights your face. You did. You flowed. You fit. It was easy.

Fuck. It feels so easy. Why had you ever thought this would be hard?

You nibble on your lip, eyeing him with intention, and a hard swallow trails down his throat in response.

“Off the clock, hmm?” you say breathily. “No more titles or duties? Huh. That’s a real shame.”

“How so?” he asks, his eyes devouring you alive, but his body fixed resolutely in place. Transfixed to the spot.

“Because it’s traditional for the Best Man to get with one of the bridesmaids, isn’t it?”

A slow, disbelieving smile inches over his face, and he looks at his feet, a little bashful. “Gross tradition. Kinda sexist,” he says, and your gaze fixates on his full, curving lips. On his hands, poised and broad at his belt.

“So, you don’t want to make out then?” you ask in your most sultry voice, mere breath.

The man huffs out a quick, broken exhale. “Fuck me. You know I do, sweetie. But only if you’re ready.”

Ready. Are you ready?

“Santiago,” you say, with conviction, your eyes dancing between his. “I’m ready.”

Santi searches your face one last time, just to be certain. He’s sure, of course – has been for a long time, but he needs to know that you truly want this. That you want this now. So, he looks at you, and he finds nothing but permission. Even so, after so long, he still can’t quite believe it. He would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe – or beyond – and, so dammit, he will ask you again.

“C-can I..” he begins, and his voice already sounds choked; hollowed out with need. “Fuck, Princesa, can I kiss you?”

Too long. Too long without moving. Without touching. Too long.

If you were suddenly ready, his kiss becomes even more suddenly overdue.

“You’d better,” you encourage, feeling like vapour. “Unless you want me to do it first.”

With permission granted, you expect him to be on you, with a surge. All at once. But Santi has been patiently waiting for you long enough. He can wait just a little longer, and, when he subtly tips his chin up, ever so slightly, and when he near growls “come here then, honey,” somehow, it is perfect. Somehow, it is a thousand times hotter that he makes you come to him.

You lift the hem of your dress, and you pad delicately towards him, feeling like you are wading through molten honey to get to him, the air thick and sweet.

“That’s it. Come here, baby,” he encourages, with a curl of his index finger beckoning you to him, his voice curling in the pit of you, making you feel weak in the best way possible. Making you feel spent before he’s even done so much as brush you with his hand or his lips.  

You close the remaining distance with your steps, the anticipation too much, and your legs feeling so weak from the reckless lust and the light, liquid softness in his eyes. By this point, you are begging for his arms to reach out and clasp you- to hold you up; make you secure and safe in him. You are begging for his lips to sink down on to yours. But he makes you wait, through a few more slow, stretched moments. Makes you inch your mouth closer and closer until your lips are almost skimming his. He makes you wait until you are moaning his name into the air before he has even touched you.

“Santi.”

And, if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that when you call for him, he is always there to take care of you.

You know he will take care of you.  

With that, his name a plea, he swoops his broad, large hand up until he is holding you, his fingers closing around your jaw and your throat, trailing down your neck. His touch is painfully gentle, but in a way that makes you want him to squeeze, a little harder. In a way that makes you push yourself ever so subtly into his hand. A way that draws a silken moan from deep in your chest, and Santi is moved to dip the pad of his thumb into your mouth, where it meets your wet and willing warmth. When your tongue skims him, humming as you taste his saltiness, that seems to be the final straw, a wrecked groan sounding from his throat, and finally he surges on to your lips, leading with his tongue, thrusting into your open mouth and drinking down every sound and moan he can draw from you, his stubble rough against you. You don’t care if he leaves you raw.

It’s tender, and it’s gentle, but Santi knows all about control, and you can tell he’s holding back. His hands are lethal, and he knows just how to kill you softly; but, you are certain, that if you want more of his power, he’ll give it to you. That he’ll take care of you however you like.

So, he kisses you more deeply, harder, and you go near limp against him until one of his arms wraps at the back of your head and one at the small of your back, making you feel a feeble thing, waning in his arms as his large hands support you. Except; you’re not feeble though. You’re not by a long shot, and you know exactly what you want.

“Santi,” you suspire, letting him walk you back against the wall, pressing his bulging arousal into you as more wrangled sounds and little grunts slip from his parted lips.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, already sounding wrecked for you.

“There’s only one shower. Wanna share?!”

Even as he releases an endlessly eager, disbelieving breath, his eyes keenly search your face, checking you are ready. He watches, enraptured, as your lips curl into a deliciously sinful smile.

“You know. We don’t have to rush this,” he insists, even as he shivers with need, closing his eyes and biting his lip when you angle your hips to brush the tenting bulge at his crotch, ever so fleetingly, his hips bucking into you immediately in pursuit of more pressure.

“I know,” you say coolly, your body an undercurrent of frenzy, but your mind calm and sure. You push him back, with your palms to his chest, making room for you to about-turn into the bathroom, shimmying off your dress as you go and letting it waft to the floor like a sigh. Looking at him over your shoulder, with lust-blown eyes, you leave Santi stood there, entirely dumbfounded, as you reveal all of yourself to him.

You retreat, but once the water is running you call out to him, wondering where he has got to. “Take a hint, Garcia. If you’re ready? I’m waiting.”

And, he doesn’t waste another second before joining you.

THE END

(BONUS: Outfit inspo, if you wanna imagine him in the suits a lil better 😉)

[davidmann95]

Sooo… Superman and the Authority?

magnus-king123 asked: Your thoughts on Superman & the authority Give it to me...lol

Anonymous asked: Seeing Bezos take his little trip into space the same day Morrison puts out a Superman comic that touches on how far we’ve fallen from the days when we dreamed of utopian futures where everyone explored the stars was a big gut punch. Not used to Superman being topical in that way.

Anonymous asked: What'd you think of Superman and the Authority#1?

This is far beyond what I can fit in the normal weekly reviews, so taking this as my notes on the first six pages, with this and this as my major lead-in thoughts:

* Janin's such a perfect fit for Morrison - the scale, the power, the facial expressions selling the character work, the screwing around with the panel formatting as necessary to sell the effect, the numinous sense of things going on larger than you can fully perceive amidst the beauty and chaos. It's a shame he wasn't around 25 years ago to draw JLA, but I'll take him going with Morrison onto other future projects.

* His intro action sequence is such a great demonstration of why Black actually does have something to offer, and also how he's such a dumbass desperately needing Superman to save him from himself.

* While Jordie Bellaire didn't legit go with an entirely monochromatic palate the way early previews suggested, it's still an effect frequently and excellently deployed here. And glad to see Steve Wands carry into this from Blackstars since there's such an obvious carryover from its work with Superman.

* "Gentlemen. Ladies. Others." Great both because of the obvious - hey, Superman's nodding at me! - and because it's a phrasing that reinforces that this take on him (and let's be real Morrison) is old as hell.

* I'm mostly past caring about whether this is an alt-Earth Superman until it becomes indisputable one way or another, this and Action both rule so what does it really matter? But while there are still a couple signs in play suggesting some kind of division (the Action Comics #1036 cover, Midnighter up to time-travel shenanigans) the "lost in time" quote clearly thrown in after the fact to explain how he could have met Kennedy outside of 5G that wouldn't be necessary for an Elseworlds, the assorted gestures towards Superman's current status quo, the Kingdom Come symbol appearing in Action, and that Morrison would have had to completely rewrite the ending if this wasn't supposed to be 'the' version of Clark Kent going forward as was the intent when they first planned it all say to me that no, no fooling around, this is our guy going forward one way or another.

* Janin and Bellaire making the first version of the crystal Fortress ever that actually looks as cool as you want it to.

Anonymous asked: I like that Superman and The Authority is basically the anti-All-Star; instead of the laid back, immortal Superman who is supercharged, we have a stressed, ageing Superman whose tremendous powers are fading. The former will always be there to save us, but the latter is running out of time and needs to pull off a Hail Mary. Also, he mentions in his monologue to Black that he was "lost in time" when he met JFK, so maybe he is the main continuity Clark. Or he's the t-shirt Supes from Sideways.

* You're absolutely right - the power reversal is obvious and the ticking clock in play seemingly isn't for his own survival but everyone around him as he wakes up and realizes all the old icons grew complacent with the gains they'd made and he's not leaving behind the world he meant to. Both, however, are built on the idea of preparing the world to not need them anymore - it'll still have a Superman in his son, but that'll only work because of the others he empowers and inspires. The question is what happens to Clark if he's not going to live in the sun for 83000 years.

* Clark's 'exercise' here does more to sell me on the idea of Old Man Superman as a cool idea than however many decades of Earth 2 stuff.

* Intergang being noted alongside Darkseid and Doomsday speaks to how much Kirby informed Morrison's conception of Superman.

* This isn't exactly the most progressive in its disability politics but at least it makes clear Black's being a piece of shit about it.

* It's startling how much Clark can get away with saying stuff in here you'd never expect to come out of Superman's mouth. "I made an executive decision" "Privacy, really...?" "You have nowhere to go, Black. Nothing to live for." "There are few people in my life who I instinctively and viscerally dislike, and you've always been one of them." It only works because there's zero aggression behind it, he's just past the point of niceties and being totally frank while making clear none of these assessments preclude that he cares and is going to unconditionally do the right thing every time. He is absolutely, per Morrison, humanity's dad picking us up when we're too drunk to drive ourselves home.

* The story doesn't put a big flashing light over it, but it's not even a little bit subtle having the material threat of the issue be a ticking timebomb left by the carelessness and hubris of generations past.

* Manchester keeps trying to poke the bear and prove his hot takes about Superman and it's just not working. The front he put up under Kelley is gone after decades of defeats, and as Morrison understands what actually conceptually works about him as a rival to Superman underneath the aging nerd paranoia he's exposed as what he absolutely would be in 2021: a dude with a horrific terminal case of Twitter brainworms. I was PANICKED when I heard there was an 'offensive term' joke in this, I was braced for Morrison at their well-meaning worst, but it's such a goddamn perfect encapsulation of a very specific breed of Twitter leftist who uses their politics first and foremost as a cudgel and justification to label their abrasive, judgmental shittiness as self-righteousness (plus it's a killer payoff to a joke from way back in his original appearance). Cannot believe they pulled that off when they're so very, very open about basically not knowing how the internet works.

* @charlottefinn: Manchester Black using his telekinetic powers to force someone he hates to fave a problematic tweet so that he can screenshot it and start a dogpile

@intergalactic-zoo: “Once they cancel Bibbo, Superman won’t be *anyone’s* fav’rit anymore!”

* Friend noted this issue had to be fully the conversation because the whole premise stands on the house of cards of these two somehow working together, and with three 'silent' inset panels the creative team pulls off that turning point.

* So much of this feels on the surface like Morrison bringing back the All-Star vibes with Clark, but when he drops a "That's all you got?" in a brawl you realize what's underlining that bluntness and confidence in the face of failure is that deep down this is still the Action guy too. This dude ain't gonna get wrecked in his Fortress while the other guy chuckles about him being A SOFT WEE SCIENTIST'S SON!

* Bringing up Jor-El made me realize that Morrison already spelled out that this is the final threat to Superman, what he faces at the end of the road:

"Now it's your turn, Superman."

* A l'il Superman 2000/All-Star reference with the Phantom Zone map!

* There's so much intertextuality going on here even by Morrison standards - Change or Die with the old hero putting together a team of morally nebulous folks out to 'fix' everything, Flex Mentallo with the muscleman trying to redeem the punk, Doomsday Clock with the fate of the world hinging on whether Superman can get through to a meta stand-in for an idea of 'modern' comics cynicism, DKR and New Frontier and Kingdom Come and Multiversity and Seven Soldiers and What's So Funny and All-Star and Action and the last 5 years of monthly Superman comics and Authority and probably Jupiter's Legacy and Tom Strong - but none of that's needed. You could go in with the baseline pop cultural understanding of the character and not care about any of the inside baseball shit and get that this is a story about a leader of a generation that let down the people they made all their grand promises to as inertia and day-to-day demands and complacency let him be satisfied with the accomplishments they'd made long ago, looking at a new era and seeing the ways its own activists are dropping the ball. The only thing that fundamentally matters in a "you have to accept you're reading a superhero story" sense is that because he's Superman he's willing to own up to it and listen to people who might know better about some things and try to set things right while he and those who'll take his place still have a chance. And yes, the oldster looking back on their legacy with a skeptical eye and hoping for better from the next generation, hoping most of all that their little heir apparent can fulfill the promise inside of him instead of being a provocating little shitkicker, is obviously also autobiographical.

* The overlaying Kennedy reprisal is such a great visual of a sudden intrusive thought.

* The Kryptonite secret is the obvious "This is going to matter!" moment, but "He lied about his son" is a bit that doesn't connect to anything going on right now so maybe that's important here too? More significantly, the Justice League can't actually be the villains here but that Ultra-Humanite's crew are in an Earth-orbiting satellite makes pretty clear what's up.

* I've said before that between Superman, OMAC, and a New Gods-affiliated speedster this was going to use all of Morrison's favorite things. King Arthur playing a role isn't exactly dissuading me.

* Love the idea that all the antiheroes have their own community in the same way as the capes and tights crew. They definitely all privately think the rest are posers though and that they alone are Garth Ennis Punisher in a mob of Garth Ennis Wolverines.

* Manchester's fallen so far he's gone from trying to convince Superman to kill to convince him to dunk on people for their bad takes and Clark just doesn't get it. Official prediction of dialogue for upcoming issues:

"According to these bloody Fortress scans, the only thing that can restore your powers is an unfiltered hit of dopamine. Don't worry, Doctor Black has a few ideas."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll plant a nice tree?"

"...fuck you."

* Ok I already talked about how great the Fortress looks in here but LOVE this library.

* A pair of pages this seems like the right spot to discuss from Black's original appearance that underlines both his and Superman's inadequacies up to this point:

Responding to the problem of "the government and penal system are hopelessly corrupt" neither of them has any actual notion of what to do about it in spite of their respective posturing beyond how to handle individual outside actors - each is in their own way every bit as small-minded and reactionary as the other. Clark's coming around though, and he's holding out hope for the other guy.

* Superman: Have a lovely mineral water :) proper hydration is important :)

Manchester Black: *Is a dude who can get so mad he vomits and passes out. At water.*

* That last page is the one to beat for the year, and does more to put over the idea of this as an Authority book than that Midnighter and Apollo are literally going to show up. It also feels like Morrison tacitly acknowledging all the ways the premise could go or at least be received wrong - from Superman saying 'enough is enough' to who he's bringing into the fold to go about it - in the most beautifully on-the-nose fashion imaginable. Maybe they'll save us all! Or maybe they'll drown us in their vomit.

[negasonicimagines]

Tell Me I'm Not Funny

Request: darkandmysteriousbutheartofgold!ellie and wholesomeanddoesn'tunderstandwhyelliedoesn'tlikeher!reader where they're both part of the friend group but ellie just thinks reader is straight and messing with her pls

Notes: I don’t usually write MCU!Peter, so if he comes up in any future fics (like as the reader’s stepdad 👀 I’ve loved spideypool longer than I’ve loved Negasonic) you can safely assume it’s Andrew Garfield. But, for this time, this is MCU!Peter. Everyone in the friend group is 18-20, just to be clear.

This really isn't my best work, but it's a fun little slice of life piece. A lot of my ideas are pretty cinematic, I can picture them in my head but sometimes those pictures don't really translate into words. I may revisit this one day.

Warnings: D-slur (reclaimed by Ellie in one line), allusions to prior assault (an unwanted kiss that could've been more had another character not stepped in), and that's about it. Oh, and a little swearing, but this is an imagine for a character from Deadpool. If you can't handle swearing, you're on the wrong blog.

Synopsis: You’re into Ellie, but she’s with your good friend Peter. She treats you like you don’t even exist, and in the few instances she does acknowledge you, it’s usually just to make some sarcastic remark. You’re head-over-heels, though, and decide to deal with your unrequited love by writing her a song she’ll never hear.

“Fuck, that movie was terrible,” Michelle groans. “I’m just glad it was a matinee show and we didn’t have to pay as much to see it.”

“The special effects were good, but can’t Disney just leave stuff alone?” Peter agrees.

“Next thing you know they’ll be making a live action Toy Story, as if the original wasn’t traumatizing enough. I don’t want to imagine Watermelon as a sentient being. She’s seen some shit,” you snicker.

“Who’s Watermelon?” Ellie asks with a dark chuckle, and you clam up. How had you forgotten she was here?

“Oh, uh, nobody.”

“Don’t tell me you still sleep with a stuffed animal,” she snarks. “You really do need to grow up.”

“Don’t be mean, Ellie,” Peter protests.

“Watermelon is cute, everybody likes cute things!” Yukio adds.

“I think a live-action Toy Story could be cool,” Ned says. “It’d look really good if they did stop-motion animation.”

“Oh, you’re right!” you chirp. “It’d be quite the undertaking, but it would look badass.”

“I think you’re using that term a little loosely,” Ellie grumbles, and you have to stop yourself from frowning, instead you laugh it off. Why does she always pick on you? Sure, she’s got a witty remark for everybody, but she’s way harder on you. It hurts, she really is so gorgeous and funny and mysterious and everything you want in a woman, but she acts like she can’t stand you.

Ellie and Peter head off together, Peter still hasn’t gotten around to getting his license and Ellie seems happy to give him a ride. You really don’t stand a chance.

You and the others pile up in MJ’s SUV for some late-night band practice.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you admit to Yukio in the furthest row back.

“You can,” she insists. “You’re a way better singer than Lola, anyways.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to give her the wrong impression, I-”

“For the millionth time, Y/N, you didn’t. If she hadn’t left the band, we would’ve kicked her out. Not just for cheating on me, but for hurting you.”

“I guess,” you sigh. “Why can’t you sing instead?”

“Because I’m flat.”

“Yukio, breast size doesn’t have anything to do with singing ability, you’ve just gotta practice,” you joke.

“Shut up!” she giggles, punching you in the arm. “Plus, when you sing, the songs are being sung as they were written. We’re getting the real feelings.”

“Speaking of… I have something new I’m thinking about sharing tonight. Do you mind if I text you the demo?”

“Ooh, a first look! Hell yes!”

You text her the audio file and she puts in a wireless earbud, nodding along. Her smile gets wider and wider as she listens, and when she’s done, her assessment shocks you.

“Oh my gosh. You’re into Ellie.”

“What?!” you squeak. “No way!”

“You are! But, uh-”

“Don’t even say it. I know I don’t have a chance in hell. She only tolerates me for the sake of you and Peter.” Despite the gloominess of your tone, Yukio gets a mischievous glint in her eye, it confuses you. But, that’s just Yukio. Her thoughts are all over the place; she and Ellie balance each other out that way. They dated a couple of years ago, but it didn’t work out. They decided they were better off as friends.

“Screw that other song, we’re using this as the lead single. Everybody’s gonna love it, do you have the sheet music?”

“Yeah, uh, it’s in my bag.”

“Awesome.” Yukio’s grinning like she’s won something. Is the song that good? “We’ll have to practice this one a lot, we definitely need to have it ready by the concert this Friday.”

Right. Liz’s 19th birthday party. Apparently Peter had convinced her to let the band play, it’d be cheaper than hiring a more established artist.

“Our first paying gig? I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you remind her. She scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“We’re mostly gonna be playing covers of Liz’s favorite songs, and she only has so many. We’ve gotta beef up the setlist with originals, and this is perfect! Has that pop-y fun vibe, it’ll fit right in.”

“Yeah, but if it’s that obvious how I feel about her after one listen-”

“Only because I already had a hunch after Daft Pretty Boys,” Yukio clarifies cheerily, and you sigh.

“Fair enough.”

The gang makes it to Michelle’s house, travelling down to the side door and going into the basement from there. MJ’s parents have encouraged her creativity from day one, and were ecstatic when the band was formed. You speculate that they’re mostly happy that she’s made friends. Writing and photography can be lonely hobbies.

“Y/N has something new for us!” Yukio chirps.

“That fast?” Ned’s surprised as you hand him the sheet music. He skims it. “Holy shit, this is a wicked solo! Thanks, Y/N!”

“Well, I’m hoping highlighting everybody else’s talent will disguise my lack thereof,” you chuckle.

“Don’t be stupid, we’ve all heard you sing backup,” MJ says. “You’re Ryan Ross, she’s Brendon Urie. I’m just glad we booted her out before she decided she was gonna be the only pangolin in The Pangolins.”

Everyone laughs at that.

“Let’s try it,” Michelle continues, and everybody agrees. After a sound check and a few runs of the song, it’s still clumsy, especially on your part. You’re not really used to playing and singing at the same time, outside of backup vocals, which require far less focus.

“I suck,” you mumble, but it happens to be into the microphone.

“You don’t!” Ned insists.

“With that attitude, we’re not going anywhere,” Yukio says. You hate it when she gets to the tough love stage of her support. You wish she’d stay in the shallow reassurances stage, it’s easier to brush off. “You wouldn’t be the lead singer if we all thought you sucked. We would’ve just put an ad in the paper. You’re awesome, get over it!”

You sigh.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Say it,” she insists.

“I’m awesome,” you huff, it’s hard not to smile when Yukio tries to look serious.

“Damn straight,” Yukio says. “Or, I guess not, considering that was about Ellie.”

“Yukio!” you squeal.

“That’s about Ellie?!” Ned exclaims.

“Obviously,” MJ scoffs, fiddling with her tuners.

“Is it that obvious?!” You can’t help but feel embarrassed. Ellie probably knows exactly how you feel, maybe that’s why she dislikes you so much. Her boyfriend’s stupid friend has a crush.

“Wait, but at the beginning…” Ned trails off, before laughing. “Oh my gosh, I get it.”

“Get what? Oh… Y/N, have I ever told you how much I love you?” MJ asks.

“I- I love you, too?” You’re puzzled by their words, but you’ve got enough on your plate.

“Let’s go ahead and practice some of Liz’s favorites while we’re here,” Yukio suggests. “It’s a pretty big set list.”

You practice until dinner, getting a pizza and deciding to make a night of it since it was a little late for Michelle to be dropping you all off at your assorted residences.

You all sleep on a pallet in the basement, and despite your worries, you manage to get some rest.

Over the next few days, The Pangolins practice at every free moment, until it’s finally time for the party.

“So, just pictures of everything?” Oh, shit. She’s not supposed to be here. How are you supposed to sing that song with her here?

“Yeah! I know with how many people are coming, I’m probably not going to get as much time as I want with everyone, so pictures will be a good way to remember the night.”

“Why not just invite less people?” Ellie wonders.

“I want all my friends to be here,” Liz explains. “How’s the sound check going, Y/N?”

“It’s going great,” you say into the microphone, demonstrating the quality and volume with a smile. “Thanks for letting us play here tonight.”

“Well, Peter said you guys are great. Are you really gonna debut your best song so far tonight?”

“Oh, um,” you stutter, stepping away from the microphone. “Maybe not.”

“What? Oh, come on, please, it’ll make the night even more special! You’re playing covers of all my old favorites, sing me my new favorite!” Liz presses, but she’s not being demanding or bratty, she seems genuinely excited.

“If the birthday girl says so, who am I to say no?” you concede. Hopefully Ellie will be too distracted taking pictures. “You have way too much faith in me.”

“If you don’t quit with the self-deprecation, I’m gonna duct tape your mouth shut,” MJ interjects.

“But, Daddy, how will I say my safe word?” you tease, giggling at your own joke with the rest of the group. Yukio’s laugh seems the loudest. Ellie glares.

“We should practice a song!” Ned suggests.

“Ooh, a private show!” Liz seems excited.

“Any requests?” you ask her. Ellie’s resting scowl intensifies. If she’s more pissed off the more you open your mouth, you’re not sure how she’s gonna survive a night of you singing without going nuclear.

“Oh, oh, Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne, please?”

“You’ve got it,” you agree.

The song goes smoothly.

“What happened to the old singer?” Ellie asks, clearly unimpressed.

“You didn’t tell her?” you ask Yukio, grateful for the excuse to turn away from the sharp-tongued girl you adore.

“Didn’t want her to get the wrong impression,” Yukio explains. “She already makes enough rude comments towards you.” Yukio leans over her drum kit to give Ellie a pointed look.

“Oh, wait, shit, I didn’t mean it like that. You, uh, sound good, Y/N.”

You can’t help but whip your head back to look at her with a flabbergasted expression.

“What?! It’s true,” Ellie defends herself.

“Uh, yeah, but you just said something nice. About me. Liz, do you mind checking her for a fever?”

Liz obliges for the sake of going along with the joke before quickly withdrawing her hand.

“Jeez! I know you were kidding, but she’s burning up,” Liz declares.

“My internal temperature is higher due to my mutation,” Ellie quickly explains, looking a bit bashful. “Besides, I say nice shit about Y/N all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” the whole band says in unison, including you.

“Well, clearly I shouldn’t if everyone’s gonna make a big fucking deal about it,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. “I’m gonna go get some pictures of the decorations before there’s a bunch of fucking people here to block them.”

She stomps off in her heavy boots, and The Pangolins get back to work, putting on the final touches and making sure all the blocking looks right.

Soon enough, guests start flooding in, and Liz zips around to greet them, eventually meeting up with Peter and keeping him with her. He and Liz eventually pull Ellie away from her picture-taking, confident she’s done enough and needs to just relax and enjoy the party.

So much for distracting herself with work, she thinks.

They sit on the couch and eat, the dining room was monopolized by The Pangolins due to its elevation and space.

Ellie’s mesmerized by the way your fingers move until she hears Peter talking to Liz. They really are a cute couple.

“You really do need to hang out with us. Yukio told me Y/N thinks Ellie and I are a thing,” he says.

“Gross, you’re like my annoying little brother,” Ellie remarks.

“And you’re like my bitchy older sister,” Peter retorts with a shit-eating grin.

“Both of you, quiet! They’re about to play the new song. You’re in for a real treat, Ellie.”

“What does it have to do with me?”

Liz gives Peter a confused and slightly irritated look.

“I haven’t said anything to her, I didn’t know how,” Peter squeaks, blushing a little at the look in his girlfriend’s eyes.

“Explain, quickly,” Ellie demands.

But, then you start to sing again.

“Y/N-” Peter starts.

“Shut up.”

“But you asked-”

“I said, shut up,” Ellie insists.

“You know me as your boyfriend's goofy friend. I seem to have this effect on women, and your friends aren't as goofy as I am. I try my best to keep you entertained, always laughing at the jokes you are saying. I nod my head when you make a point, oh oh…

“Kiss me, kiss me with your eyes closed! Whisper that your heart shows all I want is you, yeah, you… Hold me, hold me I'm your bunny! Tell me I'm not funny, tell me I’m legit! ‘Cause I feel weak, in your hands and your feet… A precious end, I’ll never feel your touch…”

Ellie continues to listen to the song, all expression drained from her face. All the yearning in the words and your voice, all you want is…

Ellie looks at Peter, who’s looking at her with a triumphant smile.

“I told you.”

Ellie feels like she’s about to faint. She notices you’re talking to Liz— when did she leave? —your hand over your mic. Despite the knowledge that Liz is taken, Ellie gets jealous. You look so happy to be talking to Liz, to just about any girl you talk to.

She wishes you’d smile at her that way.

You nod at whatever Liz said, and the band starts packing away their instruments. Liz sets up her phone on some Bluetooth speakers, and songs that sounded so much better when you were singing them start to play.

No! Ellie internally protests. Sing for me again, please, sing that stupid song about how you think I don’t like you.

Yukio’s dragging you somewhere. Gosh, Ellie wishes it was her holding your hand.

Suddenly, though, you and Yukio are approaching her. She knows what she has to do.

“So, what’d you think of our- Eek! Finally!”

Ellie parts from the kiss to tell her to fuck off and not ruin the moment before kissing you again.

“Holy fucking shit,” you breathe. “Uh, I thought you were-“

“Dating Peter?! Seriously?! Do I need to write ‘dyke’ on my fucking forehead? I practically already have with the way I dress and act and-”

“I, uh, I try not to make assumptions,” you mumble, fingers touching your lips.

“I’m, uh, sorry for not asking.”

“No, it’s- It was good. I’ve wanted you to do that for a while. It’s just that that was the first time somebody’s kissed me, since, uh…” Your eyes dart to Yukio, who’s ruffling Ned’s hair and laughing.

“Yukio?!” Orange flickers in Ellie’s eyes for a moment, but she keeps it under control.

“No, no, of course not, uh… The old singer, Lola. She and Yukio were dating, but apparently I was the one she really had her sights on, and… She was entitled. Thought that because she wanted me, I must want her. That wasn’t really the case, I was already pining over you. Didn’t stop her from forcing a few kisses on me and trying to go further. If Yukio hadn't shown up early with cupcakes, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

“I am such an asshole,” Ellie says softly. “Can I kiss you again? The right way.”

“I’d say what you did before was pretty right, but sure,” you consent.

Her kiss before had been rough, needy, and impatient. Just the way you like it. This, though, this is gentle, soft, and exploratory. You tangle your hands in her hair and kiss her harder. She moans into the kiss before pulling away, bewildered.

“That was…” Ellie trails off, trying to find a positive adjective that won’t sound to frilly or lovesick.

“A mistake, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck, no. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she corrects you. “Just- Didn’t really know how. Even when you were kinda flirting with me at first, I just thought you were messing with me, so I- I am so stupid.”

“So am I,” you scoff. “I thought you were dating Peter.”

“I was spending a lot of time with him, but… I was just using him as an excuse to avoid you so I wouldn’t embarrass myself anymore. And I was asking him for advice. I figured if he could land somebody as far out of his league as Liz, maybe I stood the slightest bit of a chance with you. But I kept fucking it up. I’d just get so nervous, all of my compliments would turn into insults, all of my teasing turned into straight-up cruelty. I don’t know how you actually like me.”

“I’m a little bit of a masochist, I’ll admit,” you tell her. “I’m really glad you don’t hate me.”

“I’m really glad you don’t hate me,” Ellie replies, but she can’t help but think that what she‘s really saying is ‘I love you, too.’

She takes your hand, and you two rejoin your friends, swept up in a group hug. They wanted this to happen almost as much as you two did.

[btsinwonderland]

A Drop of Poison - Ch. 4: An Invitation

A Loki fanfiction!

Previous Chapter --- Next Chapter

Full Chapter List

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“You’re late!” Valkyrie said, stuffing a pancake into her mouth as you approached her table in the Great Hall. “And you look like shit.”

You could feel the papery dryness of your eyes. Each blink felt grating. “I didn’t have a great sleep…” you said, hoping that your face did not give away the perpetual embarrassment you felt every time you thought about what happened the night before.

“Was it the dream again?” Valkyrie said, handing you a plate she filled with hash browns and eggs.

You took it gratefully. “No, I...went to the restricted section of the library last night,” you said, looking down at your plate. An image of Professor Laufeyson’s bare chest flashed before your eyes and you nearly dropped your fork.

“What!” She spoke so loud that several of the people surrounding you and at the other tables glanced at you both.

“Shhh! Don’t be so loud,” you whispered.

“You went without me,” she said, stuffing a mushroom into her mouth.

“It couldn’t wait, but I didn’t even find what I was looking for,” you said.

“And what was that?”

You were about to speak when you saw Professor Laufeyson enter the Great Hall. You nearly choked on your hash browns when he glanced at you. “I have to go,” you said and ran out of the hall.

You did not look back, and you did not stop walking until you realized you were back at the library. Your subconscious seemed to have a sense of humour that you did not find particularly funny. As you stood at the door like a deer in the headlights, someone nearly body checked you to the side as they entered the library.

“Out of the way, mudblood,” he said. His blue hair was striking in the daylight.

“Watch it, Talon,” you said.

He turned to you with a glare, then he smiled coldly and walked on.

You nearly rolled your eyes straight to the back of your head. Talon, the one person you would not mind using one or two of the unforgivable curses on. Just a bit of the Imperious to make him wet his pants in class, maybe? Nothing too awful. You still remember the way he laughed when he stuffed you and one other student into a Shrinking Shed in a pawnshop in Knockturn Alley. It was only your second year, and you berated yourself for trusting any wizard that said they “had something cool to show you” since that day. The poor boy you were stuck with broke his arm and may have broken the other, lest Professor Heimdall had not come by the shop; by that time the shed was half the size of a fridge. You still hated confined spaces from that day onwards.

He walked towards a blonde Slytherin girl trying to finish her homework at a large table. She looked less than pleased at his interruption. You rolled your eyes and moved on.

Your thoughts drifted back to the previous night as you headed to the back of the library. And just like that, it transported you into a completely different head space. Professor Laufeyson. You thought about his smooth skin and the way the moonlight glinted off the sweat on his body.

Thinking of him like that put you in a sort of daze, where you were so embarrassed you thought you might die but also so intrigued that you could not stop yourself from wondering. You paused where you were and gazed at the restricted section. From there, you could see the table where he had...relations with Professor Sif. You remembered her panting and writhing in pleasure. The entire night you had thought about only one thing. What did that feel like?

You knew how your own fingers felt, and despite how wonderful that was, you had always been curious about something more. Valkyrie had described it to you in visceral detail several times. She had said that if the person knew what they were doing, that it could be amazing. Higher than high. But if the person only cared about themselves, it could be quite awful. From the looks of it, Professor Laufeyson knew what he was doing.

Something about him felt different. Enticing. The way his lean muscles flexed as he gripped the edges of the table and the way his eyes glowed. Heat coursed through you, and the muscles in your stomach tightened. You had not been this bothered in all your life and had a fleeting thought of whether there was a way to quit Potions class. You rubbed your eyes and face. The book. That was what you came here for.

“Are you alright?” A sweet voice said.

You opened your eyes; it was Pom. She was carrying four large textbooks and placed them on a study table between the aisles.

Putting on your most convincing smile, you said, “I’m fine, I was just looking for a book.”

“Oh? What one?” she said, her eyes lit up.

Pom did frequent the library. Perhaps she could be of use. “It’s about cats, common spells for cats.”

She gave you a look.

“No, I’m serious! I just really love cats,” you said. It was not a lie, though you preferred reptiles.

“Well, where is it supposed to be?”

You thought about how to put it. “Well, that’s the thing. I was informed that it would be in one place, but it’s no longer there. And I don’t think anyone checked it out.”

Pom thought about it for a moment. Then her eyes lit up. “Maybe it’s a switcher!”

“Switcher?”

She nodded with an excited smile. “I’ve only ever encountered one of them. But there was once a book that my brother and I were looking for. I heard it was the journal of a student who created their own spells. And I think we found it, but right before Ken could pick it up from the shelf, it faded and disappeared. About two months later, I saw it again, on the other side of the library. I reached for it, but it disappeared. I talked to one of our senior prefects and she told me there’s a rumour about books in the library. Apparently, some of them like to disappear and reappear. Nobody knows how to catch them, but there’s a theory that they’ll come to you if you need them.”

You raised your eyebrows at the thought of disappearing books. Of course the book you needed to find was evading you. “So if I need it badly enough...I might find it?” You said.

Pom nodded with an unsure smile. You thanked her as she picked up her pile of books and wandered off to study.

A bright pink guide on potions stood out as you looked at the shelves. Flora and Fawna for Beginners. You sighed. This was going to be a long day.

So you roamed. You roamed the bookshelves for hours, reading every title, every author name and every little scroll in the cabinets. It was tedious beyond belief and you stopped to rest a few times. After your third hour of wandering the library and receiving strange looks from the students you passed by for the thirtieth time, you sighed and sat right on the floor, in between the Magical Creatures and Astrocentric Religions sections. Your stomach rumbled from hunger and you wondered if it was time to give up yet. So much for your investigation. It felt quite less glamorous when you were at the start of it and all you could muster up was sitting on your bottom with an empty stomach and dry hands.

You looked out the window at the end of the aisle; the day was overcast again. It has been raining non stop this season. You got up, defeated, and ready to find some food. Suddenly, there was a sharp bang on the window and you turned to see what it was. A dark smudge was streaked across the glass and you walked up to it for a closer look. You nearly jumped a foot in the air when another bird flew into the window. It fell and you could not see where it landed, but you wondered if it was dead.

A few more birds banged into the windows, and other students got up from their chairs to see the disturbance. One girl gasped so loudly that the librarian had to come over and calm everyone down. The librarian looked at the windows and grumbled to herself as she went out to inform someone of the mess.

You walked across the aisles to observe the other windows, and each one was streaked with a dark red stain. As you walked by the first year selection of books near the front of the library, you noticed in the corner, on the bottom shelf there was a new title. Something you had not noticed before. The spine was dark red and your eyes widened at the title “Spells for the Common House Cat”.

Nearly diving for the book, you crouched down and grabbed it, thinking it would disappear right before your eyes. But, you held it in your hands and yelled out a “yes!” This earned you a shush from the students who were studying.

You were so elated to read the book once you returned to the common room that you nearly ran into the door as you exited the library. It was already an hour past dinner at the Great Hall; you imagined Valkyrie had stuffed her face full already and probably wondered where you were. You picked up your pace and raced through the halls with meat pies on your mind and the book in your hands. The texture was of a smooth aged leather, with odd scratches along the spine and cover. The writing on the cover was a rushed scrawl with black ink and you flipped through the inside, only to see pages and pages of the same hurried writing. There was one passage that caught your eye:

Informed though we may be of my house we are not warned to eat live snakes. Wish you well my balloon animal friend. Did you know hats wore cow bells on their noses? Bells bells bells! Nasty business wandering through the dry sun. If there is one watered down lion to know, it’s Muriel and her tacky shoes.

You were so perplexed you said aloud, “What the fu-”

A hard body stopped your momentum, and you fell right on your rear onto the floor. The book fell out of your hands and you rubbed your nose where it was bumped. “I’m so sorry, I-” You looked up and your mouth went dry.

Professor Laufeyson was standing above you, with your book in his hand, and his eyebrows slightly raised. You saw the recognition in his gaze as he assessed you and a whisper of a smile appeared on his lips; it disappeared again into his usual stoic expression. You remained on the floor and stared at him for several seconds, as if you were paralyzed.

He reached down and helped you up. “We keep bumping into one another, don’t we, Miss Eves?” He said, throwing you a smile that almost knocked you down again.

“Y-yes, I suppose so.”

He handed you the book, glancing at the title. “Interesting literature, is it for your classes or for pleasure?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Just for fun.”

“Ah, and is this a title you found in your evening forays into the library?” He said, leaning close so you could see the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes.

Your heart skipped a beat. He knew. He knew. Oh god. He knew. Your mind made a split second decision.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” you said, gripping the book tightly against your body.

Professor Laufeyson chuckled and leaned against the wall, further away from you. You breathed a little easier. “It seems that a student has been out of bed and has seen things she should not have,” he said, crossing his arms. His eyes looked down at you with a mocking sort of sternness. “It could lead to expulsion…”

You held his hard gaze, not denying anything but not giving in. It seemed he was testing you, checking your resolve. You took a silent breath and looked right back at him. There was no way he could get you into trouble without admitting his own faults. “I wonder what the protocols are for teachers and acceptable behaviour on school grounds?” You said, sticking your chin up and thinking you sounded more like an insolent child than anything else.

He smiled widely. “Ah, very good, Miss Eves! Worry not. If I wanted to expel you I would have had Professor Sif handle it,” he said.

“I haven’t told anyone, and I don’t plan to,” you said. You finally lost your resolve and looked at the floor. Your cheeks heated at the thought of him half naked. “Th-thank you for not letting Professor Sif see me.”

“Miss Eves, it is simply water under the troll bridge. Though, I have a bit of a favour to ask of you,” he said. “Perhaps we can call it even then.”

You glanced up, and he had moved away from the wall and was now standing a couple of inches away from you. “Yes, sir?”

“That envelope you gave me was an invitation to dinner with the Headmistress and Professor Odinson. That’s just where I’m headed now, in fact. And I would love for you to accompany me,” he said, holding out his hand like a gentleman.

You stared at his hand, and then up at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

He smiled and reached over to your shoulder, guiding you to follow him. As you both walked, he said, “To be completely honest with you, I just hate these family reunion dinners. Terribly awkward. It would be a pleasure to have you there.”

“I’d hate to crash a dinner party. I’m sure Headmistress Frigga just wanted a family affair. Plus, I’m not even hungry!” You said, and then your stomach growled most viciously. You looked down at it with a look of betrayal.

“It will be fun, I promise. Rainbow umbrella,” he said.

You realized you were already at the Headmistress’s office as the statue of the gargoyle began to turn. “But sir,” you started, but he smiled at you so disarmingly that you could not find any words to deny his request. He grabbed your hand and led you up the steps and you were sure that this was an awful, terrible idea.

[giorno-plays-piano]

hey!! i love your writing sm💕 idk if you’re still taking requests or if you’re comfortable w a like platonic or father figure yandere. But how about yan! Steve Rogers where he kidnaps a teenage girl to be his daughter then shields her from the world to “protect” her kinda like rapunzel. if you don’t want to that’s no problem at all tho💕

Hi, sweetie! This is a very peculiar request, and I really, really like it! I guess I’ve made Steve a little softer than I expected, but here he is. Hope you’re going to enjoy this!

The one he cares about

Pairing: adoptive dad!Steve & Reader, Peter Parker x Reader (if you squint)

Warnings: yandere, obsession (non-romantic!), stalking, kidnapping, death of minor characters (but nothing too scary).

Words: 1870.

P.S. Just to clarify this is NOT an incest story, Steve does not harbor any romantic feelings for the reader, he loves her like a parent does.

__________________

Pacing up and down nervously like a caged tiger, Steve threw a glance at the clock on the kitchen wall, ready to take out his cellphone and give you a call. It was just 10 pm, but he felt something wasn't going quite right. Was everything ok at that party? Were you enjoying yourself? Did you finally confess to that silly guy Steve didn't like at all? What if he had already got you, Steve's precious little daughter, into bed?

Breathing in deeply, the man tried calming himself down. You were an adult. At one point you would start dating people, and it was perfectly alright, Sam reminded him the other day. You weren't some princess locked in a tower with Steve guarding you like an angry dragon. You had the right to love and be loved, create your own family, for God's sake. When he thought of you leaving him Steve was ready to break that kitchen wall.

No, no, no, it was alright. You loved him with all your heart, and no stupid guy could take it away from Steve. He was your father. Adoptive father, of course, but he did everything he could to make you trust and love him as much as you true family. You were calling him dad, after all. And even if you eventually married someone, Steve would always stay close to help and support you - and your kids, if you ever decide to have any. At the thought of him kissing the cheeks of his cute little grandchildren Steve had finally relaxed.

Oh, was it the sound of the front door opening? As much as he wanted to rush to meet you, the man quickly put on his apron he ironed this morning and turned to the heated stove to put a meat pie in it. Alright, alright, you were already home, it was perfect.

But why so early? Steve was really generous this time and gave you till 1 am - of course, if you took a taxi, not go walking the streets in the night. Did something go wrong? Did the guy reject you? Did he take advantage of you? Did he... do something he shouldn't have?

Steve felt his blood boiling. In a second he was ready to storm out of the kitchen to beat the shit out of that bastard who was stupid enough to hurt his child.

"Hi dad! I'm home!"

As you walked in, carrying your beaded clutch in your arms and yawning tiredly, Steve put a smile on his face momentarily, assessing whether you were hurt within a couple of seconds. No, apparently, you were alright: you moved just like before; your hair wasn't ruffled, and your makeup wasn't smeared eather. He had overreacted again.

"Welcome back, sweet pea." Steve moved closer to you, giving you a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead as you giggled softly, throwing your arms around his broad back. "How did it go?"

As your face turned gloomy for a fleeting second, he knew his sixth sense wasn't lying to him: something didn't go well.

"Nah." You brushed it off as you sat on the chair, carelessly leaving your clutch on the table and stretching your legs with a loud sigh.

"What is it, sweetie?"

Furrowing his brows, Steve sat across from you, his hands folded as he stared at you with worry. Shit, did this guy try doing something funny? Did he offend you? Oh, Steve was going to have a nice talk with him, a moron who thought he could do this to his little girl and it would never come back at him. Should he call Natasha? Maybe Bucky? He knew they were still in town. No, no, he would take this matter in his own hands and go have a nice talk with that stupid ungrateful ba-

"It's alright, I swear." You muttered and forced a smile, drawing his attention back to you. "He just... well, just didn't return my feelings."

"Did he reject you?"

For a second Steve felt both relieved and ready to go murder that kid in a cold blood. Rejected you? The prettiest and smartest girl in the town with a heart of gold? Who did that little shit think he was, rejecting Steve's precious daughter?

But it was better than him forcing you to do something you didn't want. At least that asshole didn't do anything inappropriate to you, probably too scared to face your angry dad who could crack his skull with one hand.

"Not like reject in the full sense of the word, but... um, I feel like he was a little scared of me." Your smile turned bitter, and you leaned onto Steve, pressing your forehead into his chest as you exhaled loudly.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time it happened. Everybody around knew you were the daughter of retired Captain America, and people were treating you with such caution as if you were some time bomb, clearly unwilling to make the world's first Avenger angry. Partly, it was a good thing since no one tried messing with you. However, you were also left pretty much alone, ignored by the majority for the sake of their own well-being. Although you had found several friends, dating someone was a completely different thing: guys were running away from before you even spoke to them.

"I'm so sorry." The man said quietly, rubbing your back and gently caressing your head with his other hand. "This is my fault."

You sighed, lifting your head and looking at Steve so tenderly he suddenly felt like he was the happiest man in the world. What, weren't you upset?

"Come on, dad." His heart sped up when you called him that, and he was ready to lift you up in the air, kissing his little girl's nose. "I thought he's different, but he's just a chicken like all other guys. I'll get over him soon."

"Hard to live up to our standards, I guess." Steve smiled and pinched your nose a little, making you laugh again. "But you need to know I am really sorry, sweat pea. I swear I wouldn't stand in your way if you decided he was the right guy for you."

Actually, Steve pretty much would, but you wouldn't know about it. Happiness of his only child was the only thing that mattered to him now: what was the point of being a parent if you couldn't make your kid happy?

"It's okay, really, dad. I wouldn't change the things as they are now. When I think what could happen if you didn't see me on the street that night... uh-huh." You didn't finish the sentence, not that you needed to.

If Steve didn't find you that night desperately searching for food on the streets of New York, you'd probably be dead now.

You were born to a good family, and you spent the first 11 years of your life in a nice place, having loving parents, the roof above your head and food on the table. You were just one more happy kid among thousands of others, neither better nor worse than all of them. It all changed when your parents were killed by two robbers who had broken into your house, and soon you ended up in an orphanage - you still had nightmares about this place. You spent a year there before you escaped, choosing the streets over an orphanage. Silly you, thinking it would be better.

When Steve found you, you were 13. Dirty, always hungry, acting like a little wild animal, you were no more pitiful than any other homeless child, ignored by the majority of people, but Steve saw you. He took you with him - forcefully, of course, because you fought him like a little angry cat, frightened to the core he was going to take advantage of you like all those people pretending to help you. But he didn’t. He was the one who had truly cared.

It took him months to get you accustomed to living in a house again with someone close to you. Steve spent even more time trying to make you trust him, make you believe he was your friend, somebody you could rely on, trust, see as a parental figure. You couldn’t even name all those people he hired to help you: countless psychologists and psychiatrists; doctors and nurses of all kinds; visiting teachers and tutors. Despite liking to live alone, Steve brought so many strangers to his house it felt like living in a royal palace with tons of court attendants. All of this was for you, the only person he cared about, his little child.

When you were 15, you started calling him dad, and that was the day neither Steve nor you would ever forget: he scooped you up and kept swinging you around till your head was spinning while he laughed and shouted how much he loved you, the best daughter he could ever had. 

You never knew the extent to which Steve cared about you, following you secretly when you finally agreed to leave the house - he needed to know you were safe and sound. Of course, he was always there when he supposed someone wasn’t treating you right, and he did everything he could to keep his only child happy. Unfortunately, you were lonely until Steve found a couple of good friends for you, but it was alright. You were perfectly okay now.

“I love you too, sweet pea.” He smiled, caressing your head gently. “But you know what? Don’t worry about that guy. I actually have someone who I want you to meet, and he’s a really sweet kid.”

“Whoa, what? What kid?”

“Well, you know. Kid from work.”

“Dad, what work? What kid?” You rolled your eyes at him, giggling. “How old is he, at least?”

“A little older than you, but he’s alright. He’s been wanting to meet you for some time.” But before Steve wasn’t sure kid was the right guy for you, considering that he was still very much an Avenger and was involved in all kinds of dangerous situations. 

“Dad, what kid? Are you talking about your superhero colleagues or something?” 

“... yeah? I promise, you’ll like him. Peter’s a good kid.”

“Peter? Peter goddamn Parker?!” You exclaimed loudly, realizing he was talking about Spider-Man. “Are you joking?!”

“What did I tell you about swearing, sweetheart?” Furrowing his brows, Steve shook his head in disapproval, but laughed in the very next second, watching your guilty expression. “Alright, alright. I’m not joking. If you’d like to meet him, I’ll ask him to come tomorrow for dinner, ok?”

“Yes, please!”

As he took the pie out of the oven with you waiting at the dinner table, Steve thought about giving the kid a big lecture about what he was and wasn’t supposed to do to you, but he was more or less sure Peter knew what was right and wrong. Steve could spot that familiar glint in kid’s eyes when he was looking at your photo that Steve had been showing him proudly. 

It would turn out alright. Your father was ready to do anything it takes to make you happy.

___________________________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @iheartsebastianstan @lovelydarkdaydream @sarge-barnes-sir

[heyitsyn]

Keeping Up With Seijoh Ep. 3

a/n: uwuwuwuwu this is an au since yanno,,,, they didnt really make it to nationals :(

for more seijoh content, check this masterlist out!

GUESS WHOS BACK! BACK AGAIN!

anon:

may i request a scenario where seijoh made it to nationals and atsumu flirts with reader🥺

CAN WE BLS STOP THIS SANGWOO/ATSUMU TYPA BEAT BC I HONESTLY DONT VIBE W IT AND IT LOWKEY SCARES ME A LITTLE :o

OMLOMLOML YALL MADE IT TO NATIONALS

to be honest, it was,,, unexpected

you were sitting there, on the bench and gripping it in anticipation as seijoh and shiratorizawa were once again at a match point thanks to kyotani’s angry spike

going past 31, they were now 31-30 with seijoh in the lead

you could tell ushijima was getting antsy despite him covering it up and encouraging his team with a one-liner

your own team was buzzing with both nervousness and hope and iwaizumi was clenching and unclenching his fists in anticipation for the last toss

when the ball went up, oikawa’s eyes flashed, arms moving to set and the red-haired spiky guy was now watching which spiker he was going to give it to

however

he tossed it to no one

instead, oikawa’s hand flicked and he dumped the ball

it was like in slow motion and as shiratorizawa’s players scrambled to the floor, 

it was too late

the ball bounced on yellow polished floor before rolling away, completely unaware of what just happened and the lives it just changed

your mouth hung open, eyes trailing after the rubber ball like every single people in the gym

then it finally hit you

‘YOOOOOOOOSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

a scream from iwaizumi lit the candle of happiness and you didnt even care, running out to the court to jump on your captain, tears flowing down his face and his arms squeezing you tightly against his chest

‘AKLDFJJSHKFEOIOWIHFSKESIFOEWIHE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

it was all a jumbled noise from everyone, your team, your coaches, the fans in the stand, and even from that orange boy and his team

the boys were hugging each other and crying and sobbing but oikawa’s hold remained on you, your own tears mixing with his sweat and coating his neck

‘you did it, oikawa-san. you did it’

you whimpered and he laughed and you felt him nodding

‘we’re going to tokyo. nationals!’

he choked out 

‘OIKAWA!’

the entire gym rumbled and you basked in the joy that the entire team radiated before having to stand with the coaches so they could shake hands with shiratorizawa for a good game

the locker room was loud, even much louder than the gym, with kindaichi’s loud sobbing and mattsuhana’s loud celebratory singing and iwaizumi’s joking shouts and eventually joining in

iwaizumi held his arms out for you and you giggled, crashing straight into him

you wiped his sweat filled face and he sat down on the bench, with you standing between his legs and his large hands gripping your waist

‘it’s not a dream, right?’

he whispered, eyes closed at the gentle feeling of you caressing his face

‘no, iwa-san. nationals is ours’

you soothed and he let out another loud laugh before pulling you close and burying his face in your stomach, probably crying again but this time, out of joy

for years theyve tried

and now, they succeeded

well,,, nationals should be a good thing, right?

hmm,,, maybe the honor of going

but the other players??

oh god

it was obvious when miyagi’s representative entered through those doors and eyes immediately went to their manager

it wasnt like you were the only female manager but you were an unfamiliar team so you have never been seen before

uwu youre so pretty like bow down to the goddess

oikawa’s hold on your hand was tight and his eyes flitted to everyone who looked at them, as if signalling them to back off and you were his

‘wahh, oikawa-san! kageyama told me that the best of the best are in here! he told me to look for fukurodani and nekoma!’

seijoh’s eye twitched at the mention of your new-found friend who you’ve been texting back and forth and him secretly teaching you everything about volleyball since your own team has been too busy preparing for nationals

they watched you try and stand in your tippy toes to find the apparent red and black jerseys and the black, white and gold jerseys

hmm,,,, it seems everyone had the same colors

‘ne, y/n-chan, you trust our team, don’t you? if anything, we’re part of the best of the best! you got the best setter right here!’

oikawa grinned but you nodded distractedly

‘come on, we got to go unpack and train’

iwaizumi nudged so you had to stop looking and you followed your captain, who still held your hand

but this is a typical fanfiction ladies and gents

as you were walking towards the locker room, there was a team that wore maroon colored jackets and were walking towards you

again, this is seijoh’s very first nationals so nobody really knew of them

they were more familiar of the white and purple jackets of shiratorizawa rather than the mint green and white of seijoh

however, oikawa seemed to know them

‘ah’

he whispered out, making you look up at him but his sights were straight towards them, a hard and cold look

‘ara? fresh blood?’

you cringed at the weird analogy and the guy with the black tips, who you infered to be the captain, elbowed him

 ‘excuse us’

he nodded in greeting and you noticed the guy with the bleach hair and you did a double-take, blinking rapidly

‘oh sangwoo?’

KSLDFJKDLFJSLDK KILL ME ALREADY

watari coughed, knowing exactly what you meant and it seems nobody else did except for the sangwoo look-a-like

and he raised an eyebrow in interest

‘hm? you called?’

another guy with gray hair, who looked exactly like him, rolled his eyes and he pulled him forward to walk after their captain

but he didnt let off yet

as he passed you by, he leaned close, breath fanning your ear

‘but its miya atsumu, baby girl’

ON GOD I WANT TO COMMIT WITH HOW GROSS HE IS LIKE BLS

kyo, who was behind you, growled at him and pulled you behind himself

‘she has name, fcker’

atsumu faked a surprise and backed away with his hands up

‘alrighty, then. didnt know you had a bodyguard, girlie. but maybe,, later on, we could get to know each other. alone’

YALL THIS IS GOING TO GET BETTER LATER I PROMISE HES NOT A WEIRDO PERVERT AS HE SOUNDS

osamu was annoyed and dragged him away, leaving you with your team, who were also extremely pissed off, especially oikawa

‘heh, the best setter in the country and yet he acts like a horny dog’

oikawa seethed, a pointy smile etched on his face

‘eh? best setter?’

you wondered but not given an answer because your captain would be damned if that atsumu decided to show up again

the locker room was actually the same back home

but kindaichi was sobbing again

‘t-this room! the best of the best! i cant-too much-’

you were busy hugging him and wiping his tears to notice the third years huddling over by the corner

oikawa was sitting on the bench while iwaizumi was changing into his practice jersey and the other two were flanked beside the captain

‘of course theyve got their eye on her now’

oikawa mumbled, fingers laced together and touching his lips

‘what can you expect? y/n-chan is an extremely pretty girl’

mattsun shrugged

‘but ugh, if i see that cheese face again,, i will fight’

iwa threatened, angrily slipping his arms through the holes

‘he reeked nasty! gross!’

makki agreed

‘so we’re agreeing to keep her in our sights right?’

they agreed to oikawa’s question and were going to stick by that word

but,,,,

what can you expect from star-struck players?

maybe its because theyve worked for so long to reach this point that the fact that they’re even standing in the tokyo stadium felt like a dream

‘guys, i need to go and fill the bottles really quick’

they mumbled distracted agreements so you sighed and lugged the crate of bottles

thank god there was a fountain nearby and as you were capping the last one, a familiar voice rang from behind you

‘oh? baby girl?’

you flinched at the weird nickname and thought that if you stayed quiet, hed leave

‘chibi? hey?’

he asked and made his way to your side, you closing your eyes and looking off to the side

atsumu thought you were interesting, not like every girl who would spread their legs at him and press up to him

the fact that you even AVOIDED looking at him was so foreign to him and your dismissive attitude made him so drawn to you

‘look, im sorry if i made ya uncomfortable earlier’

he,,, apologized?

but you didnt know who he was so you didnt know how out of character it was for him to even say ‘sorry’

'miya-san, hello’

you mumbled, eyes now opened but still focused on the bottle you gripped

he cracked a smile and was he,,,, nervous?

usually, hed say something dumb or sarcastic to cut the tension, but it was like he was even,,, careful,,, with what he wanted to say next

‘how-um-you like it ‘ere?’

if osamu was to see him now, he’d think his brother was kidnapped by those aliens oikawa swore up and down were real and was replaced by some opposite dimension version of atsumu

you gulped, mustering up a small smile before turning to look at him

‘miya-san, dont take offense to this, but just know i have a very loud voice and i can lift 80 pounds. and im the first one to ever beat iwa-san in an arm-wrestling match’

you puffed your cheeks in intimidation with your eyebrows furrowed but accidentally looking more cute rather than scary

were you,,, threatening him?

atsumu paused for a second to assess the situation and really understand the underlying meaning of your words

then he laughed

a real hearty laugh that made him go for a whole minute

‘-ahahaha!! whew, chibi-chan, ya’r a rare one’

wait i dont know how to type you’re with an accent !!!!!

he let out a few more chuckles then wiped a tear that fell

you just stood there 🧍‍♀️ 

‘you think its funny, miya-san? yahaba-kun and i also have a supernatural telepathy phenomenon-’

‘chibi-chan, i swear i wont hurt ya’

he promised but you backed your face away, an eyebrow raised

‘thats what they all say. if anything, youre scaring me more so i’ll-’

‘wait’

he held out a hand out but he quickly curled it, pulling it back to his chest

‘i,,,, listen i know how basic this may sound but,,,, youre the first to ever be like this to me’

you rolled your eyes

‘you think i havent heard that before? i have oikawa-san in my team, for god’s sake! ‘youre one of a kind’ ‘youre not like other girls’ yadda yadda’ try harder, miya-san’

you tilted your head with a crooked smile 

were you,,, playing hard to get?!

atsumu’s eyes shined, wanting to finally do the chasing rather than being chased

‘well, first off, chibi-chan, i need to know your name’

he leaned forward with his hands buried deep inside his maroon jacket pocket

‘my name? what good will that do? you already call me something else dont you? a name is meant to help people call each other and youve been calling me ‘chibi’ so what’s the point of giving you my birth name?’

even with a straight face, atsumu right away knew of your teasing as your eyes were shining brightly and had a hint of amusement in them

oh my god hes in love with you

he was in disbelief of your attitude towards him so he nodded slowly and laughed again

‘what can i do to earn that name then, chibi-chan?’

ehehehe kuroo,,,,, im in danger

you crossed your arms and pouted, leaning forward

‘ehh? why do you want it so bad? do you call others ‘chibi’ too?’

your expression of suspicion was so adorable that he couldnt stop himself from lunging forward and squeezing your cheeks between his fingers

‘so cute. youre my only chibi, chibi-chan’

you hummed, swiftly wiping his touch away from you

‘doubt it. ive only met you today and you’re already acting like this. what makes you think i think youre genuinely interested in me, miya-san?’

‘fate?’

this time, you chuckled, head leaning down

and as you looked back up, your heart stopped

by the distance, there was a familiar-looking haired boy with golden eyes and an also familiar black hair and steel blue eyes

oh dear

your emotions went sour but you saw the black and white-haired male laugh and the steel eyed male shake his head in disapproval but had the hint of the smallest smile

they,, were now happy

‘fate, you say’

you mumbled distractedly

‘fate instilled magnets in us so i just cant help but be drawn to ya’

atsumu grinned but you averted your eyes to look at him, a soft and genuinely happy look

‘would those magnets be strong enough to draw us together, even if we were in another life? if we were fated, would we meet again?’

you looked up at him, your eyes still glistening but this time, with the slightest bit of hope

atsumu sent you a confused glance but he still shrugged

‘i guess so, if i’m so drawn to you right now. maybe in our past life we were,,, together?’

he tested out, expecting you to roll your eyes and walk away but you laughed

‘well, i just witnessed it happening so maybe its possible?’

you wondered out loud

atsumu blinked again, getting more and more interested in you

‘chibi-chan?’

he asked you and you jumped slightly to look at him with a smile

‘say, miya-san, what if i told you that i remember my past life? and what would you say if i told you that you were in it?’

you grinned but atsumu scrunched his face together before smiling

‘hmm, i dont know what youre sayin but it proves my point!’

he exclaimed but you cocked an eyebrow, a sad smile resting on your lips

‘now what would you say if i told you that you were my nurse?’

a/n: omg i actually hate how this turned out like bls blast me on this

a/n pt 2: during my break, i actually re-read ‘in another life’ and i wrote this up after i finished it again and can i just say? I WILL NEVER SHUT UP ABOUT THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CREDITS TO LITTLELUXRAY ON AO3

a/n pt 3: hewwo im back again and since no one replied with a link, i can,,, guess??,,, that the book is gone??? or taken down?? but anyways, i just really wanted to post something and tbh, stuff like this cant be helped but i really do hope that it’s gone and if its not, dkasjdfkslf again send me the link

[gabywantsafriend]

Anything For You: Ferris Bueller x Reader

(Kinda my gif??? Idk I found it online but I originally posted it on here)

Requested by anonymous:  ferris bueller realizing he loves the reader maybe?

I’m so sorry it took such a long time to post another imagine! I hope you guys enjoy it :’)

Warning: Swearing

“Adams?” “Here.”

“Adamley?” “Here!”

“Adamowski?” A rather lazy hand was raised, indicating the student’s presence. 

“Adamson?” “Here.”

“Adler?” The response was delayed by a couple of seconds. “Here.”

“Anderson?” Another delayed response. “Anderson?” “Here!” 

“Bueller?” 

Nothing. You quickly scanned the room, he wasn’t there. You hadn’t even noticed that he didn’t walk in that morning. You looked at Cameron and he shrugged. Apparently he didn’t know what Ferris was up to or where he was. “Bueller?” Crickets. “Bueller?” Dead silence. “Bueller?” The teacher’s monotonous voice began to sound like a broken record player. 

You cleared your throat as you tried impersonating the missing troublemaker, letting out a low “Here.” The class snickered, causing your teacher to silence everyone. Turning to you, he huffed. 

“L/n, I know you and Bueller are best friends but you really don’t have to cover for him in his absence. You’ll get your turn in the roll call later, don’t get too excited,” He went on with checking the attendance. You stubbornly sank into your seat, eyeing the vacant one next to you where Ferris was usually sat. What kind of trouble do you have in mind this time?

--------

Recess rolled in and you were standing at the phone booth just outside of your school. You dialed Ferris’ home number and waited for him to pick up. He was probably out on another one of his spontaneous adventures.

“Hello?” His voice was nasally,  he was always good at playing sick. 

“Oh, cut the crap. Where the hell are you, idiot? This is your tenth absence this semester, you said you didn’t wanna miss school after last time! No wonder your grades are shit! What are you up to now?” You scolded. Skipping class to hang out and be teenagers was fun the first few times. However as it became a habit of Ferris, you wished he could take school more seriously.

“Y/n, calm down. First of all, I could easily hack into the school’s computer system and change my grades,” He coughed. “Second, I’m not kidding this time. I’m actually sick.” You scoffed, muttering a small “yeah right.” 

Of course, you found it hard to believe. You’ve known Ferris Bueller since you were ten. And you knew that it took a lot for him to be ill. 

“Why would I ever lie to you? I’m serious,” he deadpanned. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Alright, I’ll bring today’s assignments for you and I’ll visit you as soon as class ends.” You could practically hear him smile through the phone as he spoke. “Thanks, Y/n. You’re the best.” You bid goodbye as he did the same, both of you putting down the phone.

Well, what do you know. For the first time in a long time, Ferris Bueller was sick.

--------

You dropped your bike right in front of the Buellers residence and sprinted to the back door. You lifted the rug and took the spare key that Katie Bueller left in case of emergencies or whenever you wanted to visit. You were always welcome. Unlocking the door, you bolted up the steps and stopped in front of the door to your best friend’s room..

“Ferris, you better not be naked. I’m coming in.” 

“Hi, Y/n.” The sight was beyond pitiful: The floor was littered with used tissues. Bottles of medicine decorated his dresser. And on the bed was a very pale boy, sniffling and shivering still even under the many layers of blankets he was covered in. Oh, Ferris.

“You look like shit.” He let out a weak chuckle. “It’s nice seeing you too,” he quipped. You rolled your eyes at his untimely use of sarcasm and pressed the back of your hand to his forehead.

“Jesus, you’re practically steaming,” You commented, getting up to fetch him an ice pack to hopefully lower his temperature. “I’m flattered, Y/n. I really am. But can you keep it in your pants until after I get well?” You were used to his foul-mouthed jokes by now. “Very funny, loser. Now put this on your forehead,” You handed him the cold material and he obeyed, hissing as it touched his skin. 

“Oh, right! I got the homework for you,” you told him, getting your bag and pulling out his books and assessment sheets and laying them on his desk. “I also wrote an extra copy of the notes you missed,” You handed him the pages that you’ve ripped from your notebook where the duplicates were. His eyes, teary from his cold, widened.

“Wha-? But I just asked for you to get today’s assignments! You didn’t have to go an extra mile with taking my notes for me!” He took the papers gratefully, flipping through them. “I’m convinced you’re my guardian angel or some shit! Thank you so much!”

“Anything for you.” 

It was true. You’d gladly and endlessly do anything for him.

You’ve liked Ferris since you first covered for him in fifth grade. 

Young Ferris thought it’d be a good idea to chuck a bouncy ball at Mrs. Ritland, the math teacher you had all despised. Believe it or not, he was an even bigger idiot back when you were ten. She was writing on the chalkboard, back turned to you; the perfect time to strike. The small toy hit the poor lady’s nape. The classroom was suddenly filled with gasps and the sound of laughter. She exclaimed in pain, rage-filled eyes darting from student to student. Before she could even question which delinquent threw the damned thing, you stood up and raised your hand. 

“I did it, Mrs. Ritland!”

Ferris was quick to defend you, chucking another bouncy ball at the woman. “If you even think of punishing her, you’ll have to go through me!”

You were both given a month’s detention and have been inseparable ever since. 

“I’m dying,” He croaked, snapping you out of your daydream.

“Oh, please. You’re not dying. You just can’t think of anything good to do!” You quoted him. “Didn’t you say that yourself?” 

He groaned, “Yes, I did say that myself. But now isn’t the time. I’m really not feeling well, Y/n.”

“Nonsense! It helped Cameron last time, he felt great afterwards.” You got off the bed, trying to pull him up with you. Instead, he snuggled deeper into the covers. “Aww, come on! Get up on your feet, mister! What do you feel like doing today? The weather’s lovely! Maybe we can go swimming? Or perhaps you’d like to go to the arcade? Ooh, street food sounds good! Just tell me where you wanna go, and I’ll take you there!” You coaxed excitedly.

“As much as I love our adventures, I was thinking maybe we could just stay here? You know, we could talk for a while and we can take a nap together just like when we were kids. And when I’m feeling better, we could watch a movie,” Ferris spoke softly, sniffling right after. You hummed, considering his offer.

“You can stay here and rest. I can get us some corn dogs from the stand nearby, I’ll be quick I promi-”

“No, no, you missed my point,” he shook his head, grinning at your stubbornness. “I meant can you stay? We don’t have to go anywhere. I enjoy your company, it’s more than enough,” He pulled the blankets to his nose, hiding his bashful smile as well as his growing blush. You were sure you would have melted then and there.

“Sure thing. Ferris.” You adored this boy.

It had been an hour since you’d agreed to stay in with Ferris and you were seated at his desk, tutoring him about trigonometric functions, a lesson he missed that day. He was reading the notes on the topic, following along with what you were saying. “Okay, I found this to be quite easy. So, we start off with the basics: sine, cosine, and tangent-”

At least, that’s what it looked like.

At first glance, it seemed as though he was actually studying. But what you didn’t know was that he had been admiring your handwriting and your little doodles on the blank spaces of the paper. 

See, Ferris liked you. He’s liked you since forever ago. He remembered the moment so vividly, as if it only happened yesterday. 

“I did it, Mrs. Ritland!”

He looked at you and thought, “Wow, that is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” Obviously, he couldn’t let a pretty girl such as you take the blame for what a stupid boy such as him had done. It just wasn’t fair to you. So he immediately admitted that it was his fault, as he should.

He felt guilty that you had to get wrapped up in this mess and had to suffer the consequences. To make up for it, every time you had detention, he would take you to secret hideouts around the school. That two months of running around school trying not to get caught marked your first of soon-to-be-many adventures. 

And now here you were, almost eight years later, helping him solve for x. His eyes softened at how into it you were while teaching him. You were even more beautiful than when you were a kid, just when his younger self thought you couldn’t get any more stunning. 

He thought about how you were kind enough to fill him in on everything he’d missed; how as soon as class was dismissed, you biked as quickly as you could just to take care of him. You could have easily ditched him to go out and get those corn dogs you’ve been craving; or you could have easily gone out for a walk since, according to you, “the weather’s lovely.” 

But you didn’t. 

You stayed. 

The mere thought of that, along with everything about you, caused his heart to pound out of his chest. 

I think I’m in love with her. Fuck that. I am in love with her.

“...And that explains why sine 90° is equivalent to 1. What the-? Ferris Bueller, are you even listening?” You waved a hand in front of his face, still not responding. He looked as if his mind was somewhere completely different. “Hello? Earth to Ferris?” He blinked a few times, shaking his head. He whispered something you didn’t quite catch. “What?” He whispered again. “I can’t hear you, pal. Speak up.” 

“I love you. There, I said it.” You were at a loss for words as your eyes met. Both of you progressively got redder by the second.

“What in the right mind made you say that?” Confusion was evident in your voice, as well as nervousness. 

“I’ve loved you for a while now and when you dropped everything to visit me today, I realized how deep I’ve fallen,” Ferris bashfully stated. He could be cheesy at times but you thought it was cute.

“Woah, you are such a fucking sap,” You both burst into laughter, him scoffing and clutching his chest in mock offense. “I love you too, you dingus.”

His heart fluttered as you said it. The mix of his sickness and your confession made him lightheaded. You plopped down on his bed, hugging him tightly. “Wait, what are you doing? You’re too close, I’m gonna get you sick!” He asked as you kissed his nose. 

You got under the covers with him, rolling your eyes, “You think I still care? I fucking love you for Christ’s sake!” You made him laugh at that. “How about that nap you suggested earlier, hmm?”

He closed his eyes, the biggest grin still plastered on his face. “She loves me,” being the last thought in his head before contently falling asleep.

[starbright-cobweb]

NSFW transsexual depression

One side-effect of being on t is that I've finally felt properly at peace with being pan - but it's in quite a hazy way. Not pan as in, "I love to be a person who desires many different people" but weirder than that; the image of an orgy or fantasy transsexualism or a bisexual-gaze on a heterosexual encounter are closer to the mark, but that's still a bit too specific for something so diffuse; a desire that is pansexual because it is *all things all at once* rather than a sequence of variations. And it seems to be far less about "these are all the people I could be attracted to" than "these are all the genders I might temporarily inhabit", something about me that is unfixed, a homeless spirit in search of a body.

Anyway, I have gone into an immense depression because my chest has changed shape - one would assume, for the better; except I don't feel good, I feel like I've left one nice gender without clearly arriving at a different one. It's *weird* palming off your desire for women onto temporarily being a woman-stand-in during your intimate encounters, but it turns out losing that dissociative-autoerotic experience is strange and sad, when you're used to it, and especially when one doesn't feel a new connection it its place. Presumably, this is what cis mono folk feel all the time

(although apparently, they have done the study to find out that yes, cis women also meet the clinical criteria for autogynephilia {the historic transmisogynist medical diagnosis that theorised trans women were merely fetishists who liked to be attracted to their own body as feminine.} Turns out, most women like feeling attractive in their own body as a component of their sexual life. One wonders if this is quite so true of men, given the way that the male gaze dominates our society, and most women are raised among an ambient noise of sexualised women everywhere in advertising and popular culture. It's probably also true of men! There's nothing unusual about liking to feel desireable. Frankly, I think of anyone I've ever heard talk about it, I think maybe *I* meet the criteria for autogynephilia - in the sense that the original transphobic doctors meant it - that you can sort of enjoy being attracted to women through the medium of your own body, without actually wanting to be one or live as one in your inner mind and soul)

Someone made a throwaway post about the Greek gods existing on a spectrum of "no gender" to "lots of gender", which I thought was funny and wise, and I think a lot about the varying fates of "nonbinary" vs "genderqueer", the former a sort of hazy grey with a tint of watercolour violet to it, the latter a brassy gold and a jewel-tone rainbow. It's more specific than just depression at being trans, more like depression at no longer being anything; and I suppose fears of becoming undesireable, that starts with my own assessment of what I'm personally into. I always presumed that "pan for every gender but trans men" was a kind of internalised Something, but maybe I'm just into an overabundance of gendered signifiers rather than gender-minimalism.

Partly I think I'm just crap at being queer, like we're supposed to have Radically Fixed an eros that doesn't follow scripts or expectations, doesn't require certain kinds of bodies or to be centered around certain kinds of acts; and so when you don't fit, it shouldn't be disabling, it's a roundabout route to empowerment - how beautiful our experiments are. Rather than looking at where I am now and thinking: well, I have no idea what to do with any of this. I feel like the butt of the unkindness of jokes about how the hets just can't hack (mouths/hands/toys/etc) - which were never good jokes, and always a kind of defensively smug - unkind to the ways that what is important, is important.

I don't feel attractive in the male way; and there's a very real sense in which, "attractive in the trans-butch genderqueer cusp way" is my worst nightmare, something that paradoxically feels worse and further away than drifting along in non-denominational womanhood. & that's a worry that's limited me a Lot; like, playing around with suits at the weekend, I'm definitely able to pull myself together in a way that's desireable to someone - but not in ways that I enjoy. But then I think, maybe some time spent hooking up with people specifically thirsty for where I am in this moment might be good for me - like eating an apple or being good for the dentist.

It's strange, given the popular conception of going on T, but increasingly certain over the past few weeks that I've somehow become more asexual; which doesn't feel like a relief or something resolving, as the bi stuff does, more like - oh heck, more uncertainty, more ways to feel weird in my body and relationships. And I feel like I've lost touch with the small handful of things I knew I liked (without learning new ones), and that doesn't feel like an exciting moment of possibility, more like more opportunities to get passively assaulted a lot; if I can't pilot my own body, there's no hope in a stranger figuring it out.

Anyway, last night as I was laying awake in the dark - it came to me clear as a voice from God: I'd rather be dead than queer. oh crikey, how are we in 2022 and yet somehow still there. Love to feel so intimately connected to the long lineage of ancestors that way, to feel their thoughts and know their inmost secrets. This week has been strange; I experimented with my large collection of depression lingerie for comfort, to check that nope - also not good. It feels like I've exchanged a sense of active discomfort in my body for sudden absence and alienation. What would it feel like to stop existing? A bit like this, I suppose.

And I miss my ex; that is, I miss being in a situation where the world seems to be turning aright, I miss having a sense of something that is very certain and deeply-felt, instead of everything seeming a bit false and like I'm sort of going through the motions without a clear compass or star. I can see where I fit into that world; and I don't know how to find that with another person, or independently of a person. An endless sense of wrongness; a half of something. I'd like to sit down with this part of me and talk over a cup of tea, and feel myself warmed.

[sneezefiction]

falling for you

Tsukishima Kei x reader - Scenario

a/n: ok so, trying to portray fluff with Tsukki was a challenge characteristically, but i’ll be damned if i don’t try. lemme know who i should try next~ i’m open for requests :)

warnings: slight cursing, mentions blood/wounds (nothing angsty)

wc: 1680

---

Tsukishima never intended to get to know you.

He had actually been avoiding you for quite some time.

You see, you got under his skin in the most irritating ways.

It wasn’t like how he loathed Hinata or Kageyama. Or his annoyance with incredibly slow grocery clerks. It wasn’t even similar to the exhaustive irritations he experienced toward the end of a full volleyball match.

Yes, these things are problematic, but Tsukishima can handle almost any obstacle.

You see, his cold, calculated presence soaks in every detail of life for the purpose of learning how to dismantle an issue. He resassesses, maneuver, and overcomes. There’s a reason the boy is so good at blocking. 

However of all the problems he could have... this one is the worst.

Previously, he had everything he possibly could, under his control.

But when you came along? Oh, he had absolutely no experience with handling this level of meddling.

Because it isn’t even your fault.

You just somehow manage to interrupt all of his patterns and sneak your way into a majority of his thoughts. 

Every. Single. Day.

So it isn’t a surprise that Tsukki, a master of mental strength and strategy, would be enraged by his inability to pin down his feelings for you.

For example, last week, you accidentally bumped into his arm, stumbling a bit. Tsukki grabbed your arm before you could hit the floor, but as his hand meets your skin he feels as though he’s taken a fall of his own.

His heart fluttered.

And when you immediately turned to him, apologizing and thanking him sweetly and sincerely, his whole mind went numb.

You make him feel confused. Uncertain. And… real.

But that doesn’t mean he likes those feelings. No, he doesn’t, Tsukishima tries to convince himself.

So why is it you that he pictures your figure whenever he closes his eyes? Or that your laugh echos through his head after someone tells you a cheesy joke from across the classroom? Or how whenever you call his name, he can’t help but temper his irate disposition?

You’ve got him spinning in circles and it’s driving him wild.

Because Tsukishima doesn’t want to need anyone. Not a friend. Not A lover. And he definitely isn’t in the market for another disappointment.

However, as much as he tries to avoid you, your touch, your smile, he can’t seem to stop running into you. He can’t bury his feelings for you, as much as he wishes he could.

Even though he’s tried to find reasons to hate, laugh at, or ridicule you, he simply can’t. Because the reason you are so bothersome and so obnoxious has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with his inability to cope with how relentlessly wonderful you are in his eyes.

---

Your walk home conveniently crosses with Tsukki’s own path and every so often he’s out of volleyball practice just in time to run into you. An increasing occurrence over the past couple of months.

Tsukishima may not realize or want to admit it, but he treasures the rare moments where he’ll walk in sync with you. His stride subconsciously copies yours, slowing him down significantly, and somehow it’s okay.

You, harboring your own feelings toward the blonde, always try to make small talk or ramble about your day, doing your best to find some type of common ground with the tall boy next to you. 

He finds himself responding to you again.

He’s tried for so long to not get involved, but over the past few days, he can’t help but let his thoughts flow. You make him uncomfortably comfortable, if that’s at all possible.

His snarky comments are (currently) nonexistent. His abrasive nature, moderated.

I mean, of course he’s dripping with sarcasm, but Tsukki wouldn’t change that part of himself for anyone.

Today something seemed to have clicked between you two, likely due to Tsukishima briefly relinquishing his stubbornness and fear of connection. It’s infrequent, but with your consistency, he’s finding himself far more capable of seeing outside of his past.

As the conversation picks up speed, so do your feet. The pebbled path you walk doesn’t help you keep your footing, so you find yourself unsteady and sliding every once in a while. 

Suddenly, your feet are out from under you, and similarly to the week before, you plummet to the earth. 

You��re not quite as fortunate this time, because as quickly as Tsukki swoops down to catch you, your hands and knees are already covered in dirt, sand, and bits of rock. Scraped and bleeding, you do your best to calm yourself down and assess the situation… so you turn to Tsukki.

Poor boy looks so awkward, unsure of what to say, but still attempting to keep his cool demeanor.

“Are you okay?” He asks, crouching down to meet your eyes. As masked as it is, you see a flicker of concern in his expression.

He takes your hand in his, trying not to let his feelings intervene with your pain, and studies the tears in your skin.

“I- I’m okay,” You stammer, partially from the pain, but mostly from his gentle touch.

“Okay… let me see if I have anything that’ll help.” Turning toward his bag.

It aches and the grimace on your face shows just how nasty the gash on your knee really is. 

He gently lets your hand down, taking out tissues from his backpack and uses one to wipe off your knee while you use another to apply pressure to your hands. 

The air is very still, almost as though it chose to pause for this moment. 

“Hm, the weather actually is nicer down here for you short kids. I’m envious.” Tsukki jokes, breaking the tense silence.

“Haha, very funny. Maybe if you ever fall down, I’ll actually be able to catch you, since I’m already down here.” You retort playfully.

“Okay captain sassy, whatever you say.” He shoots back, “Now how ‘bout we see if you can actually stand up.”

He offers you his hand once again, the feeling making your heart race and his face go blank.

You attempt to straighten out your legs entirely, moving a foot forward, but find yourself in extreme discomfort.

Tsukki notices and without skipping a beat, suggests,

“Well, I can… y’know, carry you?” He turns his head, the lightest dusting of pink touching his cheeks.

You, still using his hand for support, look down, your face becoming red.

“I think that may be the, uhm, best option. It hurts a lot.” 

He silently stoops down, placing his arms under your knees and behind your back, making sure to not agitate the wound any further.

The walk continues in a nervous, but intimately close manner. Neither of your eyes knowing what to focus on.

So you decide to fixate on him for a moment, 

“I’m sorry about all this… I should’ve watched my step.” You express, “But… I’ve really enjoyed our walk together.” You crack a warm smile.

Tsukki returns your gaze, pulse jumping slightly, his honey-brown hued irises capturing your soft (e/c) eyes,

“Yeah, dumbass. You should’ve at least remembered how big of a clutz you are.” He smirks.

“But I guess this was nice… not so much the falling part…” He takes a moment to consider his next few words, breathing a little deeper.

“But these walks, speaking with you…” He averts his gaze,

“Just you, actually, y/n.” If your blush wasn’t already apparent, it was clear now.

He’s approaching your house as he finishes his sentence, but it feels as you’re both walking through time and space. A small galaxy opening up just for the two of you.

Reality stops in moments like these, Tsukki notes.

And it doesn’t feel… bad.

It feels right. Nice, even.

Before making it up to your front door, you reach your soft hand toward Tsukishima’s forcibly stoic face.

While outwardly, he’s kept his composure, his insides are producing so many SOS signals, it’s not even funny.

You lean forward, hand resting on his jaw, and place a short kiss to his cheek.

Leaning back, you catch a look of adoration in his eyes. Something he has no idea he’s physically showing right now.

He takes this chance to capture your soft lips in a kiss.

He hasn’t really done this before, but Tsukki gets how a kiss should work.

What didn’t cross his methodical, logic-based brain was just how good it would feel. Like a cloud, back-lit by golden sunlight, or a perfect chord progression to the most touching ballad.

It’s imperfect, but it’s electric.

Your lips melded with his so well, every second melting away his icier emotions. It began to introduce him to a new reason for life and a new meaning to love.

He eventually sets you down in front of your door.

But he has your hand lightly held in his, careful not to disturb the scrapes.

A huge grin spreads through your face, eyes lit up.

And he now knows why he can’t stop thinking about you. You really are a necessary part of his life. Worthy of breaking routines. Special enough to stop his flow and grumpily facetime you. Important enough to reshape himself to account for your existence.

With this final realization, Tsukki goes to his next line of action.

“So, are you free Friday?” He inquires.

“Actually, yeah! Can we go see that new dinosaur movie? I’m kind of obsessed with it.”

“Well, damn. This is gonna be even better than I expected.” He smirks, leaving you confused, but smiling at his response.

No, he wasn’t going to tell you about his discoveries from that day.

At least not in great detail.

But, thanks to this… to you, Tsukishima is learning to open himself up again. To take chances on himself and others. A process that is never too early to begin.

All it took was helping you back onto your feet to get you into his arms.

Something that both literally and relationally makes a whole lot of sense for some reason, Tsukki concludes.

[refriedweeb]

CAUGHT ME BY SURPRISE JUST LIKE THE FIRST TIME (SHINSOU + READER DAYS AT UA)

A/N: don’t mind me, just self-inserting myself into UA’s days as a student bc I love Shinsou and Hawks and I love the quirk I’ve given to myself in the UA universe and honestly I’m just a simp. (I might make this a part of a series just like I am for the Hawks one bc I have problems)

Prompt: Y/N is a transfer student to 1-A’s Hero Course from an American school and known for the power behind her quirk. Shinsou is yet again the subject of some annoying trolls at school. What happens when the two cross paths?

Word Count: 1,683

He was beyond used to the subjected brutality of teenagers since he had transferred into UA’s General Studies course. All of his life, Shinsou had been told that he couldn’t be a hero because of his quirk. That he was a danger and had the makings of being a villain rather than a hero. The one thing he was so determined to be, according to his peers, was one thing he could never be. It was easy for the lot of them to say when they had much more heroic quirks that could make their climb to heroism much easier than his. But after his fight with Izuku Midoriya at the sport’s event, Shinsou was more determined than ever to make sure he became a hero.

The general negative attitude towards he and his quirk had lessened since then, but hadn’t ceased to exist. There were still a couple of other students who always thought it was an opportune time to ask him how the League of Villains were, if he’d picked his villain name, and so on. None of this was new to him, and Shinsou had basically come to blur it out of his mind. At one point it had bothered him, had really almost made the indigo haired boy lean into the idea of being a villain. After all, if they wanted him to be one so bad, then who was he to deny them that privilege? It’d been his fight with Izuku that had shifted some of Shinsou’s thinking, reigniting a passion to get into the hero course because it was one he deserved to be in. Because he deserved to be a hero. Wanted desperately to be a hero. 

Shinsou craned his neck from side to side and rolled sunken eyes. “Yeah man, maybe you’re the one who is telling the League where class 1-A is going to be all the time.” One of the boys who had made it his mission to make Shinsou’s life miserable for the day spoke. He was from the business course, the black haired kid egging him on from the support course. “You’re just as responsible for All Might’s retirement as Bakugou is!” Came the snickering. 

His upper lip curled, his attention redirected. “How long did it take you to come up with that one? A couple hours?” How easy it would be to just use his quirk right then and there. Brainwash the assholes who tried to make him the butt of their miserable attempts at insults and jokes. But that was what they wanted. It was what they expected of him because they already had it made up in their minds what type of person he was. Shinsou had been about to continue, but it was the black haired student who shoved his friend.

“Dude, look, there she is!”

“Shit,” the other student exclaimed, taking a step back from Shinsou. 

Curious, his eyes followed to where the students were looking. And there you were. Your legs looked like they ran on for miles in the UA uniform, though you weren't any taller or shorter than most of the other girls in the school. It was obvious to anyone that you were new at the school, your uniform still too nicely pressed and wrinkle-free to have been well worn like the rest of theirs were. Shinsou had never seen you before, it was a face and definitely a body he would have remembered. Were you an older student? Had the reason he’d never seen you before been the simplest fact that he hadn’t ever paid attention or felt the need to? Shinsou wracked his brain for where he had seen you before, if at all. But no. He didn’t know you. Yet, the mysterious pull of your aura was something that had drawn in him almost immediately. It wasn’t that your aura was dark, or spoke of evil. It spoke of mystery and misunderstanding, a set of cased emotions he understood very well. Indigo eyes remained fixated on you as you came closer, and he tried to get his heart under control when you looked his way.

Locked eyes with him. Most of the time people who did that with him looked away immediately after. But not you. You...kept your eyes on him until you were standing in front of the trio of boys. Only then you looked around, from the person you assumed was Shinsou Hitoshi, to the other boys you didn’t know. Didn’t care to get to know because their reputations hadn’t proceeded them for any various reasons. “Hi,” you said, head tipped to the side. You introduced yourself, shared your name with them though you were really only speaking to Shinsou. “Am I...interrupting something? I’m supposed to be in the 1-A Hero course but I can’t seem to find the classroom.”

“You? In the hero course? We know...” the black haired kid started out, and your eyebrows pulled together as he fumbled his words. “We know what your quirk is! No wonder you’re looking for him!”

Quirk? Shinsou stood up a little straight, his interest caught (and not because he wanted to feel like he was much taller than you and could defend you if you needed, though he wasn’t sure that was the case here) as you rolled your eyes. Not everyone got their quirk villainized right off the bat. That was a trophy that only Shinsou had held for some time. 

“Then, if you know how bad my quirk is,” you continued, arms crossed, hip jutted out, seething attitude. “Wouldn’t it be smart to not catch lip with me?”

Shinsou thought he was in love. 

The other two boys grimaced, looked you up and down with disdain. “Not our business to help the freaks. Ask the only other freak here in the school to help you get around.” They looked at Shinsou, their grimaces only growing. You narrowed your eyes at them. Shinsou stared at you. 

With one last hateful look, the two boys split and left you and Shinsou alone. He didn’t know how words worked anymore. There wasn’t a thought in Shinsou’s head that made coherent sense and suddenly he felt very out of his league. You, however, played it as cool as a cucumber. Confident and seemingly dangerous? The sea of mystery surrounded you still as you turned back to look at him. From the get go you thought he had the prettiest lilac eyes you had ever seen. But that wasn’t the reason Aizawa Sensei had told you to keep an eye out for Shinsou Hitoshi, no. Easy on the eyes was your own assessment. Aizawa Sensei had told you about Shinsou for the reason that you shared a similar quirk. That people looked down on you for something you hadn’t even been able to pick. And while you could give off that air of confidence and nonchalance, it was terrifying to be in a new school, in a new country, where your reputation did proceed you and people had already started rumors about what type of person they thought you were. From what Aizawa had told you...Shinsou was someone that you could lean into for support like that.

Rough around the edges, not someone who was the easiest to talk to...in Aizawa’s own words...but someone who would understand what you’d been through. And while you wanted to play it cool, you were terrified of being in a place so foreign where you were out of your depth with people who had known each other for so long already.

You turned your gaze to Shinsou, who stared at you still. “Freaks, huh?” You swallowed back any sound of uncertainty or doubt.

“Freaks.” Shinsou said, crooked smile softening his hard glare. “Let me guess, Aizawa sent you to come find me to give you a grand old tour.” His voice was dry, grating. 

“Something like that. More along the lines of make sure Hitoshi doesn’t get bullied by people and just take it.” You lifted a brow, hoping he’d take the joke you’d just made as that: a joke. 

His eyes narrowed, and you were sure you’d misstepped in assuming he’d think it was funny. You braced yourself from snarky comment, but he only looked you up and down, his tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth like he was deep in thought. And to be honest, he was. Here you’d come with a trumpet horn of an announcement by the two punks who’d scampered off. Apparently, Aizawa thought he had something to gain by knowing you and vice versa. You weren’t afraid of him, or of speaking to him at that matter, and it was a sense of relief Shinsou didn’t know he’d gone his entire school career without. It only made him more curious about what quirk you were hiding, but he figured that wasn’t exactly introductory protocol. He let out a low breath through his nostrils, tipping a head of thick indigo hair towards the classrooms. 

What Shinsou wouldn’t admit was that you’d had him enraptured so easily. Maybe your quirk was just like his, only better. He felt brainwashed, enthralled by the mystery that was you and all he didn’t know about you. When Aizawa would ask him about it later, he’d deny any interest in you outside of fleeting curiosity. It’d be an answer that would earn him a sidelong glance from his mentor, but it’d be one that he’d insist was true. So he looked you up and down once more, did his best to hide his blush. “Well then, freak, come on.” The books he had in his hands rested against his hip, and you had to admit he looked rather...handsome. If handsome was something a teenager could think about another teenager without being too vulgar. “Class 1-A is going to have a field day with you. Get ready, all they want to do is make friends.”

The way you crinkled your nose, and the way he couldn’t help but do the same told him all he needed to know about the relationship that was bound to bloom between you. 

[hurricanery]

all to myself

A/N: This is a quick thing I wrote completely as a result of re-watching season 15 Amelink moments. Kinda a throwback. The next story I post will either be some domestic amelink/scout stuff orrrr a multi-chapter AU featuring amelink as interns together w/ some other original characters. Let me know what you wanna read next! Feedback is always appreciated!

_______

Floating on a high, and I feel ya

Got an ache inside, and I need ya

Ooh, I desperately wanna be lost with you

'Til all of our energy crosses

_______

They slept together. Once. Two weeks ago. Rather impulsively at a work conference.

And Amelia knows it was more than just an impulsive move, or a soon-to-be repressed mistake. God, she doesn’t see it as a mistake.

She’s been thinking about it basically 24/7 since she returned back to Seattle. She doesn’t remember finally being able to fall asleep that night, but she does remember waking up the next morning with a start.

Because something was different. Good different.

She had sat up in the hotel bed, instantly reaching for her own lips, running her fingertips over them, as if she’d actually feel proof of what happened.

And then she had registered that distinct taste on her lips and vaguely in the back of her throat. Kind of like the burning sensation of a kiss you’ll never not think of. It was a bold presence in her morning. And it was so refreshing.

Her heart had clenched as she let the hazy memories resurface.  

If asked whether she anticipated sleeping with Atticus Lincoln on that night, she would’ve burst out into stunned laughter. Because, no. Of course not. Right?

She’d just ended a long-term relationship. She’d been in a bit of a weird place lately. Not totally herself. And probably not ready. So, this definitely wasn’t going to become anything serious.

But somehow, something had changed that night. And in that moment, after a brief argument that had surprisingly ended in a dinner invite, looking into a pair of pleading blue eyes that she wished didn’t mirror her own, she knew what her next move was.

And it was the way he had gazed back at her, that finally pushed her over the edge. Deciding dinner wasn’t truly what she wanted in that moment, she murmured a quick ‘no’ before stepping forward and capturing his soft lips in her own.

She remembers the way he had instantly kissed her back, and the way his breath felt against her own. Her hands went to the buttons on his shirt, and the noise that she had made in the back of her throat, a mix between a whine and a full-fledged moan. As if to say, finally.

She likes to think it was Link who took control then, slipping his tongue into her mouth and pulling his own shirt the rest of the way off. Pushing her toward the bed and lifting her onto it. Pushing down a wall she’d had up for some time now. Making her feel.

Alternative pain relief.

Finally. Feeling.

_______

Two weeks later and Amelia’s still feeling. A lot.

But her mind is clouded mostly with confusion. Because she hasn’t heard anything from Link since that night. And she hopes to god that he doesn’t regret it. But she’d totally understand if he did. She’s the one in a weird place. The one who needs alternative pain relief.

Part of her feels guilty. The inexplicable doubt weighs on her, the fact that she’s basically using him. Just because she needs it, doesn’t mean he does, too. And so Amelia suppresses any urge she has to bring it up; suppresses any urge she has to just jump his bones right then and there, when the two of them are hopping on a private plane to New York for a surgery. Basically forced into each other’s company.

She’ll act cool, calm, collected….all of it.

She’ll disregard the fact that she’s been ‘in a weird place these days,’ because she’s just grateful that she’s feeling, again.

_______

Amelia steps onto the small plane and all of her anxieties about seeing Link again wash away as soon as she locks eyes with him.

He turns to her, from where he has already taken his seat, and awkwardly kind of shrugs, with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Hey, stranger,” she mumbles, in a mock-serious tone, before she realizes she can’t keep up the facade. And she starts laughing. “Long time, no see.”

Link laughs in agreement, and it looks like his shoulders relax a little. Amelia takes her seat across from him, smirking the whole time.

_______

It happens again.

Amelia doesn’t mean for it to happen again, but it does.

And now she’s slipping out of Link’s bed and pulling on his shirt in one swift movement. Her ‘no sleepovers’ policy at the forefront of her mind as she makes her way to the door between their adjoining hotel rooms.

“Wait, how about we order pizza?”

Amelia glances at Link incredulously. “We have a very important surgery early tomorrow. Sleep time.”

“Or room service?” He continues, persistent. “Room service in bed and then we sleep?”

“No,” Amelia laughs. “No sleepovers, remember?”

Link pouts at her, collapsing back against the bed dramatically. “Let’s forget the rules for a night. I’m hungry.”

“Nope!” Amelia states matter-of-factly. “No complications. We both agreed. My life is already complicated enough.” She laughs.

Link sighs again dramatically, accepting defeat.

“Goodnight, Link.” She smirks at him as he lays back against the bed. “See you tomorrow.”

There’s brief silence as she turns around in her doorway, beginning to push the door shut.

“Goodnight, Amelia.”

_______

The following evening, after a successful surgery, Amelia and Link return to their hotel. As they enter the lobby, the receptionist at the front desk waves in their direction. Amelia simply waves back before she realizes that the receptionist is trying to wave her over.

“I’ll go see what’s up. Hold the elevator for me.” Amelia mumbles.

Link presses the button to call the elevator down and watches from across the lobby as Amelia chats briefly with the staff. A minute later, Amelia returns with a weird look on her face.

“What was that about?” Link asks.

“There’s a problem with the rooms,” she explains. She looks riddled with uncertainty. “Well, with my room.”

“Huh?”

“Apparently my hotel room is reserved for another guest starting early tomorrow. They offered to upgrade me starting tonight.”

Link frowns.

“I didn’t want to have to move all my luggage to another floor so….” She pauses briefly as they step onto the elevator. The next sentence comes out in a nervous mumble. “I said we only needed one room.”

Link slowly breaks out into a smile. “We can work with that,” He says calmly. “Good idea to not have to move your stuff.”

The elevator door opens to their floor and Amelia just stands there for a second, watching Link exit.

She swears she can hear him laughing at her sudden awkwardness as he makes his way down the hallway.

Once Amelia gets all of her luggage settled into Link’s room, she returns to the lobby briefly to return the key card to her previous room.

She re-enters their now shared hotel room and watches as Link sighs tiredly, leaning toward the bed before dramatically sprawling out on it.

Amelia laughs loudly at his action. “You were great today.” She sits on the chair in the corner to remove her ankle boots and jacket. “In surgery I mean.”

“As were you.” Link responds, picking his head up to glance at her. “Very few people in this world can do what you did today.”

Amelia smiles sheepishly at the wholeheartedness of his words, then suddenly stands up.

“I’m gonna shower.” She states, “I’ll just be a few.”

Link tries not to pass out on top of the covers before she returns. He can hear her humming slightly to herself from inside the bathroom, and Link stifles the urge to mock her in any way.

Link changes into some sweatpants and a t-shirt before he hears the water turn off.

“Ah, shit,” he hears Amelia hiss through the thin walls.

“Amelia?” he calls, almost too quickly, cursing himself for being too attentive.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Uh, yeah? Yeah, Hi. Everything’s cool in here. Yep. Don’t worry.” And then she laughs.

“Uhhhh,” he draws out his response. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just…..clumsy. Dammit.” She laughs again breathlessly. “I, uh. I cut my shin…. shaving….I thought it stopped bleeding, but…”

Silence falls between them again and Amelia can’t help but laugh at the situation she’s gotten herself in.

“Do you need my help?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” She knows she doesn’t sound convincing.

“…Amelia?”

“Actually, do you have a bandaid? …..Or like six?”

There’s another pause before Amelia can hear some shuffling around in the other room.

“There’s got to be a first aid kit in here somewhere.” Link responds, making his way to the closet “Got it!”

He walks over to the bathroom but pauses with his hand on the door knob. “Should I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah. Please.” Comes a muffled reply.

Link opens the door and is met with an unexpected sight. Not entirely sure what to expect, but Amelia, wrapped up in a white towel, sitting on the lid of the closed toilet seat, leg propped up on the edge of the bathtub, was not it.

He bursts out laughing.

“This is not funny!” But she’s laughing, too. And rolling her eyes at him. “I need those bandages!”

“Wait, no. Amelia. You can’t just put a bandaid on there. You’re bleeding, like, a lot.” He kneels down next to her, and Amelia instinctively pulls her towel tighter underneath her arms. Link gives her a look, as if to say, 'It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before. Now please let me assess your injury.’

And Amelia just relaxes her shoulders, nodding to herself and to him.

“And you’re soaking wet, no bandaid is gonna stay on your skin like this,” he mutters, pushing the ropes of her wet hair back past her shoulders, in hopes that it would help her dry faster.

He grabs a roll of toilet paper from under the sink and goes to work at stopping the bleeding, holding it there for a while until he thinks it’s okay to wrap up.

“Now six bandaids seems a little excessive there, Amelia. How about two?”

“I think I deserve at least four,” she bargains, endearing smirk on her face.

“Fine,” Link gives in, gently placing each bandaid on her shin one at a time. “There. Good as new,” he smiles, patting her leg.

Amelia rolls her eyes, blushing. “Thanks.”

And then Link stands, not sure what to do with himself now.

“I’m going to change now,” Amelia laughs.

And now Link’s blushing. “Yeah, yep. I’ll get out of your way,” he mumbles, exiting the tiny bathroom.

_______

When Amelia enters the room a few minutes later in an oversized t-shirt, which is what she normally wears to bed, she swears she sees Link do a double take. He’s now dressed in sweats standing near his open luggage in the opposite corner of the room. His stare lingers for a second too long and Amelia looks down at herself. She doesn’t understand the sudden awkwardness between them. But the air feels different.

“I know. Sorry, this is all I have,” she mumbles. “And I thought I’d have my own room tonight so-”

“What? No, you’re fine,” Link responds quickly.

She grins at him, clearly amused by him.

Link shakes his head at himself and turns to grab a couple pillows off of the bed, tossing them on to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Amelia interrupts him.

“Making a bed for myself on the floor?” It comes out as a question. “No sleepovers, remember?” He laughs, knowingly.

Amelia looks stunned, but only for a moment.

“No you’re not,” Amelia laughs. “Just get in here,” she adds, as she crawls under the covers on one side of the bed.

Link gratefully tosses the pillows back, getting into bed beside Amelia, sitting against the headboard as he pulls on the covers.

He reaches across and switches off the light on his bedside table, and the whole room goes dark. Amelia rolls onto her side and listens to Link shuffle around until he gets comfortable.

“Goodnight, Link. Thanks again for today,” Amelia whispers in his general direction, not really sure of his current position.

“'Night, Amelia.” Amelia is surprised by the vicinity of his voice, closer than she expected.

A couple minutes later and Amelia needs to readjust herself. She gasps when her face collides with something surprisingly hard. She reaches out her hand and quickly realizes she’s touching Link’s chest, now with her hand, and leaning against him with her face pressed up to it.

“Oops,” she mutters, and Link laughs under his breath.

But she doesn’t move away.

And Link takes the initiative of pulling her in closer at her hips, and then keeping his hands there, squeezing at her waist.

“Amelia, I-”

“Link-”

They both pause. And Link squeezes at her waist again, encouraging her to talk first.

She clears her throat. “Link, I-” She pauses again, working herself up to what she wants to say.

Their eyes are adjusting to the light it seems, and Amelia can just make out Link’s eyes, staring intently back at her. Maybe he can sense her worry.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Link offers.

Amelia nods. “Right,” she mumbles quietly.

Their faces are just inches apart. And Amelia knows she wants to kiss him. She wants to have him again. She wants to keep feeling. Keep falling.

Maybe she wants the complications.

Maybe she just wants to kiss him.

So she does. And Link shivers as her lips gently brush his. Amelia feels Link move one of his hands up in response, so that it’s cupping her cheek, while the other remains on her hip.

Link leans forwards and presses his lips against Amelia’s. He opens his mouth to her and Amelia does the same, catching his top lip between hers. It’s slow, and it’s lovely. And this time it’s not impulsive.

But it still feels so right.

They pull apart, smiling through the darkness. And Amelia rolls over so that her back lines up against Link’s front. His arm goes possessively around her waist, pulling her in closer than they’ve ever been.

Amelia can feel her breath start to even out, as well as hear Link’s. Both on the verge of sleep. She just barely whispers into the quiet of the room, “I kind of like sleepovers."

_______

And I want you all to myself

Just keep me caught in your spell

You stop my breathing, but keep my heart breathing

You're bringing me outta hell

Oh, I want you all to myself

[dwellordream]

“...What about the personal relationships that are formed in the context of conflict? Surely, the ‘band of brothers’ is a truly universal experience, right...? Surely the social bonds that held Easy-Company together in 1944 and 1945 are the same as those from 1415? Or 415? Well, no. Not quite.

We can approach this question through the idea of cohesion – the moral force that holds a group of combatants together on the battlefield under the intense emotional stresses of combat. The intense bonds that soldiers form in modern armies (particularly those in the European pattern) are not an accident, but a core part of how those armies, institutionally, seek to build cohesion.

Going back to last week, we discussed briefly the emergence of the extensively drilled and disciplined ‘mechanical’ soldier of Early Modern Europe, noting that this approach wasn’t necessary for the effective use of firearms (the Ottoman Janissaries, for instance, were quite good with firearms, but were not trained and organized in this way), but rather was a product of elite aristocratic (read: officer) disdain for their up-jumped peasant soldiers and thus the assumption by those aristocrats that the only way to get such men to fight effectively was to relentlessly drill them.

Now the funny thing about this system is that it clearly worked, but not for the reasons its aristocratic pioneers believed. ...What emerged quite clearly was that it wasn’t ‘the cause’ or patriotism that held troops together under fire, but group cohesion born out of an intense need not to let fellow soldiers in the unit down. In short, what held units together and made them fight more effectively was (in part, there are many conclusions in Men Against Fire) the strong social bonds between comrades.

And, in fact, the drill and discipline of early modern European armies unintentionally did quite a lot of cohesion building things. Soldiers were removed from civilian society (isolation from larger groups builds unit cohesion), split into very small groups (keeping the core group that coheres below Dunbar’s number aids in group cohesion; thus why the platoon is a natural unit size) and then pushed through difficult and unpleasant training (that drill and discipline) creating a sense of unique shared experience and sacrifice. All of which doesn’t render men machines, but it does create strong social bonds within the units that will keep the men fighting even when they care little for their cause (which they generally did in this period; one does not find a super-abundance of patriotism among, say, the Army of Flanders).

And there is a tendency to point to this cohesion, its modern source in ‘toughening’ boot camp and to say, ‘aha! That is the true universal about effective soldier-warriors!’ Except – and you knew there was going to be an except – except it isn’t. Systems built on the use of drill and discipline for the development of unit cohesion through social bonds are actually, historically speaking, quite rare.

We see systems like that in use by the Romans from the Middle Republic forward (but significantly faded by the end of late antiquity; the Byzantine army doesn’t seem to function this way), in China from the Han Dynasty onward, in Japan for the ashigaru infantry from the Sengoku period, and in Europe from the Early Modern period. That sounds like a lot, but that is relatively small minority of the historical period and even then in a relatively small minority of places. It is, for instance, a period that only covers about half of the historical period in Western Europe, the place most often associated with this very system of organization (though that association is perhaps unfair to East Asia).

Instead, most societies relied on existing social bonds formed outside of the experience of war for cohesion. Greek hoplite armies, for instance, generally formed up by polis (read: city) and then within those blocks by still smaller and smaller social divisions, so that family and neighbors would be standing shoulder to shoulder in the battle line (Sparta does this through the system of communal messes, the syssitia, but the idea that you fought alongside the men you dined with socially – your neighbors, generally – was perfectly normal in most Greek cities).

That was intentional – it allowed the phalanx to cohere through the social pressure not to be seen as a coward before the men who meant the most to you, whose shaming gaze you would have to endure in civilian life. The same pressures, by the well, held together the (mostly volunteer) armies of the American Civil War (on this, see, McPherson, For Cause and Comrades (1997)).

By contrast, ‘warrior’ classes often rely on a sort of class solidarity along with the demand of an individual military aristocrat to be individually militarily excellent. Richard Kaeuper quips of the literature of the medieval knightly class that it was filled with “utterly tireless, almost obsessional emphasis placed on personal prowess” (R.W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (1999)). We’ve talked a fair bit about the values of mounted aristocrats, both in their role as combatants and in their roles as generals and those values are relatively disconnected from discipline-induced forms of buddy-cohesion.

Of course exactly what ‘good generalship’ or ‘good officership’ looks like varies wildly from place to place – Alexander was expected to command his cavalry from the front; Roman emperors rarely took the battlefield and when they did they commanded from the rear since it would be foolish to risk the ‘brain’ of the army in personal combat and in any event someone at the front of a cavalry charge can hardly direct the rest of the army.

One of the things I find most striking about the ‘warrior ethos’ advanced by writers like Pressfield is that it accepts as normal the unique nature of the bonds that hold soldiers together in battle, assuming this bond and its shared sacrifice to be at once unique to combat and also transcendent to all combatants. But one of the key points made very well in Sebastian Junger’s War (2010) and later Tribe (2016) is just how strange that experience is, historically.

Junger notes that in earlier societies, soldiers would have returned from war into communities (often small, agricultural communities or tribal communities) every bit as close-knit as the infantry platoon – and indeed, often involving literally the same people as the infantry platoon. Instead, the intense feeling of uniqueness that modern soldiers feel about the bonds of combat is because of the historically unusual deracination produced by modern societies by the industrial revolution and the post-industrial period.

And Junger’s point is born out quite clearly when looking at the myriad of historical societies where those non-combat social bonds were the basis of the principles of military cohesion, be it the small-town cohesion of the hoplite phalanx or the class-based-expectation cohesion of a group of knights, or (for that matter) later modern regimental-system armies that recruited on the basis of states and towns precisely to get this kind of cohesion (something that comes out quite clearly in McPherson, For Cause and Comrades (1998) of regiments in the American Civil War, but was also a factor in the British regimental system as late as World War I).

In short, the singularity of those bonds is by no means historically universal, but in many societies would have instead been paired with equally strong and demanding bonds based on family, clan, neighborhood, village or patronage – merely one thread in a web of many threads. Assuming that such bonds extend infinitely back into the past of war means treating as normal a facet of modern society which is both unusual and possibly maladaptive.

At which point it seems useful to note that all of our examples so far are from within the second or third system of war, where there is considerable focus in holding ground in conventional engagements and thus a need to condition combatants to do something very unnatural – to hold their position and fight even when directly threatened and at a very high risk of death. But what about the first system of war, which generally does not demand combatants to stand in rigid order under fire or to resist mass enemy charges, but is instead focused on a ‘pounce and flee’ system of raids and ambushes only resorting to open battle (itself almost never decisive) when those fail?

For a first system force, the very thing all of this cohesion is trying to produce – to get men to stick together when the going gets tough, is entirely counter-productive; instead, if the situation is disadvantageous, the best response is often ‘scatter and regroup.’ As we’ve discussed before, these societies often have low populations which simply could not sustain high-lethality pitched battles. Consequently, societies in the first system tend to only engage when conditions are very advantageous (a raid, an ambush) or when they have no choice (being raided or ambushed).

This is, of course, not to say that such forces lacked what we might term combat motivation; these are still humans and so human psychology matters. But such motivation was organic to the community structure (ties of kinship and bonds within the village or tribal grouping), individual rather than group-based (one was not holding a position as a group but making an individual assessment of stand vs. flee) and finally was not predicated on one’s willingness to hold in a disadvantageous position.

...In short, such systems of war make little effort to build the sort of cohesion seen in second and third system armies because such cohesion is maladaptive to their combat style (and consequently, lacking the social-value framework that supports such cohesion, it can be difficult to train members of such societies to fight like second or third system soldiers, something readily apparent by the repeated difficulties of building ‘western’-style armies in countries without traditions of cohesion).

What does that leave us with? The systems to build cohesion – and indeed, cohesion itself – turn out not to be universal at all, but quite subjective to specific cultures and places. I’ve actually sold short just how many different systems and methods are used to build cohesion, but in practice every society’s mix for doing this is unique. Moreover, some societies, because of their style of warfare are largely uninterested in developing much cohesion at all and are instead focused on other forms of combat motivation.

Beyond the banal observations that humans are social animals that build relationships with each other and that humans tend to bond in conditions of shared adversary, there is nothing here. Those same conclusions might as well be marshaled to support the ‘universal graduate student’ or the ‘universal video-game crunch developer.’ The observation that the bonds of fellow soldiers are singularly stronger than any other sort of bond only seems to hold for modern deracinated post-industrial societies that have (often for good reasons, like liberating individuals) steadily weakened all of the other social bonds.

One only needs to look, for instance, at the failure of these intense bonds to hold primacy over the bonds of family, class or tribe when efforts are made to train ‘western’-style armies in non-western countries to see that the primacy of ‘comrades’ is socially contingent. Once again, the idea of the universal soldier indulges in the classic error of historical thinking whereby a distinctly contingent and modern experience is anachronistically retrojected into the past; the foolishness of the ‘universal soldier’ is the circularity of the argument where by this anachronistic retrojection is treated as the evidence of its own existence.”

- Bret Devereaux, “The Universal Warrior, Part IIb: A Soldier’s Lot.”