#Its just another thing that i know too much about | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aesthetically-dying101 · 22 hours ago

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Trainwreck

A/N: *sighs* can you guys guess who i wrote for? yes its nanami

warnings: innapropriate workplace behavior (this is all so unrealistic pls), thats mostly it, maybe a bit OOC? idk obsessive behavior, lowkey creepy

Nanami Kento prides himself on being a man of structure. He clocks in at 8:00 AM sharp, organizes his desk with ruthless efficiency, and approaches every task with a quiet, burning determination. But recently—recently, you’ve ruined him.

Completely, utterly ruined him.

You’re not even his boss. No, you’re her secretary. Just the secretary, really.

A pleasant smile in the hallway, the click of heels passing by his office door. You’re always polite, professional. Efficient. And yet, you’ve utterly dismantled every ounce of his composure.

He notices everything about you.

He notices too much.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're focused, the faint scent of your perfume (something floral but not cloying, clean and perfect). The way you laugh softly with the receptionist when you think no one is listening.

God, you never wear a wedding band.

He’s looked.

He’s ashamed of how often he’s looked.

He hates himself for it—hates the way his chest tightens when he hears your voice. Hates the way his thoughts stray in the quiet moments of the day, imagining what it would be like if you looked at him the way he looks at you.

But you barely notice him.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. Why would you? He’s just another cog in the machine, another suit with no significance beyond his output.

Nanami lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s supposed to be working, but instead, he’s replaying that moment from earlier today: the way you’d popped into the breakroom, looking fresh and radiant in that blouse that he’s now convinced was designed to torment him.

“Oh, hi, Nanami,” you’d said, smiling at him as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. It had been such a simple, innocent thing. And yet, his brain had short-circuited.

“Morning,” he’d managed, stiff and awkward, and he’s sure you noticed. God, why did his voice sound so clipped?

“You doing okay? You looked a little stressed in the meeting earlier.”

And that had really done it. Your concern—casual, effortless—had hit him like a freight train. He could barely stammer out a reply before you were gone, leaving him standing there, coffee untouched, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.

He wants to believe he’s subtle about it, but he knows better. He’s not subtle. Not when he hangs back in the breakroom just to hear you chatting with someone, filing away every detail like the pathetic little moth he is, hopelessly drawn to your flame.

“Yeah, no, I’m just focusing on work right now,” you’d said once, when someone asked if you had any plans for the weekend. No mention of a boyfriend. No hint of anyone waiting for you at home.

It shouldn’t matter, and yet it feels like the cruelest kind of hope, igniting in his chest despite himself.

Nanami leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He’s disgusting. Obsessed. You’re probably not even aware of his existence beyond the bare minimum. Why would you be? You’re smart, funny, stunning—and he’s just him. Dull. Predictable. The kind of guy women settle for when they’re tired of the fireworks.

But oh, if you ever gave him the chance. If you so much as glanced in his direction with anything resembling interest, he’d fall to his knees. Worship you. Do anything to make you happy.

It’s humiliating. The longing, the yearning, the ache.

And yet he can’t stop.

His thoughts spiral as the hours drag on, oscillating between bitterness and hope. He tells himself to stop—orders himself to focus—but his mind keeps circling back to you.

Always you.

The end of the day finally comes, and as he’s gathering his things, he hears the soft sound of your voice drifting from the hallway.

“Night, Nanami!”

You wave as you pass, the gesture casual but bright enough to light up the entire goddamn floor.

“Goodnight,” he replies, quieter than he means to. His hand tightens on his briefcase.

You disappear around the corner, and Nanami stays frozen for a moment, staring at the space where you’d been.

*-*

It’s Christmas in the office.

The annual “holiday celebration,” a thinly veiled excuse for everyone to slack off in the name of festivity. Nanami hates it—or at least he wants to hate it. Forced camaraderie, cheap decorations, music that grates on his nerves. It’s the kind of chaos he typically avoids.

But then you walk in, and every ounce of self-discipline he’s built over the years shatters into irreparable pieces.

The pencil skirt.

The goddamn Christmas-colored pencil skirt. It’s shorter than usual, clinging to your hips in a way that feels engineered to destroy him. The matching blouse, festive but just tight enough to drive him completely fucking insane.

It’s not fair.

You’re smiling as you step into the breakroom, chatting with a coworker, utterly oblivious to the wreckage you’re leaving in your wake.

Nanami’s pulse spikes. His gaze darts away, but the image of you is already seared into his brain, lingering like a bad habit.

He adjusts his tie, swallowing hard. Don’t be a creep. Don’t be a fucking creep. But then his eyes flick back, just for a second, and—oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His pants feel too tight.

He grits his teeth, clenching his jaw as he fumbles with a stack of papers on his desk. His hands tremble slightly. He’s mortified, but there’s no stopping it. Not when his traitorous brain is already spinning, conjuring images he really shouldn’t be entertaining in the middle of the office.

Images of you. That skirt riding up higher, your thighs bare beneath his hands. The sound of your laughter softening into breathless gasps. The way your lips would feel against his skin—

Nanami bolts.

He mutters something vague about needing a minute to no one in particular and beelines for the bathroom. The fluorescent lights are harsh as he leans against the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hisses to his reflection. His tie feels like a noose around his neck.

He splashes cold water on his face, but it doesn’t help. Not when every time he blinks, he sees you. The soft curve of your waist, the way your hair catches the light.

Pathetic. He’s fucking pathetic. You’re just trying to celebrate the holidays like everyone else, and here he is, locked in the bathroom, wrestling with his own shameless thoughts.

The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that it’s not just the dirty shit. Oh, no. His brain is crueler than that.

He imagines quiet mornings with you. You in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, smiling at him over a mug of coffee. Your hand brushing his as you pass him a plate, the warmth of your touch lingering long after.

It’s insidious. It’s relentless. It’s everything he doesn’t deserve, and yet he wants it so badly he feels like he might choke on it.

Nanami drags a hand down his face, letting out a groan that echoes in the empty bathroom.

She doesn’t even notice you, idiot.

He stays there longer than he should, collecting himself—or trying to. Eventually, he straightens his tie, squares his shoulders, and forces himself to return to his desk.

But when he passes by the breakroom again, you’re laughing, radiant, and he knows this torture is far from over.

*-*

Nanami doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Really, he doesn’t.

But it’s impossible not to overhear you when you’re in the breakroom, talking to someone about the bouquet on the receptionist’s desk.

“Oh, these are lovely,” you say, your voice light and cheerful. “But if I had to pick, I’ve always been more into bold flowers. Red dahlias, spider lilies, roses—things like that. Dark, dramatic colors. They’re so beautiful.”

Nanami freezes in the hallway, a stack of files in his hands. His heart does this stupid little stutter, the same one it always does when he hears your voice. But now it’s worse because his mind is spinning with the image of you holding a bouquet like the one you’ve just described.

Red dahlias, spider lilies. The thought of you cradling those flowers, smiling at them, smiling because of him—he has to physically shake his head to clear it.

He’s pathetic.

He knows he’s pathetic. He clenches the files tighter, willing himself to keep walking, but the image won’t leave him.

Over the next few days, he thinks about it more than he wants to admit. He imagines walking into a flower shop, carefully selecting each bloom, making sure they’re perfect. He imagines handing the bouquet to you, watching your face light up—

And then he imagines the aftermath. You smiling politely, awkwardly thanking him, wondering why the hell one of your coworkers is giving you flowers.

No.

He can’t do it. It’s wildly inappropriate. He’s already teetering on the edge of unprofessionalism just by thinking about you like this.

But then, one quiet afternoon in the office, he hears you mention your birthday in passing.

“Oh, it’s in a month or so,” you say, laughing softly. “I don’t usually do much for it, though. Just a quiet day, you know?”

Nanami marks the date down the second he gets back to his desk. He feels like a creep for it, but the thought of letting the day pass without acknowledgment feels unbearable.

He’s spent weeks overthinking this, debating whether or not he should go through with it. But as he stands outside the florist that morning, the door handle cold in his hand, he decides he can’t let it go.

He picks each flower carefully: crimson dahlias with velvety petals, a few spider lilies that curl dramatically, and deep red roses. It’s a small bouquet—not too extravagant, just enough to feel thoughtful.

By the time he gets to the office, his palms are clammy, and he feels like he might actually pass out.

He doesn’t give it to you right away. He waits until the middle of the day, when the office is quieter and most people are out at lunch. He finds you at your desk, bent over some papers, your hair falling slightly into your face.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice more formal than he intended.

You look up, blinking in surprise, and when your eyes land on the bouquet in his hands, they widen slightly.

“I, uh—” He clears his throat, trying not to fumble. “I overheard that it was your birthday today. Happy birthday.”

You take the bouquet slowly, your expression shifting from surprise to something softer—something warmer.

“Oh my gosh, Nanami, these are gorgeous,” you say, holding the flowers close to your chest. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide how much they’re trembling. “Just… thought you’d like them.”

“I love them.” Your smile is radiant, and for the first time, he feels like he might actually be able to breathe again.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice sincere.

He nods, forcing himself to meet your gaze for just a moment.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, before quickly retreating to the safety of his desk.

But that's what happens in his mind, in his fantasy... in reality, he simply left those at your desk while you were in a meeting, though he did hear you gasp when you saw them.

As he sits at his desk, his heart pounding, he allows himself a small, private smile. For once, his yearning doesn’t feel quite so pathetic.

*-*

Nanami doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Again. But it’s impossible not to hear you when your voice floats down the hallway like that, soft and full of joy.

The bouquet sits proudly on your desk, vibrant reds catching the fluorescent light, and you’re standing nearby, talking to another employee.

“I still can’t believe it,” you’re saying, your tone carrying this sweet mix of wonder and delight. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before. It’s just… so thoughtful, you know?”

Nanami, passing by with his usual quiet efficiency, freezes mid-step. His breath hitches in his throat.

“I mean, look at them,” you continue, gesturing to the flowers. “They’re perfect. Whoever picked these out really put a lot of thought into it.” You laugh softly, a sound that makes his chest ache. “I’m not even sure how they knew these are my favorites.”

He stands there, rooted to the spot, his pulse roaring in his ears.

She’s talking about me. She’s talking about me.

He feels ridiculous for the way his stomach twists, for the heat creeping up his neck. A grown man shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t feel this weak, over a few kind words. But goddammit, he can’t help it.

The idea that you’re gushing about something he did, that he made you happy, even for a moment—it’s enough to undo him completely.

“Whoever it was,” you add, your voice softening, “it’s just… it really made my day. Probably my whole week, honestly.”

Nanami swallows hard, clutching his briefcase like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His emotions are a mess—a chaotic tangle of pride, relief, and something deeper, something that makes his throat feel tight.

He knows he should walk away. He shouldn’t linger here, shouldn’t keep listening like some lovesick fool. But he’s stuck, trapped by the sound of your voice and the warmth in your words.

When he finally moves, it’s with a heaviness in his chest that he can’t quite define. He makes his way back to his desk, sitting down and staring blankly at his computer screen.

*-*

Weeks bleed together in the monotony of office life, except for the moments where Nanami lets himself carve out little spaces of joy—tiny gestures that go unnoticed by most but feel monumental to him.

It starts with a single chocolate, placed carefully on the corner of your desk one morning before you arrive. Just a small thing, barely bigger than his thumb, wrapped in shiny foil. He doesn’t linger to see your reaction. He couldn’t stomach it, not when he knows he’d fold in on himself if you so much as tilted your head in confusion.

But the next day, you’re chatting with the receptionist, that same soft laugh spilling from your lips.

“It’s so weird,” you’re saying, holding the empty wrapper in your fingers. “I found this little chocolate on my desk yesterday. I don’t know who left it, but it was sweet. Made my morning, honestly.”

Nanami ducks his head, pretending to be engrossed in the stack of reports he’s holding, but inside, he’s practically vibrating. She noticed. She noticed.

He tells himself to stop, to leave it there, but he doesn’t. He can’t. The yearning is too big, too loud, and it demands an outlet, however small.

After a grueling conference one afternoon, he slips a bottle of chilled water onto your desk when you step away. Nothing extravagant—just a quiet act of care. You’re gone for no more than a minute, but when you return, you blink down at the bottle, tilting your head in that way he finds unfairly adorable.

“Huh,” you murmur, glancing around. “Did someone leave this?”

You shrug, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip, and Nanami has to fight the urge to look away too quickly, lest anyone catch the faint pink blooming across his cheeks.

It’s pathetic.

The way he lives for these small moments, like a man stranded in a desert, savoring droplets of water. Every tiny gesture, every unnoticed offering, feels like a prayer he’s too afraid to voice aloud.

He notices everything about you. How you seem to perk up on Friday afternoons, your shoulders relaxing as you chat about weekend plans. How you wrinkle your nose just slightly when you’re concentrating. How you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening—a soft, tuneless sound that drives him to distraction.

He doesn’t need grand gestures. He doesn’t want them. He just wants to make your days a little brighter, even if you never know it’s him.

And god, does he yearn.

He daydreams when he shouldn��t, his thoughts slipping away from spreadsheets and into fantasies that make his chest ache. He imagines brushing your hair back from your face, the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. He imagines quiet evenings, your laughter filling the silence of his apartment. He imagines the weight of your head on his shoulder as you drift off to sleep.

And sometimes—sometimes, when he’s alone, when the ache feels unbearable—he lets himself imagine things he shouldn’t. Things that make his heart race and his breath catch and leave him staring at his own reflection in shame after.

But he never acts on it. Never says a word. Instead, he keeps leaving his little tokens: a coffee cup placed carefully on your desk when he overhears you complain about a late night, a pack of your favorite pens after you mention running out.

You smile every time, and though you never suspect him, that’s enough. It has to be enough.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

*-*

You’re not an idiot.

No, you may be a little dense sometimes, but you’re not stupid. Someone has been leaving you small, thoughtful little gifts over the past few weeks.

And you have absolutely no idea who it is.

It started innocently enough—chocolate on your desk one morning. You didn’t think much of it at first, but then it kept happening. A bottle of water after a long conference, a cup of coffee after a particularly brutal meeting. At first, you thought maybe it was just a mistake, someone leaving things around and not realizing it was yours. But no, they were always right where you’d find them. Right when you needed them.

It’s sweet. Really sweet. But it's also starting to annoy the ever-living shit out of you because, for the life of you, you can’t figure out who’s doing it.

You’ve spent the past few days trying to narrow it down, your brain doing mental gymnastics over every damn interaction you’ve had at work. And frankly? You’re getting tired of it.

“Alright, let’s break this shit down,” you mutter to yourself as you sip your second cup of coffee of the day, pretending to focus on an email.

Option one: Your boss.

Ha. Right. She’s too busy scheduling her hair appointments to think about leaving chocolates on anyone’s desk. Plus, she’s got the whole “I don’t care if you live or die” attitude, so yeah, not her.

Option two: Kevin from accounting.

Kevin’s an idiot. A well-meaning idiot, but still. He’s the type to forget the coffee in the breakroom and then call it “the best thing ever” for two hours, as though anyone cares about his “discovery.” You’re not buying that.

Option three: That one guy from marketing, Tom.

You nearly burst into laughter just thinking about it. Tom’s an over-caffeinated golden retriever in a human’s body. He’s the type of guy who thinks sending a “Hey, just wanted to check in!” email twice a day is “checking in” on people. He probably couldn’t even remember to get a chocolate from a store, let alone leave it at your desk.

Option four: Nanami.

You pause mid-sip, blinking rapidly. Nanami? The quiet guy from finance? The one who barely says more than a handful of words in a meeting?

Now that’s an intriguing thought. He’s always… there. Always around, like a quiet shadow, observing. Sure, he’s not exactly filling the room with energy, but there’s something there, right? Something beneath that perfectly structured exterior.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. No way. That’s ridiculous.

But then you think about it. Nanami’s the type of guy who doesn’t get distracted by office chaos. He’s methodical. Focused. The guy who lives on routine. He’d be the one to sneakily notice when someone’s overworked and needs a small pick-me-up. He’s just... quiet about it.

But then again, who leaves water bottles, chocolates, and coffee? It’s not like he’s ever said anything about it. Not a single “hey, I thought you might like this,” or anything remotely close to an acknowledgment. Hell, he doesn’t even smile much.

God, he’s so damn mysterious it makes your head spin.

You glance over at his desk. There he is—quiet, as usual. Focused, pretending the world isn’t falling apart around him.

It could be him.

But no. You shake your head, dismissing the thought immediately. He’s not the type. Right?

It’s just… weird. And you’re not even sure why it feels so weird. Maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve got a secret admirer at work, which is fucking hilarious because it sounds like something out of a shitty rom-com you wouldn’t even watch if someone paid you.

"God, I’m going insane," you mutter under your breath, checking your watch. "Seriously. Who the hell is doing this?"

*-*

It took weeks.

Weeks of small gestures.

You’ve figured it out.

It took some careful observation, a bit of deduction, and honestly, a lot of staring at Nanami when he wasn’t looking. But there’s no doubt in your mind now. The quiet, stoic, almost painfully composed man from finance—the one who always has his tie perfectly in place and whose voice could melt butter—he’s your secret admirer.

And oh, it’s delicious.

At first, you weren’t sure. Nanami wasn’t exactly the type to scream “hopeless romantic” or even “mildly interested.” But the more you watched him, the more obvious it became. The way his eyes linger on you just a second too long, the way he tenses when you get too close, the way he seems to disappear right after you find something thoughtful left at your desk.

You caught him once, hovering near the break room as you raved to a coworker about the flowers. He didn’t say a word, but the way he froze mid-step, his jaw tightening ever so slightly? Yeah. That was all the confirmation you needed.

And honestly? You’re thrilled.

Nanami’s hot. Not just conventionally attractive, but smart-hot, the kind of guy who could ruin you with a PowerPoint presentation and a sharp comment about fiscal responsibility. He’s also maddeningly composed, which makes you want to poke at him, see what’s underneath that calm, collected exterior.

So, naturally, you decide to fuck with him.

Just a little.

You can feel the tension building in the air as you move through your day, the little comments, the subtle glances. Nanami’s still trying to play it cool, but it’s clear. He’s a mess. You can see it in the way his eyes dart away when they linger on you a second too long. You can hear it in his voice when he answers you—a little too stiff, a little too forced.

So, you decide to push him.

You start small. Little things. Nothing too obvious, just a few well-placed gestures to see how far you can take him before he finally snaps.

You walk past his desk, and you’re definitely not trying to make sure your skirt hugs your hips just right. You bend over just so to grab a file from your bag, letting him get a full, uninterrupted view of your cleavage.

You’re certain he’s trying not to look—hell, you can practically feel him forcing his eyes up to the ceiling, but you know. You know he’s been watching.

When you straighten up, you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s gripping his pen like it’s a lifeline, his knuckles pale, and his jaw is tight. You smirk, leaning in just a little closer.

“Need something, Nanami?” you ask, the words dripping with an edge of playful mischief.

He swallows, clearly doing everything in his power to maintain his usual stoic expression. “No,” he replies, too quickly, voice clipped. “I’m fine.”

You laugh lightly, keeping the tension alive as you pull away. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him. Oh, this is too good.

You don’t stop there, though. No, you want to see how much he can handle.

The next day, you make sure to wear a skirt that’s just a little tighter, just a little shorter than usual. The fabric clings to you in all the right ways, and when you walk past Nanami’s desk, you make sure to let your hip brush against the edge of his desk, just lightly enough to catch his attention.

As you bend down to grab a report from the printer, you give him the tiniest, most casual look over your shoulder. You’re sure you catch the way his eyes flicker down to your legs before he quickly looks away. Gotcha.

You straighten up, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you walk back past him, barely stopping yourself from humming in satisfaction when you feel his gaze linger on the curve of your back.

It’s all too easy.

And now? Now it’s time to turn it up a notch.

You’ve been toying with him for days now, watching as he stiffens every time you get a little too close, testing how much he can take before his composure cracks. You see the way his breath catches when you “accidentally” brush your arm against his as you pass by. He doesn’t say a word, but you know. You can see it in the way his eyes flash with something darker, something needy, before he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

You know what you’re doing to him.

And you’re fucking loving it.

*-*

For two weeks, you’ve been shamelessly pushing Nanami to his limits.

You flirt, you linger, you brush your hand against his arm just a little too long, your skirts are shorter, tighter—designed to test the boundaries of his sanity.

And he notices.

Oh, he notices.

But what you don’t see is what’s going on beneath that perfectly calm, stoic exterior.

Because Nanami is losing his fucking mind.

Every look, every casual touch, every time you lean just a little too close—it’s like pouring gasoline on the fire inside him. He’s never been this affected by anyone, and now it feels like he’s constantly teetering on the edge of a cliff.

He tries—he really does—to keep his composure. He’s a professional, damn it. A man of control and discipline. But you? You’re unraveling him piece by piece.

*-*

She knows. Oh, God, she fucking knows. Why is she looking at me like that? Is she doing this on purpose? She’s doing this on purpose. That skirt—did it get shorter? That’s not appropriate for the office, right? Should I say something? No. No, shut up, you idiot. Just focus on your work. She’s walking toward you. Act normal. Act—

“Hey, Nanami, could you help me with something?” you ask, your voice sweet, with just the faintest hint of teasing.

His throat goes dry. He looks up, forcing his expression to remain neutral, professional. “Of course. What do you need?”

You lean closer, your hand brushing his shoulder as you point to your tablet. “I can’t figure out this formula. Can you show me?”

He doesn’t miss the way your perfume lingers in the air, soft and floral, and it’s driving him mad.

“Sure,” he says, his voice even, betraying nothing of the way his heart is hammering in his chest.

But inside? He’s screaming.

*-*

This is a problem. She’s doing it on purpose. She has to be. That look she gave me this morning? That wasn’t casual. No, that was calculated. She’s testing me, trying to see how far I’ll go. Does she know how much I—

He can’t even finish the thought. Because the truth is, his daydreams are becoming increasingly inappropriate, increasingly desperate.

He imagines you sitting on his lap in his office chair, your arms draped around his neck as you laugh at something he said. He imagines kissing you—soft at first, then deeper, more passionate, until he’s completely lost in you. He imagines everything he wants to do to you, and it’s enough to make him clench his fists under his desk, trying to hold himself together.

*-*

One afternoon, you’re standing next to his desk, going on about some report, and he can’t take it anymore. You’re wearing a dress that hugs you in all the right places, and the way you’re looking at him, with that mischievous little glint in your eye—it’s too much.

“Enough,” he says, his voice low, controlled.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

He stands, towering over you, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on yours. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” you ask, feigning innocence, though the slight curve of your lips betrays you.

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “The teasing. The looks. The... whatever this is. If you’re trying to drive me insane, congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”

You grin, your eyes sparkling. “Oh? And what are you going to do about it?”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m going to ask you on a date.”

Your grin widens, and you cross your arms, leaning in just slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, his confidence unwavering now. “Saturday. Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, and he feels his chest tighten all over again.

“Okay, Nanami. You’ve got yourself a date.”

*-*

The date is perfect.

Nanami shows up at your door precisely at seven, looking sharp in a navy suit and holding a small bouquet of red dahlias—your favorite. Dinner is a mix of light conversation and laughter, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm that feels like you’ve known each other forever.

When he walks you back to your apartment, the air between you is warm, charged with something unspoken.

“Want to come up?” you ask, your voice soft, your eyes searching his.

He hesitates for half a second before nodding. “Yes.”

*-*

Your apartment is cozy, filled with little touches that are unmistakably you. Nanami takes it all in—your bookshelves, your mismatched throw pillows, the faint scent of vanilla in the air.

But then you’re there, standing close to him, your eyes meeting his, and everything else fades away.

The first kiss is tentative, a soft meeting of lips that quickly deepens as he pulls you closer, his hands resting on your waist. You sigh against him, your fingers threading through his hair, and he groans softly, losing himself in the warmth of you.

“Nanami,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to catch your breath.

“I hate you,” he says, his voice low, a teasing smile playing at his lips.

You laugh, your forehead resting against his. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to your lips. “I hate the way you consume my thoughts. I hate the way you make me feel so... so...”

“Alive?” you offer, grinning.

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the moment.

Before things can go further, your cat jumps onto the couch, meowing loudly, and you both break apart, laughing.

“Excuse me,” Nanami says, his voice soft but firm as he picks up the cat and carries it to another room. “We need privacy.”

When he returns, you’re still laughing, but he silences you with another kiss, his hands cradling your face.

Between kisses, he whispers things that make your heart ache in the best way.

“You drive me crazy... but I don’t want it to stop. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”

By the time the night ends, you’re both a mess of tangled limbs and whispered confessions, and for the first time in weeks, Nanami feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

A/N: sorryyy, this might be ooc for him? im unsure...

Masterlist.

173 notes · View notes

thesecondhandwoman · 2 days ago

Note

I’ll think of the jist

When reader is well enough to work for ambessa she uses a rollator (walker with like a table/seat) so she can carry multiple things at once that she couldn’t with a cane.

reader interrupts a meeting quietly to give Ambessa something, the room is full of big strong people who look down on sick ppl even if it’s genetic (:/)

They comment on her ability to work and ambessas like Nuh uh she fine brotha and Ambessa thinks nothing of it, reader thinks a lot of it and can’t sleep

lol thank you goodbye

MORE THAN ENOUGH

Ambessa x f!reader

Synopsis: Being Ambessa’s assistant and having chronic pain was difficult, but it was always worse when you tried to help on more manageable days only be to told that you are incapable.

Request: @possessedmagpie

A/N: This is part two of Chronically Ill

The soft light of morning slipped through the towering windows of Ambessa Medarda’s estate, a golden glow painting the cold stone walls. The days always started early in Noxus, the city that never slept, but for you, mornings weren’t a signal to begin. They were another checkpoint in the never-ending cycle of managing your body’s rebellion against itself.

You shifted beneath the thick covers, testing your limbs carefully. The ache that usually gripped you like iron shackles had ebbed to a low thrum today. It wasn’t gone, but it was manageable. Relief flickered in your chest, tempered by caution. You had learned long ago that even “good days” came with limits.

The other constant in your mornings lay beside you, Ambessa, her powerful frame still as she slept, her features softened in the pale light. Despite the countless demands on her time and energy, she always made space for you. She had stayed the night again, likely at your insistence, despite her busy schedule. She’d never admit it, but you suspected she worried about you constantly.

As if sensing your gaze, Ambessa stirred, her amber eyes blinking open. A small smile tugged at her lips as she caught you watching her.

“Good morning, little one,” she murmured, her voice low and warm, still laced with sleep.

“Good morning,” you replied, voice hushed, as though speaking too loudly would break the delicate peace between you.

Her eyes searched your face, her brow furrowing slightly. “How are you feeling?” she asked, the question laden with genuine care.

You considered her words, stretching carefully to test the limits of your body. “Better,” you said after a moment. “Not great, but I think I can manage today.”

Ambessa propped herself up on one elbow, her expression skeptical but not dismissive. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want to try. I can’t stand feeling useless, Ambessa.”

“You’re never useless,” she said firmly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Your value isn’t measured by how much you can do. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” you murmured, though the weight in your chest said otherwise.

Her hand lingered against your cheek, her touch both grounding and reassuring. “Alright,” she said after a moment. “But promise me you’ll be careful. No pushing yourself too hard. If you need to stop, you stop. Understood?”

“Understood,” you said softly, leaning into her palm.

She pressed a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering just long enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

By mid-morning, the estate was bustling with activity. Servants and guards moved swiftly through the halls, their boots echoing against the polished stone floors. The sheer size of the estate could be overwhelming, even intimidating, but today you felt determined.

The rollator was your lifeline, its sturdy frame and built-in seat allowing you to navigate the estate without collapsing. It wasn’t a perfect solution—there were still moments when the pain flared unexpectedly, threatening to rob you of the strength to keep going—but it gave you a sense of independence.

Today, you carried an important correspondence marked with the crest of General Vessar. The message had arrived early, its contents urgent enough to require Ambessa’s immediate attention. Despite the challenges of moving through the estate, you were determined to deliver it personally.

The grand hall where Ambessa was meeting her advisors loomed ahead, the heavy double doors closed but not impenetrable. Pausing just outside, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself against the ache radiating through your legs.

The moment you entered, the room fell silent. The rollator’s wheels squeaked faintly as you moved across the polished floor, your presence a disruption in the midst of their intense discussions.

At the head of the long table, Ambessa sat tall and imposing, her amber eyes sharp and focused. The sight of her sent a pang of comfort through your chest; she was the one constant in a world that often felt too harsh to navigate.

“Ambessa,” you said, your voice soft but steady.

Her gaze snapped to you, her expression shifting immediately. The hard edge she wore in these meetings melted away, replaced by a warmth that seemed out of place amidst the cold, calculating figures around her.

“Little one,” she greeted, her voice low and tender.

You grabbed the sealed letter on the table of your rollator as you moved it a bit closer and held it out to her. “This arrived this morning. From General Vessar.”

She shifted in her chair slightly as she turned to face you, taking the letter from your hands with a subtle nod. Her fingers brushed yours briefly—a fleeting touch that carried more reassurance than words ever could.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft enough that only you could hear.

But the moment was short-lived.

“She’s still working for you?” a voice called from the far end of the table.

Your chest tightened.

The man who spoke leaned back in his chair, his tone dripping with disbelief. “How can someone in her condition handle the responsibilities you’ve given her?”

Another advisor chimed in, her voice quieter but no less cutting. “It does seem unwise. The demands of this role require someone—”

“Capable,” the first man interrupted. “Someone who isn’t constantly compromised.”

The words struck like a blade, each syllable carving into your carefully built armor.

Ambessa’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood, her movements deliberate and commanding.

“Enough,” she said, her voice sharp and unforgiving.

The room fell silent.

Ambessa’s gaze swept over the advisors like a storm about to break. Her presence was a force of nature, and for a moment, you pitied the fools who dared challenge her judgment.

“You will not question her competence,” she said, her tone cold enough to freeze fire. “Do any of you doubt my ability to judge who is fit for their role?”

No one dared respond.

“Let me make something very clear,” she continued, her voice like a blade. “Y/N has proven her worth time and time again. She is stronger and more useful than any of you could hope to be, and I will not tolerate such ignorance in my presence.”

Her words were a shield, protecting you from their scorn, but they couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but the weight of their judgment was crushing.

Ambessa turned to you, her expression softening. “Go rest, little one,” she said gently.

You nodded, your throat too tight to form words. As you left the room, the rollator steady beneath your hands, you couldn’t shake the sting of their words.

Back in your quarters, the pain returned, not the physical ache in your joints, but the sharp, unrelenting sting of humiliation and self-doubt. You sank onto the edge of your bed, burying your face in your hands.

The echoes of their voices replayed in your mind, each word a reminder of what you couldn’t do, of how the world saw you. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how much you gave, it was never enough.

You didn’t hear the door open, but you felt the mattress dip beside you. A familiar hand rested on your shoulder, warm and grounding.

“Little one,” Ambessa said softly.

You wiped at your eyes, turning away from her. “I’m fine,” you lied.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close until your head rested against her shoulder.

“They don’t understand,” she said after a moment. “They never will. But you don’t need their approval.”

“I just… I wanted to help,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I wanted to prove I could still do something right.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” she said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re more than enough. Don’t let them take that away from you.”

Her words wrapped around you like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge of despair.

“I’m tired,” you admitted, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your chest. “I’m so tired, Ambessa.”

“I know,” she murmured, her voice full of quiet empathy. “But you don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here, I always will be.”

You whimpered a little, holding back tears as you sunk into her arms as she lied down on the bed with you, stroking the back of your head for comfort.

She stayed with you long into the night, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions. When sleep finally came, it was with the comforting knowledge that no matter how heavy the world felt, Ambessa would always be there to share the burden.

A/N: I got a peace offering to write this, loving it.

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recursive-muse · 2 days ago

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Well I suppose to start off, obviously trans misogyny "isn't real" it's not made of matter, it exists in a very loose sense as a general pattern of discriminatory and cruel behavior directed mostly, but not exclusively at trans women. But I suppose you'd want me to ask you how can something that isn't even made of matter have definitive qualities? It can't be set in stone or 'definitive' any more than Christmas or the qualities of a unicorn can be.

So while you can be correct or incorrect about the particular details of an instance of discrimination experienced by a particular person (be they trans or otherwise). There are no concrete rules as to how anyone is discriminated against, just general guidelines that people learn from each other by watching their behavior.

So I suppose it's true that if you insist on narrowly defining trans misogyny as a form of discrimination that is both a) uniquely experienced by trans women, and b) defined by trans women as a collective. Then it's true that no such thing exists as the particulars of how and why discrimination is doled out are decided by the discriminator in the instance of discrimination, and instances of mistaken identity are fairly common (i.e. a trans man or cis woman could be mistaken for a trans woman, or vice versa).

What's more, It's not at all clear how you intend for point b of your definition of trans misogyny to work. Do all trans women need to attend a meeting to agree on the definition, do they put it to a vote or is it by consensus, and if it is how much variance in the understanding of the definition is tolerable? How closely does someone have to identify with womanhood to count as part of this community and how many members need to be present for them to hold quorum?

This is all of course in jest, we both know there is no one definition of trans misogyny that all trans women agree to, there are some generalities but every definition has its detractors and there is no binding consensus. This too is another vague social construct that lacks definitive qualities.

As for your conjecture that I am either 'misusing' or 'misdefining' the word trans misogyny which you somewhat unhelpfully declined to define yourself. I don't see how that's possible when language itself is socially constructed. Now yes, there are prescriptive, academic, and dictionary definitions, all of which can be quite helpful in clarifying what we mean when we use certain words. But as I'm sure you've noticed with slang people can say whatever they like and meen whatever they like by it and as long as they're understood by some subset of the population they've successfully used language. Now I know it's tempting to say that slang isn't 'official', but as you may have guessed the official quality of anything is also socially constructed (see aren't social constructs fun, we're 'surrounded' by them all the time and yet we hardly ever get around to recognizing them as such). As again I'm sure you've noticed definitions can vary from one dictionary to the next and academics themselves can quarrel over the precise details of any given definition, while still agreeing on the broader points. So there are no 'definitive' definitions just ones that are agreed upon by groups of experts, but even then who gets to be an expert, how much schooling do they need, if groups disagree how should they resolve their differences? These questions have plenty of practical answers, but no correct ones.

You also seem to imply that you have some sort of information that I lack which would better clarify your point. Now I very much doubt that, but I suppose you can claim it to be true, I don't care. Then you imply that my points are for some reason 'despicable' I'm guessing you want me to interpret this as some sort of unsubstantiated moral claim, tho I don't understand what you mean by it. Honestly, I see it as an emotional reaction to my position different from your own, or perhaps you simply dislike my phrasing. Either way, my positions are correct and I don't care why you dislike them, they are factual after all.

To round this out I'll clarify two more points for you. I'm gender fluid, and I have a degree in sociology. So there, I hope this hasn't ruined your day or anything. Personally I don't really think that matters, but there it is.

“everyone talking about transmisogyny is a binary trans woman, as evidenced by the fact that I assume everyone talking about transmisogyny is a binary trans woman”

sigh

#Well I sincerely hope you didn't think I was done

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ka1rin · 1 day ago

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Blue Lock Romantic Tropes

isagi, kaiser, sae, rin, reo, nagi x reader (separate)

word count: 1.1k , genre: romance / fluff

note: this story is about what romantic trope would suit these Blue Lock characters. I hope you guys love this!

Isagi Yoichi — Childhood Friends

Yoichi Isagi had always been head over heels for her—though he didn’t realize it until it was almost too late. She’d been his best friend for as long as he could remember. She was the one who stayed after practice to kick a ball around when no one else would, the one who always seemed to know exactly what to say after a tough game.

But lately, everything felt different. He couldn’t stop noticing the way her hair caught the sunlight or the way her laughter softened the edges of a bad day. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t just his best friend anymore.

They walked home together like always, her voice filling the air with stories about her day. Isagi barely heard a word. His mind was somewhere else, lost in thoughts he didn’t have the courage to say out loud.

When they reached her street, she stopped and turned to face him. “You’re quieter than usual. What’s up?”

He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. “Do you ever think about the future?”

Her brow furrowed. “Sure. Why?”

“I mean… us,” he said softly, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “Do you ever think about where we’ll end up?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. “What are you trying to say, Yoichi?”

“I think—no, I know—I want you in my future,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just as my best friend, but as… something more.”

Michael Kaiser — Enemies to Lovers

Michael Kaiser had never believed in losing. In his mind, every match, every argument, every moment in life was a game to be won. That’s why she infuriated him so much. She wasn’t interested in playing by his rules.

From the moment they met, she challenged him—both on and off the field. She had a knack for seeing through his façade, stripping away the charm he used so effortlessly on everyone else. At first, he hated it. Then he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

One evening, after yet another clash on the pitch, he found her sitting alone in the stands. The moonlight caught the curve of her profile, making her look softer than he was used to seeing.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

“Maybe I’m trying to figure you out,” he replied, sliding onto the bench beside her.

“You won’t,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re not as good at reading people as you think.”

Kaiser smirked, leaning back on his elbows. “And you’re not as immune to me as you pretend to be.”

Her lips twitched, but she said nothing.

For the first time, Kaiser felt like this wasn’t a game he could win—or one he wanted to.

Sae Itoshi — Second Chance

Sae Itoshi had always been good at letting go. Whether it was friends, family, or teammates, he had a way of detaching himself from people, of moving forward without looking back.

But she was different.

She’d been his calm in the storm, the person who grounded him when the pressure of his career threatened to swallow him whole. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on her until the day he walked away, convincing himself it was for the best.

Now, years later, she stood before him at the airport, looking as composed as ever. His pulse quickened at the sight of her, and for the first time in a long while, Sae felt unsure of himself.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly, studying him like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.

“Not enough,” he admitted, his voice steady but quiet.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced away. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay away,” he confessed. “Because letting you go was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

Rin Itoshi — Sun and Moon

Rin Itoshi didn’t believe in distractions. He’d built his life around focus and discipline, shutting out anything that might interfere with his pursuit of perfection.

Then she came along.

She was everything he wasn’t—bright, cheerful, and completely unafraid to push her way into his life. At first, Rin had found her presence irritating, but over time, he started to notice the small things: the way she always brought him water during practice, the way her laughter filled the empty spaces of his world.

One afternoon, as they sat in the park, she turned to him with a mischievous grin. “You should smile more, you know. It’s not illegal.”

He frowned, looking away. “Why does it matter?”

“Because it suits you,” she said simply, leaning back against the bench.

Rin’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know how to explain that smiling felt foreign to him—except when she was around.

Reo Mikage — Unrequited Love

Reo Mikage had always been drawn to her. She was different from everyone else in his life, uninterested in his money or his status. She treated him like an equal, never hesitating to call him out when he deserved it.

He’d fallen for her quietly, keeping his feelings to himself out of fear that she’d never see him the way he saw her. Still, he stayed by her side, always there when she needed him, hoping one day she might look at him differently.

One evening, as they sat together in a quiet café, she broke the silence. “Reo, why are you always here for me?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you’ve never asked for anything in return,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Why?”

Reo hesitated, his heart pounding. “Because you’re important to me. That’s all.”

Her gaze lingered on him, and for the first time, he thought he saw something shift in her eyes.

Nagi Seishiro — Forced Proximity

Seishiro Nagi didn’t like effort. He preferred simplicity, staying in his comfort zone, and avoiding anything that felt like too much work.

So when she moved into his apartment as his new roommate, he wasn’t thrilled. She was loud, messy, and always finding ways to drag him into her whirlwind of energy. At first, he counted the days until she’d leave. But as time passed, he started to notice the way her laughter brightened the dull moments, the way she always made sure he had dinner even if she didn’t cook for herself.

One night, as they sat on the floor eating instant ramen, she looked over at him and smiled. “You’re not so bad to live with, you know.”

Nagi shrugged, his usual indifference masking the warmth spreading through his chest. “You’re okay too, I guess.”

She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Wow, such high praise.”

He glanced at her, his voice softer than usual. “I mean it. I don’t mind you being here.”

Her laughter faded, and she looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, Nagi felt like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

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peaterookie · 11 hours ago

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I made some designs of the lupgang if they were in the world of kirby, and attempted to draw them in the style of the KSSU's key artwork!

More tidbits about their story and design will be revealed after I show the art

beware it is very long

LUPIN DEE THIRD

Lupin, or Lupin Dee Third as I call this character, is a Key Dee, a class of Waddle Dees you commonly see in KRTDL carrying a key as part of a puzzle. The reason I chose this guy over the typical Waddle Dee is because he has the monki-est design out of all dees, and I find that the fact it holds a key for any gate is pretty fitting for Lupin since he can surpass any challenges, no matter how impossible it seems.

His jacket color can be any of the ones in canon, but I chose green to be the main color he sports since it's a good reflection of the Kirby series. A lot of the locations are taken from nature and the peaceful and joyful themes lends the green jacket fitting very nicely. Red is too much of an aggressive color, while pink and blue don't seem as fitting either. Also, I wanted the jacket to share the same color as the money in the illustration, it's much less work if there's less color...!

Lupin Dee Third is a famous thief that travels across different planets to steal whatever he pleases. Often it is extremely valuable objects belonging to very pretigious or powerful people, which makes him become one of the most wanted criminals in Gamble Galaxy. He stores all of the things he's stolen in a secret place where nobody has found yet.

His combat capabilities is not much to be desired, so he relies heavily on the other members of his team to fight for him. However, he has the special ability to take an ability from another person and use it himself. It is not to the extent of Kirby's ability where he can use it as long as he likes and has full mastery over it, but it comes in the form of short bursts such as pouring a stream of water using the Water ability, or propelling himself into the air for a short moment with the Jet ability. He has an arsenal of these abilities kept in his backpockets at all times, so whenever you think you've cornered him, he always has a last minute surprise for you.

MR. DOOMENSION

Jigen, or Mr. Doomension, is a Waddle Doo with a goofy beard. There wasn't much thought behind my decision to make him a Doo iirc, I saw that it would fit to have him be a species that is a counterpart of Lupin's, since in canon they have pretty similar designs. The one eye makes him more menacing and mysterious anyway so it kinda just works lol

Since I wanted his body to be black, his clothes had to be a different color to appear striking. Thus, I've chosen blue, since its a rightfully common color to use for Jigen, and the accent as orange, the complimentary color for blue. Lastly, the shoes being black and shiny makes him appear much more professional and cool than Lupin, which he totally is.

Mr. Doomension primarily fights with his gun instead of using his eyes to fire his beams. He's always had an affinity to them when he was young, as he claims it allows him to focus and fire more accurate and powerful shots. Though he does load bullets in them, he is able to channel his beams through these guns as well. I'd like to believe that Waddle Doos can channel their beams through other body parts or objects (like Kirby) but choose to use their eyes since it's the biggest part of their body, thus more convenient. Mr. Doomension is built different however.

Much like in canon, he first met Lupin during an attempt to assassinate him for money. In Lupin fashion he ends up befriending the person that tried to kill him and they became close partners in crime, with Jigen always backing him up even in the toughest situations.

COMET RONIN / GOEMON

Goemon Ishikawa's kirby design has multiple names. He is commonly referred to as the Comet Ronin, since a famous story told of him cutting a giant comet into pieces to save a town. His real name is Goemon, but few know this name- or anything about him for that matter. He travels alone from town to town, fully cloaked so no one can see his face, requests food and shelter for the night, and disappears the next day. It was like that for years, until Lupin stole something that caught his eye.

---

ayeee its goemon time. He has two versions of his design because he is that cool.

When first thinking of concepts, I knew I wanted to design him in a way where he is able to resemble one of Kirby's multiple knight characters, but also still be able to look like his friendly and cute manga design. I decided to lean much more into his ninja-ronin-like inspirations, since the kirby series very often likes to be straightforward with their designs. I gave him the straw hat that he wore in Fuma Conspiracy to cover his head, and made his hakama into a cape that he can use to cover the bottom half of his body. The rest are typical japanese stuff. The artwork I drew for his cloaked form tries make him look as imposing and mysterious as possible. You know nothing about him, you have no idea what he is capable of.

---

Lupin recently stole another priced object: The Ryusei, a sword forged by meteorites, an heirloom from a family long forgotten from history. It seems like an ordinary sword at first sight, but if a member from the family wield it, they would unlock the power to cut anything. It ended up being sealed away due to the fear of that power being end up in the wrong hands. Goemon's life mission was to reclaim that sword for his family for the greater good, and now that blasted thief has gotten it!!! From then on Lupin and Doomension were always being chased by the Comet Ronin for reasons completely unknown for them, and eventually the ronin succeeds in taking back that sword, along with taking out the thieves for good... or did he?

The two thieves thankfully survived, but their car did not!! It was sliced in half by the ronin, and now they will be the one coming to him with vengeance. Taking the opportunity to take back the sword while Goemon's guard is down, the two get to see his real face and both sides fight it out, unbridled with anger. Thankfully after pummeling each other with their little nubs, they talk it out and come to an understanding. Goemon gets his sword back and the gang gets some money to repair their car, and they become friends yayyyyy

---

So for Goemon's real form, I decided to have his body purple to match the color of Ninja Kirby from KSSU. His hair is a little nod to Discarded Character-kun (the hairball MP draws), and the eyes are much different than the usual type you see from puffball characters. I wanted him to still appear youthful and cute but have a determined look in his eyes, so I used the eyes that Bronto Burt and Burnin Leo has to better show that.

Also, he is supposed to have white wings with black tipped feather, but I sorta forgot to draw that so I might upload future sketches that go further into little details about their designs, where I'll draw his wings then.

If you read the entire thing- that's fucking wild dude this is so long, but thank you!!! and I hope you enjoyed it!! byebye

#kirby #lupin iii #lupin the third #peaterookie art #goemon ishikawa xiii #jigen daisuke #waddle dee #waddle doo #kirby fanart #peater rambles #peater oc #lupin au

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genderqueerdykes · 2 days ago

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How to deal w a longtime friend that at some point became a radfem? I was bad at recognising it back then when there were clear signs and didnt know how to argue, so i stayed passive and argeeable, esp since im a nonbinary guy n shes a (sorta questioning) cis girl.

When i showed discomfort with her doing the "i hate all men" type stuff she's said "omg you're not one of those 'not all men' types" and bc i didnt know at the time i backed off, n she also mentioned how she sees/treats both trans men n cis men the same

I mean ive always felt like she's treated me that way, or that i felt like i needed to stay silent or had more priviledge when around her, despite being pre-everything and pr much closeted in my everyday life, or felt more like i was a binary man around her when im not

She has also been sorta weirdly sex/kink negative or made fun of it, for some time i figured that it was just a bit bc of her being sex repulsed n her being immature, but i still felt sorta more ashamed regarding my kinkiness/sexuality around her when not (were both on the aroace spectrum, though i figured out more recently)

Also parroting radfem rhetoric about "well the sex industry is harmful" (..every capitalistic industry is harmful) and when mentioning kinks/fetishes for some reason often brought up "but what about those kinks where people get off to women starving themselves/having problems w their weight" which is like?? Yea okay if they are doing that to real people thats bad but like what kink/fetish spaces do you hang out in where that would be the first thing you'd bring up??

I also once remember her mentioning that she felt weird about her own connection to masculinity, which i sussed and esp now sus might be due to her being this man-hating

She's told me "you don't have an issue w the 'man vs bear' thing since you're a guy right?" but i didnt feel like arguing at that time so i just agreed and quickly moved onto another subject

Looking back at older texts, she's also said before that im "one of the few men she actually respects"

I've realised how harmful and bull radfem rhetoric is now, n i want to keep a distance from her, but idk how to deal w it bc ive always been the more agreeable and peace-keeping one between us

i'm so sorry you had to go through this. radfems are possessive of the identities of everyone around them to the point of coming up with the most asinine bullshit to make other people feel insecure and question themselves and just go along with whatever the hell they're saying. it's toxic and abusive.

whenever i talk about transmasculine and trans male issues, i get those "oh you're one of those not all men types" as well. it's such a useless thing to say. like if the thing you're opposing is people making blanket statements about women and being treated like a monolith, why are you doing it to someone else? that's the example you're setting, but yet you expect different treatment? double standard.

the sex & kink negativity in radfeminism is exhausting, too. it's not progressive. a lot of people choose to go into sex work and enjoy it. some don't mind it. some are okay with that being their job. a lot of people are exploited, but not everyone is. like you said, it's the capitalist corruption of these industry that causes problems. like you said, people instantly jump to the worst possible conclusion when the subject of kink comes up

the normal song and dance is "men who are into BDSM are only straight guys who are misogynistic and want to beat women. women who are into BDSM are scared and confused and being taken advantage of and are enabling abusive men." they have very few arguments and they're all so far out of left field that it's not relevant to the type of conversation you're having in that moment. making blanket statements about all kinky people being abusive in some way... that's profiling.

at this point its your choice if you continue to interact with her. if you do, you are allowed to stand your ground and tell her that those kinds of things make you very uncomfortable and that it's just not okay. if she can't handle that, then it's not your job to try to change her mind. if she cares about you, she'll treat you with respect. i hope that's the case, but you don't owe time or energy to people who treat you like garbage. good luck, stay safe

#asks #answers #examples of radfeminism

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 2 days ago

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63 and Stobin please!

and when I crawl out in the morning (can I stay inside your head?)

Steve Harrington & Robin Buckley || ~2k || Implied/Reference Child Abuse || Minor Character Death || Good Friend Robin Buckley || Blood and Gore || Off-screen Violence

Robin’s sitting atop the kitchen counter, all the lights off aside from the one above the stove, just enough to cast ominous shadows against the cupboards. Her parents have been asleep for hours, but something’s keeping her up—a restlessness running through her, making her legs twitch, heels clacking against the cupboard doors noisily.

She’s antsy, toes flexing with the desire to run. She recognizes the feeling from being trapped beneath Starcourt, from flinging fireworks at a monster straight from a little kid’s nightmares.

There’d been something to do then, something to run toward, or flee from. She’s not sure what to do with that same urge at one in the morning alone in her kitchen.

The question is answered when the phone rings. Her hand moves immediately, reaching behind herself to snatch it off the wall without having to move from her perch atop the counter, so fast it doesn’t even finish its first ring.

“Hello?” she says down the open line.

Her blood courses through her veins as she listens to the steady, crackling breathing, phone pressed hard enough to the side of her face that it hurts.

She’s just about to say hello again, hoping the person on the other side of the line will finally say something back, but then Steve’s voice comes through, strangely flat as he asks, “can you come over?”

This happens a lot late at night, Steve calling her for one reason or another. Sometimes it’s nightmares, or he’s just bored, or he misses her too much to function. She comes over, always, but that’s not what he says, how he asks.

He should be saying, “can I pick you up?” with only his tone of voice giving away what he needs. But, that’s not what he asked, and he’s got no tone of voice at all.

“Be there in five,” she says, not waiting for a response before she hangs up the phone, barely pausing to shove her feet into the sneakers she’d left by the front door before bursting into the quiet of a night in the suburbs.

It’s an eight minute bike ride to Steve’s house from hers, but Robin’s got a heartbeat in her thighs, she’s pedaling so hard. There are no cars on the road, so she forgoes the bumpy sidewalk and rides in the middle of the street, her mom’s voice an easily ignored phantom chiding in the back of her head.

She never rides her bike at night, and as the shadows of branching trees creep across the pavement, illuminated by distant porch lights, she vows to never, ever do it again.

But she knows, deep down in her sternum where Steve lives that if he calls, she’ll always come.

The spokes of her bike click as she coasts it all the way up Steve’s driveway, not even bothering to hit the brakes as she jumps up and lets it drop carelessly right up against the house. It’s still clattering against the pavement as she flings open his front door without a knock.

“Steve?” she calls, voice ragged with exertion and all the fear crawling up her throat. “Where are you?”

In contrast to her pitchy tone, Steve’s is without inflection as he says, “in the kitchen,” quiet enough that if the house wasn’t silent, she might not have heard it at all.

Robin goes to take off her shoes to line them up neatly beside the rest, but there, right by Steve’s pristine white tennis shoes, are a pair of polished dress shoes, too big to ever belong to Steve.

She doesn’t bother taking her own off, that same instinct that had kept her awake and by the phone so late at night urging her to keep them on.

The light in the Harrington’s kitchen has always been fluorescent, bright enough to reflect off the pristine white tiles, casting the entire space in stark relief.

The first thing she sees is Steve’s back. He’s sitting at one of the tall bar stools pushed up against the island counter. He’s in his own seat, her usual spot sitting vacant at his side. That’s where they sit when they’re eating meals too messy for the couch, neither of them fond of the giant, stuffy table situated in the dining room.

Steve’s not eating right now.

As she takes slow, measured steps toward him, she catches sight of his hands. They’re clasped together, grip tight enough that she can see the loose skin against his knuckles wrinkling up, cracking the drying blood coating them. She takes a few more steps, and his side profile comes into view, and there’s blood on his face, too, splattered against it like someone had scooped it up and flicked it at him.

Even his hair isn’t clean—red running through it, streaked like he’d run his bloody fingers through the strands. Or gotten a botched dye job at the salon.

She’s frozen, neither flight or fight taking over when there’s nothing to punch, nothing to run from, just Steve Harrington covered in enough blood that whatever wound he’s sustained must be fatal.

She should call someone; Robin never bothered to learn first aid.

But as she turns her gaze away from Steve, ready to rush to the phone, she catches sight of a socked foot, just barely poking out from behind the island. She stares at it, transfixed, waiting for it to move, even a twitch. It shows no signs of life.

It’s only as she starts walking again, circling the island to catch sight of whatever’s hidden behind it, that Steve comes back to life. “Robin?” Steve asks, and when she turns back toward him, his eyes are big in his skull, the blood flecked across his face drawing out the red of the vessels in his eyes. He looks small, suddenly, like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, staring into his bloodshot eyes.

She waits as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the nervous moment. Only once he nods does Robin turn back around and take the final few steps to round the counter and stare down at the body the foot belongs to.

That’s what it is now, a body. It’s slack, collapsed on the floor, pose peaceful enough that Robin might think it was sleeping, if not for all the chunks missing. It’s only as she looks at the vestiges of a suit the body’s wearing that she remembers the shoes aligned neatly beside Steve’s own at the front door.

They’d match perfectly with the dressed down suit she sees in front of her, if it wasn’t for the blood all over the button-up, still perfectly tucked into wrinkle-free pants, despite what must have been quite a struggle based on the way the white fabric’s shredded, hints of mincemeat poking through.

She’s never met the man, but this must be Mr. Harrington. He’d been alive last she’d heard, and now she can barely tell he’s a person at all. His face is almost gone, skull visible past the pulp that’s been made of him. He looks like the ground beef she sometimes picks up from the grocery store for her mom—not a man, just meat.

And as she stares down at the dead body, she’s terrified, suddenly, of what could have left those marks. Steve had told her about the Demogorgon that had burst through the Byers’ ceiling, the Demo-dogs that had circled him and the kids like they were the pack’s newest kill. He’d described claws, and teeth, and creatures designed to rend flesh from bone.

If a Demo-What’s-It had been the thing to kill Mr. Harrington, then they need to call the calvary, or it won’t just be Steve’s shitty dad laying dead and almost unrecognizable on the kitchen floor.

Her heart’s beating fast again, a frantic ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump beneath her ribcage as she tries to figure out who to call, what to do.

“I’m not sorry.” Steve’s deadened voice comes suddenly enough that Robin startles.

It’s as she’s turning around to face him that she sees it: there, dropped haphazardly in front of the sink is a baseball bat full of nails. There are bits of flesh stuck to the ends of the nails, blood coating the wood, new enough to still be dripping red.

The last time she’d seen it, it was beneath Steve’s bed.

She stares at it, and finally, things start to click into the place. There’s no Demo- anything, nothing to fight, no one to call, just a dead body, a murder weapon, and a mess to clean up.

“Okay,” she says, gaze still trained on the bat, but she’s barely looking at it anymore, eyes sightless as her mind ticks away, faster than she can keep up with. “Okay, okay, is your mom home?”

When she turns back toward Steve, the entire mess that is the Harrington’s kitchen now out of sight, Steve’s staring up at her with that same dead-eyed look. Robin doesn’t care, can’t when he’s alive in front of her, no monsters coming to kill him. That’s all that matters right now, him alive, and free, and by her side. They can deal with everything else later.

So, when he shakes his head—no witness, no second body—she’s hit with a relief so bone-deep, she almost collapses with it.

But there’s too much to do, so she shores up her legs and turns back around, sidestepping the spilled blood, and the body to get to the sink. Her shoe hits the bat and clatters noisily against the Harrington’s fancy tile. She ignores it to turn on the tap, wetting the dishrag until it’s dripping between her hands.

“Take off your clothes,” she says, walking around the whole mess again to get back to Steve’s side. He stays seated on the barstool, looking up at her with blank eyes she’d normally make fun of him for. “Good job doing this whole thing in the kitchen, dingus, but we’ve gotta get you clean.”

Steve stands up, still moving like a puppet, but it’s okay—Robin’s got all of his strings. He gets undressed without hesitation, movements mechanical as he strips off his t-shirt, pants, and underwear, letting each item drop to the tile until he’s standing in front of her, entirely naked.

She starts at the top of his head and works down, perfunctorily scrubbing at the blood caked into the hair on his head and chest alike. It flakes off to join the rest of the mess on the kitchen floor. It’s okay; she’ll clean it up.

Robin goes back to the sink to wet the rag twice, thorough enough to leave him pink but clean. He stays silent through the whole thing, barely twitching even when she scrubs hard enough that it must hurt. He’s quiet as she kneels between his legs, the only protest coming when she swipes at the bottom of his foot.

He twitches, entire body shaking as he yanks his foot free and puts it back down, keeping it hidden from her seeking fingers. She didn’t know he was ticklish.

“Can’t have you tracking any of this through the house,” Robin says, as she pries his foot back up off the ground. She’s relieved when he lets her. “I don��t know how to get blood out of white carpet.”

“I do,” Steve says, but he stays still as best he can while she wipes between his toes.

Once done, she stands up and stares at her best friend, pink and clean in all his naked glory.

“Go shower,” she says, dropping the rag onto the tile. It splats, full of water and all the blood she’d just rubbed off of his skin. “Wash your entire body three times, with a soap and rag. Hair, too.”

He still looks so far away, like even as he’s standing in front of her, she can’t quite reach him. She wants to touch so badly that it aches. She wants to wrap her arms around him, feel his heart beating against her own sternum, a constant thrum. Proof of life.

But there’s blood on her hands now, too, so she lets them drop to her sides, hanging uselessly as she asks, “can you do that for me?”

Steve nods, ready, always, to follow her directions. “What are you going to do?”

Robin turns away from him, the snapping of their locked gazes almost a physical sensation as she looks back toward the scene of the crime. She surveys the mess in the kitchen—the blood, the weapon, the body, and realizes there’s only one answer to his question.

“I’m going to fix it.”

And as Steve showers off the evidence of his crime, that’s exactly what she does.

I frankly Had To when I saw what song this was So! I hope you guys enjoy, and as always, shoutout to my beta @queenie-ofthe-void who managed to edit this literally minutes after I finished writing it. <3

#my fics #stobin #platonic stobin #robin buckley #steve harrington #this one was sooo soo fun to write

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eldritch-spouse · 3 days ago

Note

I’m hanging out in the sloth ring, on the phone quietly with a friend or something, nobody is paying me much attention so I don’t mind having a bit of a scandalous conversation in public:

“- look I adore somnophilia, I really do, but in practicality it doesn’t work. I wake up far too easily,”

Conversation moves on to other kinks or related topics, me not paying to much attention to who just overheard me.

[I don't exactly know if you were aiming at anyone here, so I rolled the dice.]

Sloth is a quiet Ring.

The lights are dimmed, sounds are muted, movement comes in bursts then settles, even the sky in this part of Hell appears darker to keep its residents sedated. And, sure enough, even a human like you feels tired, for no apparent reason, in the grounds of the slothful.

Precisely because of how quiet and still everything is, foreigners assume that they're safe, that no one is giving them an ounce of scrutiny and there's hardly a need to watch themselves.

Any good prey knows that the absence of sound is trouble.

Closed eyes and softly rising chests don't mean anything. The streets are lively, you just can't tell.

Absorbed in conversation, you've been walking gradually slower, until you all but halted in the middle of the sidewalk. Sloth expects people to want to lay down just about anywhere, so you had a seat waiting for you.

Little did you know, you were right in front of a demoness' hair salon.

Lucidia takes her time to work, she'll admit it, but the benefit of such is that she can put her professional perfectionism in front of everything, the knowledge of her success helping her through the sludge that is cleaning up after a client. She'd been sweeping snipped hair off the floor when she noticed you out front.

You talk loudly. Foreigners always do. Shamelessly too. The woman subtly evaluates you from top to bottom.

It's impossible to tell, but Luci assumes you're here to visit someone, everything about you screams 'excited to be here'. You're decently dressed, and when you turn your head around a bit, she finds beautiful features on a human complexion. It's a shame that, having such natural beauty, you walk around with such lackluster hair.

The demoness blinks when the topic of your conversation becomes increasingly obscene. She's sure the neighboring businesses are hearing this too.

Somnophilia...? Someone's going to approach you sooner or later. You're dumb.

Did you come here for the experience? Because your surfacer bedfriends can't do it properly? You certainly sound frustrated about it. Lucidia murmurs to herself that this could be a trap, that you're intentionally baiting slothfolk to come onto you because you know they can keep you under, they can make your fantasy a reality.

But even then, you're so ignorant.

What makes you think they'd stop at touching you in your sleep? What makes you think they'd have any reason to let go of you when you're at your most vulnerable? You could never wake up again, if they wanted to feed off you for as long as possible. The number of horrid things that could happen to someone as airheaded as you if you were to fall into opportunistic hands is endless.

Your conversation seems to die out when another demon exits a store from across the street, staring at you knowingly.

Luci doesn't realize she's moving until she's nearly fogging the hair salon window, glowering wordlessly behind you, at the other stranger. Adrenaline irritates her, she likes to avoid it, but the woman definitely feels her heart hammer in her chest at the thought of someone coming over and trying to mess with you.

They seem to get the message, looking between you and her, then hurrying down the street.

Lucidia sighs almost gutturally, and decides you can't be outside for much longer.

The demoness may be tall, yet her footsteps are near soundless. She settles beside you casually on the sidewalk, getting to stare you over again for several moments until you take note of the shadow suddenly cast onto you.

" Hello... " She greets softly and quietly when you appear to startle. " Do you want to sit... Inside? "

While you hesitate to answer, Luci can almost see the sweat starting to form on your forehead.

" ... It'll get dark soon. Things'll... Pick up. "

You don't respond again, some lost 'hum's and 'ha's escaping.

" Your conversation... I heard it. " She doesn't bother to hide a small smile when you pale a couple shades. " So did the whole street... If I had to guess. "

" Oh God- " You murmur under your breath.

" ... Let me style your hair. " She daringly suggests, threading a long-fingered hand through locks of it. " I won't let anyone bother you... "

Anyone but herself, naturally.

If you just so happened to doze off while Lucidia carefully shapes your hair, then who is she not to give you just a little taste of what you so shamelessly crave?

There's no hiding the rumbles of satisfaction when you nod quickly and let her lead you into the hair salon, the chime of a little bell signaling Luci's victory.

#demon girlfriendss #vaya-mernda

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in1-nutshell · 18 hours ago

Note

Can we have G1 Ophelia please? You can choose to write her with Ironhold or not(o^▽^o)

Ironhold is in this one!

Hop you enjoy!

G1 Ophelia (Ft. Ironhold)

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Hinted Romance, Cybertronian reader

Ironhold was not the only child Megatron had.

The war lord had another child of his in the ranks.

Chief archivist of the Nemesis.

Soundwave’s right-hand Con on the Nemesis.

Megatron’s eldest daughter and potential heir to the Decepticon army.

Ophelia the minibot.

Many Cons often forgot that Ophelia was their leader’s daughter with how… different she was.

With Ironhold, things made sense.

They were tall, a great warrior, feared by the enemy, and loyal to the Decepticon cause.

Even their little soft spot for humans was overshadowed by their achievements.

Ophelia was the opposite of Lord Megatron.

She was small, a decent fighter, kind, soft spoken, and someone easily forgotten.

Her soft spot for humans as clear as day.

Spike and Mirage escaping from Decepticon base. They turn the corner and barrel into Ophelia who was carrying a stack of data pads. Ophelia rubs her helm in pain. Ophelia: “Do you mind watching where you’re going next time Mirage!” Mirage: “Umm… do I know you?” Ophelia: “You broke into the base last week. You heard my name.” Spike: “Umm…” Ophelia: “Spike, you were kidnapped yesterday. I introduced myself to you 7 times!” Spike: “… Rumble?” Ophelia blinks slowly before facepalming. Ophelia: “Next door to your right, you’ll find the exit.” Ophelia stands up with all the collected data pads. Mirage pulls out his blaster. Mirage: “Freeze! You’re not telling the Decepticons anything!” Ophelia sighs tiredly. Ophelia: “Its too early for this… they are not going to be happy about this…” Meanwhile outside the base with Ironhold. The ‘Sibling Sense’ starts tingling. Ironhold: “…Ophelia needs me!”

While Ophelia did not achieve battle victories for Megatron, her victories in the achieves and on deck medic made up for it.

Megatron was proud of both his children.

Both making so much progress for the Decepticon cause!

Is secretly happy that Ophelia stayed the same size.

He already had enough trouble with Ironhold being taller than him.

The War lord does not tolerate anyone disrespecting his children.

Last Con who tried to disrespect Ophelia got a beating of a lifetime from Megatron and Ironhold.

He did try to take Ophelia to train, but Ironhold never allowed them both to fight.

Megatron and Ironhold are in a room by themselves. Megatron: “Where are you hiding her this time?” Ironhold: “Not telling you.” Megatron: “Ironhold, she needs to understand how to fight. If you haven’t forgotten, we are at war! Would you rather have her depend on you to fight her battles?” Ironhold: “Yes! She shouldn’t even be near the fights! And I just know that your ‘training’ is aligned with bots of your stature.” Ironhold sighs a bit before crossing their arms. Ironhold: “Look me in the optics and tell me you weren’t planning on training her like you did with me?” Megatron: “Iron—” Ironhold: “Look at me and tell me you’ve taken her size into account!” There is a harsh silence. Ironhold: “… She isn’t like me or any of the bots you’ve trained before Father. One wrong move during training and it could be detrimental to her. Imagine the look of fear she’ll have when she sees you after hurting her?” They let out a tired vent and uncrosses their arms. Megatron is silent and places a servo on their shoulder. Megatron: “… All right, you win. I won’t teach her.” Ironhold blinks a bit in surprise. Megatron: “But only if she is to be accompanied by a trusted Decepticon at all times or—Ironhold! Are you even listening?!” Ironhold has a datapad out and is rapid messaging on it. Ironhold: “And done! Ophelia officially has a bodyguard!”

His name was Steve.

A Vechicon that had recently been transferred to Earth.

Ironhold trusted the Vehicon enough to leave him with Ophelia, not like she needed the protection.

They would be there to fight for her.

Ironhold loved their sister with all their spark, but they weren’t going to actually say it.

Instead opts to show ingthe love through acts and quality time.

Ophelia is walking with Megatron and Ironhold. More Ophelia speed walking trying to keep up with the others. Ironhold stops for a second before snatching Ophelia up from the back. Ophelia: “ACK! Ironhold! What have I told you about doing that out of no where!” Ironhold places her on their shoulders. Ironhold: “Not to.” Ophelia: “And what did you do?” Ironhold: “Did it and I’d do it again.” Ophelia playfully whacks their helm. Megatron smiles a bit at them. Later… Ophelia is in her habsuite when Ironhold barges in. Ophelia: “Iron—WOAH!” Ironhold flops down on her berth, narrowly missing the minibot. Ophelia: “Umm… ‘Hold? Are you okay?” Ironhold groans before scooting closer to Ophelia’s side and burying their face in her lap. Ophelia’s optics furrow in concern and gently starts subbing small circles on her younger siblings helm. Ophelia: “… You want to talk about it?” The shake in her lap gave her the answer. Ophelia sighs and does her best to hug Ironhold’s helm. Ophelia: “Stay as long as you want ‘Hold. I gottcha… I gottcha…”

Ophelia was often forgotten in her sibling’s shadow, but she is just happy that they are happy.

They deserve some happiness in this war.

The minibot is the first to know about Ironhold’s crush Rumble.

Does she tease them?

Yes, but it’s all lighthearted.

Does she play as Ironhold’s wingbot?

Also, yes!

Has she given Rumble the shovel talk because Megatron is too dense to know that his youngest has feelings?

Yes!

Rumble left that talk seeing a part of Megatron installed in the minibot.

Ironhold still doesn’t know that Ophelia did this and will stay that way.

Places bets with the other minibots and Soundwave on who was going to confess first.

Ophelia is happy Ironhold found someone to call their own.

Not that she would find someone someday…

Steve walks over to Ophelia. Steve: “Did you win the bet?” Ophelia: “Not exactly, everyone was off by a bit on the date.” Steve: “That sucks.” Ophelia sighs. Ophelia: “Welp, its over now. C’mon, I need some help in getting these crates to the Main room.” Steve: “Sure!” Both walk and chat as they head to get the crates. Soundwave and the cassettes in the distance. Soundwave: “Frenzy: Contact Rumble and Ironhold.” Frenzy: “For what Boss?” Soundwave: “Operation: Not Hamlet. Bets must be placed.”

#maccadam #transformers x reader #bot buddy #transformers g1 x platonic reader #g1 x platonic reader #transformers g1 x reader #ironhold #g1 ophelia #ophelia

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romana-after-dark · 3 days ago

Text

Our Gentle Sins: Part 13

Thank you so so so much to @plasticbabies for making this beautiful header!!!! we finally have a good one!

Dark!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Series Masterlist : Main Masterlist : Logan Masterlist

Spotify Playlist

Follow @romana-updates and click follow, join my tumblr community or ask to join the tag list to keep up!

Buy Me A Coffee : Kofi : Go Fund Me

Chapter summary: Past. Dolly is a part of a family. Present. Seeing Stevie

Warnings: This fic features non con, pregnancy, and themes of religious trauma. I will not be saying everything that happens to warm you, by clicking read more you are prepared for extremely dark themes and that you at 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

a/n: PAST is a short chapter. the floor of the next few chapters is.... bad?? so im trying to chop it all up the way its best but its so hard trying ot match themes up with the before and after ;-; so im sorry. I feel like this chapter was boring.

Before

You tried, he really fucking tried to go back to normal after that, but ever since kissing you, feeling you body… things became more charged than normal.

You sat closer to him now, his body warm and inviting and buzzing with energy with everyone piling into the media room to watch a movie. Earlier today, Remy came into your room while you taught, trying to rally everyone together for a movie night.

You hear the door creek and glance over, smiling when you see Remy’s black and red eyes popping through the cracked door. Waving him in, you continue with the lesson. At 6’1 but not built too wide, Remy would not be out of place in your height school class seats…

Unfortunately, he was sitting in on your small elementary class.

Most mutations manifest with puberty, but some, especially second generation mutants, have the x gene activated much earlier. Your class was small, small enough you usually had to figure out how to teach content at 3 different grades at the same time… You couldn’t have a whole class just for the one 1st grader. When Remy came in, you were getting ready to read a book. You explained that each of the grades would have an assignment based off the book, and what each grade should be thinking about during the book, but to try and concentrate on the story first and foremost.

“I’ll be doing a think-aloud, so I will be modeling to you how readers think through books as we go.” You don’t have any degree, but you've been doing research on how to be an effective teacher.

Remy listened intently, looking like he’s about to REALLY enjoy the story, but you have some mercy. His legs look like they are losing circulation.

“Okay friends, how about we read the book on the carpet.” The kids erupted into cheers. “IF we can show Mr. LeBeau out best quiet feed and listening ears, okay?”

It was not very quiet, but they didn’t run.

“Mr. Lobo!” Said Micheal, not watching where he was going. “Are you and Miss Palmer in wuv?”

Remy bursts out in laughter, while your face burns red, quickly apologizing to Remy and trying to quell the kids.

“No!” Another kid, Katy, piped up. “She loves Mr. Howlett!”

Remy was no help, your handful of students arguing that you were in love with “Mr. LeBeau”, “Mr. Howlett”, “Mr. Summers” and even one kid asked about “Miss Grey”, which felt like the start of a very convoluted love… square?

“1, 2, 3, eyes on me!”

The children chimed back. “1, 2, eyes on you.”

“Okayyyy” You cleared your throat. “You guys don’t need to worry about who loves who. Me and Mr. LeBeau are just friends, and he is going to model good listening for me.”

30 minutes later, Remy did not model good listening, but he did at least help the younger kids with their assignment, so there was that.

“You’re a pain, you know that?” You tidy up before heading to the high school English room. This room was used for most subjects so the elementary school so most of your kids just stayed in the room coloring or reading or talking.

“A pain in your ass?” He whispered, and you gasped in response, smacking him with crumple cardboard paper.

“Hey! I whispered!” But he stopped swearing. “I wanna have a movie night with all of us, are you in?”

As much fun as it sounded, big groups of friends still made you nervous. Remy was friends with everyone, and although no one had treated you badly, there were people you knew still thought you were weird. They weren’t wrong. Moreso, it was hard with a large group of people who all were friends together. Then there was you. Last week's dance was enough for a little while. “Whose all coming?”

“Well, Logan of course, but I think he’s assuming you’ll be there.” He answered, and smirked at your little smile. “Kurt and Ororo said yes, Hank said maybe, you know how he gets caught up in his work, and I’m gonna invite Scott and Jean after you tell me yes because you love me so much????”

Your head sank a little at that. You liked Scott a lot, and Jean was always kind to you. You had no reason to dislike them…

“I don’t… I don’t think I can make it. Papers to grade and all that…”

Remy’s face crumbled. “Why? What? Too many people? I’ll uninvite everyone!! I’ll grade all the papers! Pistache, you’re the one I actually want there!”

You don’t know what to do with that. You knew Remy loved you, and that he was your good friend, but you weren’t used to someone choosing you first.

“It’s just… Well, don’t uninvite people, that’s crazy.”

“But I want you to come! What is it?”

He was too loud, some of the kids were trying to eavesdrop (nosy little things. You loved ‘em.) so you pull him off to the side, talking quieter.

“It’s just… Scott…”

Remy frowned at that, a little concern on his face. “What, has he given you problems? I thought he’d be understanding, knowing he knows what you-” But then he stops himself.

You almost missed it. Pinching your brows, you shake your head, “N-no, Remy, he’s fine- he- it’s Logan and Scott, Remy, come on. The fight?”

He relaxed. “Oh. Well, aren’t they over it?”

Over it? You don’t think they’d ever be over it. There was never friendship, never something to rebuild, only jealousy, anger, and a little bit of attempted murder.

You sigh, pinching your brow. “Remy. Logan tried to kill him. Scott keeps accusing him of abusing me. Logan slept with his wife. Scott accused him of m-o-l-e-s-t-i-n-g Rogue”

“Wait, what?”

“I can’t expect them to get along. And if Jean’s in the mix I- Remy, why would you want to invite all three of them?? Are you trying to start another fight?” The tone was harsher than you wanted it to be, but you’d had an intense week, and he gave you a piece of information you weren’t sure what to do with.

Your friend in front of you completely deflated, his normally happy face falling and his red eyes looking down. “Yeah, you’re right… I didn't think it through…”

You instantly felt bad. How could you be so mean to Remy? Sweet, sweet Remy? Remy who’d been there for you though it all. “I know. You’re friends with everyone, so you want everyone to be friends. I get it. I’m sorry.”

Remy gives you a small smile, seemingly recovered. “It’s alright, Pistache. What if I just don’t tell Scott and Jean? Or we could just watch something together? I uh… I heard from Rogue today. Got a letter and it… wasn’t very long, is all. Bit worried she’s forgotten about me in her grand adventures.” He gives a little laugh, but it’s nervous.

You consider the people coming, and decide it’s a small enough group. And Logan will be there, so you won’t be alone.

“Yeah, the movie sounds fun. Thanks for inviting me, Remy.”

You leaned against Logan, snuggled up to him comfortably as everyone found their spots. Kurt poofs in front of the large TV, see’s you in Logan’s arms, and his yellow eyes light up. “YAYYYYYY! Darauf habe ich gewartet!!” He teleports to you and Logan, squeezing both your cheek, poofing onto Logans shoulders to hug his whole head, then to behind the couch where he gave you a hug that clearly respected your personal space stuff.

“What are you on about, elf?” Logan pretends to be grumpy, but other than Wade, Kurt is his best friend.

He’s standing in front of you two again, grinning wildly and you can see his sharp teeth. “You two!” He gestures. “I’ve been knowing something is going on between you! Liebe, nein? I’m so happy it had finale happened!”

Morph threw a popcorn kernel at him. “Nothings happened yet. They are in denial.”

“We’re not in denial!” Logan barks, but he’s blushing. “We’re just…” he looks at you. “Taking it slow…”

“Oh.” Kurt’s shoulders drop. “Then… wat eez all dis?” He gestures to Logan’s arm around your shoulder.

You giggle. “Well, like he said, we’re not in denial.”

Kurt observes you for a second. “Mph. Well, dis eez… embarrassing for me, ja?”

You were about to protest when when Remy throw a pillow at him, yelling something about sitting down and shutting up. Kurt BAMF’d away, and reappeared on the armrest next to Logan.

“Dis guy.” Kurt gestures to Remy, whispering a little too loud. “Get’s broken up with vone time and he’s a mess.” He shimmers down between the arm rest and Logan, forcing the wide older man to scoot himself and you over, muttering, ‘well excuse me, I guess.’. Kurt settles into his spot opposite you, next to Logan. “Meanvile, I get broken up with, MANY TIMES! Including by him, and wat do I get!”

“We weren’t dating!”

“But you like to say I love you during sex, no? Oh, Kurt! Mo linm twa!” he mimicked, but the humor was in his voice, as it was in Remy’s as he retorts.

“At least I don’t pray the Hail Mary after sex!”

“At least I know the Hail Mary”

“I’m Cajun, do you really think I don’t know basic catholicism?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I just have catholic guilt about.”

“You could use a little guilt, mein freund.”

“I’ll leave that to Scott.”

Hank slaps the armrest of his seat. “If we’re not actually going to watch a movie-”

Remy and Kurt laugh, and Remy starts the movie.

As you watched, you couldn’t help think about how good life had gotten. A peaceful, easy feeling comes over you as you listen to Kurt and Remy whisper to each other the whole time, Logan telling them to ‘shut the hell up or I will stab you.’ Morph loudly booing the cheesy sex scene, and Hank letting all of us know what is impossibly and unrealistic in the movie. Things were good.

There was, however, a gnawing piece of your mind… it reminded you what Remy said. Scott knows. Scott knows what you’ve been through… or what you’ve done, you didn’t let Remy finish.

You’d figured Charles had told Scott at least a baseline of what you’d experienced. Scott was his man on the ground, the one who had these day to day interactions with you, the staff, the teens. It made sense, and you didn’t expect the top teacher and school leadership (and basically the HR department) to NOT know one of his staff was severely traumatized.

You’d JUST told Logan what you’d done. You’d told Remy last month. You just wanted them and Mr. Xavier to know… had he gone and told Scott you were a killer? Did people other than Scott know?

After

Jean was all ready at the table when Logan brought you in, gently laying you down on the bed for Jean to examine.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning as she looked at your slightly bloodied face. The cabinet hit your forehead and nose.

Logan began to answer. “She hit her face on-”

“I was asking Miss Palmer.”

Scowling, Logan shut his mouth. “I… I slipped on water cleaning up from the party. My face hit the cabinet.”

“Did you fall?”

“No, I caught myself. Or- I think Logan caught me? It’s kinda hard to remember.” It was fuzzy, honestly. You’d thought he hit you, the ghost of the slap still stinging your cheeks… but that was probably something else.

“Yeah, I caught you.” He strokes your cheek, soothing the leftover pain there.

Jean does her work, informing you that you were mildly concussed.

“You’ll need to rest. No work for a few days minimum.” She raises an eyebrow at you. “No repeats of when you got sick and refused to tell anyone until you passed out. You’re going to take off the rest of this week.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she points a finger with a slight smile. She’s tired, but her bedside manner is compassionate. “No. We can shuffle a few things around. Wade can take over a few simple classes while he’s here and move those teachers to your kids, and Hank can easily slide back into teaching English. Well, maybe high school and middle. I can handle the littles.”

She turned to Logan.

“Logan, I don’t think we can get you off that long, but we’ll get you off a few classes so you can look after her. I’m sure Wade will be happy to teach gym, and Professor can take on history. Next week is finals anyway, so I know you guys have a lot of study periods planned.” She touches your shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

You nod, but there’s a more pressing issue. “And Stevie?”

Jean smiles. “He’s doing fine. Don’t take aspirin as it could cause bleeding but tylenol is okay for your head pain. Stay hydrated, nothing caffeinated.” She types everything up for you, then prints it out. “Here’s a care plan, but know I’m right here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Jean.”

Logan gave a nod. “Yeah, thank you. I know you were in bed.”

She closed up her laptop. “Not a problem. Now, I know you’re seeing a regular doctor, and that’s okay… but I thought… if you’d like, I could share what I saw when I checked on Stevie.

You blink. “You mean… like an ultrasound?”

“Kind of, but much more clear. It’ll be almost like you’re there with hi-”

“Yes!” You’re so excited you almost forget any fear or pain.

Logan nods his head, eyes wide, and takes Logan’s hand before laying her other one on your stomach again. Suddenly, her mind’s eye was your own, and you could see him. You little baby asleep in your stomach, and it was like he was in a pool of water; not quite totally clear, but not blurry either. It was incredible.

You begin to cry.

“Go get your girl to bed, Logan.”

Logan laid you down on to bed after having you drink a bunch of water. “Wake me up when you need to pee, okay?”

You don’t look at him. “Okay.”

There is a short pause. “Hey.” Logan cups your face, bringing it to you. “It was an accident, okay? Just an accident.”

And all you can do is give him a smile, because you don’t know what option you have. “I know. I’m kinda tired, Lo. Can we talk in the morning?”

He gave a sad smile back. “Yeah dollface, we’ll talk in the morning. You’ll see. It’s all be better in the morning. I’m gonna step out for a sec, but I promise I’ll be here if you need me, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Goodnight, baby doll.” He kisses your tummy. “Goodnight, Stevie.”

Logan’s head was reeling. How did that happen? What the hell even happened? He hurt you, he hurt you, his pregnant fiance, his sweet, loving girl, carrying his child. What if something had happened to Stevie? Jean said he was fine…. But what the fuck did she know? Nothing! That bitch and her smug attitude. Stupid fucking cunt. She was probably just lying, trying to sabotage him. Not wanting to have his baby wasn’t enough. She can’t let him be happy. She won’t let anyone else have his baby. She’s just as bad as Scott, stupid mother fucking pansy ass shithead. Couldn’t fuck his wife right then got mad she needed someone else to satisfy her. Must’ve learned how to take it up the ass like he’s always dreamed and won her back, now he can’t let him be happy.

They are out to get him.

Logan needed to clear his head. He needed to let it out.

He needed insight from someone who, while being God perfect idiot, had a strangely good sense of the world. Sure, he didn’t understand what the fuck the mouth was talking about half the time, but Wade understood the world in a way Logan couldn’t.

When Wade answered his door, he was in a hello kitty t-shirt. That was it.

Logan only paused a moment before saying. “Meet me in the west lounge in 5?”

“Hell yay!” Wade sleepily cheered. “I’m on my way!” He began stepping forward, but Logan stuck a hand out to shove him back, He glanced down to his dick, then back up. “Pants on, Wade.”

An hour later, Logan had spilled it all. The slap, the… sex he might have been a little forceful on, how Stevie’s conception was from that… half drunk, he let it all out.

And for once, the merc with the mouth only had 4 things to say.

“Jesus fucking christ, Logan.”

Okay, next chapter we see logan baring it all and i think??? I think we see what triggered logan into the assult

ugh its soooo hard to plan i keep changing the outline so much. This series has given me the most problems out of every series ive written! and ive written many ;-;

Anyway guys im talking to a guy and he knows x men stuff and is chronically online like me and i realllllly like him we met on hinge bc he made a Jim Croce reference which if you know me you know i looooove old music!!! heres too hoping!

I sent him my x men restaurant au bc he's familiar with fanfiction! he really enjoyed it :))) Im taking requests for the restaurant au drabbles!

I also started a romcom/omegaverse/enemies to lovers Logan x reader! Im leaning into the goofy and silly bc too much dark i think isnt good. dark fics help me work through things but too much is.... too much. Im not in a great place mentally rn so i dont wanna linger you know?

I also want to just highlight my go fund me bc im once again struggling greatly to pay for school and im just... so close .;-;

@multiversed-daydreamer @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @del-ightfulling @miraclesabound @hindi-si-ikay @samsamsantos @madamerubrum @shybluebirdninja a @hornystan @rogueinmymind @accountforreading123 @yawnetu @princessanglophile @and-claudia a @new-genesis100 @teaganthemorningstar @oldloganslittleslut @zaggprincess2 @bugsinmyeyez @groundclueless @cosmolight @nonamevenus

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nerdishpursuits · 3 days ago

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What really amuses me (or annoys, depending) is that we always manage to look for more than meets the eye, assuming the show has more depth to it, when in truth it’s lacking in so many ways.

We seem to forget what we’re dealing with here. And what that is? Is a novela, pure and simple. A Spanish one, true. But a novela just the same. And while in the beginning, for the most part, quality prevailed? It’s more and more obvious the show is becoming plagued by the inconsistencies of its genre.

We’ll never have a sensitive topic such as SA treated with the care and empathy it deserves (if anything, it encourages the message that victims are better off if they keep silent; the SA itself and the inherent misogyny? they were just background noise for the now 20+ episodes narrative of a woman suffering the consequences of looking for justice that was legally denied)

We’ll never see Fina’s recovery as it should have been treated.

We’ll never see Marta’s own trauma addressed.

I severely doubt we’ll see them healing together in a way that feels rewarding, empathetic and well thought out. We’ll get hints that they spent the night together, that they talked about their feelings and addressed the problems they’re facing. Hints and more hints. Surface level depictions that don’t really bother going beneath the surface. One of those high-speed trains that seldom stop at any station for more than a few minutes, the scenery a blur at the edge of one’s vision. Expecting more? Well, it might be asking for too much. We either enjoy what we can and as much as we can, or we desist. Plain and simple.

As for more of today’s events?

1. Just like Marta is a grown up, capable of making her own decisions? So is Tasio. For Carmen to lay all the blame at Marta’s feet is ridiculous. As is the show persisting in comparing her to Jesús, who is a de facto muderer and whose violent actions don’t have repercussions + let’s add Don Pedro to the list, whose revenge ended with the murder of the one responsible for his son’s death - I doubt there’ll be consequences as, after all, he’s a man and allowed to get away with it. For Marta though? Pandora’s box and all its blessings. May I just say succumbing to rage and helplessness one time, does not a violent person make, nor does it undo the moral tapestry of Marta’s character (for all the show loves to punish her for it).

But I’m digressing. Tasio is not a saint and to pretend otherwise is laughable (Carmen herself suspected he orchestrated the entire thing to curry favour with his father? I mean. Her trust in him is somewhere below sea level, no need to pretend otherwise. More so, she seems to forget it was Damián who paid for Tasio’s out-of-jail-card: claiming Marta’s family wouldn’t help him is borderline absurd). Marta didn’t force him to do anything, he chose to help her of his own free will. And at the end of the day? Marta never shies away from doing the hard thing: taking accountability. And she does it every single damn time, no matter how hard it is. (let’s see if Tasio ever gets there, fully). And I now find myself needing a scene where Fina defends Marta with Carmen.

2. They found the most contrived way of using Marta’s journal against her - if it is her journal, that is; for all we know it’s Marta’s calculus notebook (Santiago invading their safe space and just so happening to find it laying there? It’s not only supremely absurd but a sacrilege as well, yet another violation of their intimacy). Rather funnily, this show might be trying to preach violence is not the answer yet here we are, ascending to the next level altogether (I personally don’t see any other way to be rid of Santiago - his demise needs to be imminent and it needs to happen). Not to mention how outlandish it is that a nobody is able to get into Fina’s cell, waltz into Marta’s office or walk onto their property like so? This level of absurd is top-tier for sure.

3. The one consistent thing? Marta’s love for Fina and Fina’s love for Marta. That hasn’t changed and it won’t (it’s very much obvious Marta is nothing but irritated with Pelayo and for good reason: that man is like fungus, chemical treatment needed)

Oh well. Since the inane seems to be the way? Let’s join the circus: Santiago is moved to tears upon reading Marta’s journal and gives them his blessing, for Pelayo and Santiago it’s love at first ‘stache and they buy the property next to Marta’s so they can be felices los quatro, Jesús launches a business promoting hair-growth (dar en el calvo) and Eladio writes a book in prison (from SIcario to NOcario).

On the bright side? Flirty and Horny Fina is back tomorrow? Or so it would seem. She’s been dearly missed 😌 Furthermore? For everything that’s not being said, shown or addressed? It’s still a feat Mafin remains the healthiest relationship on the show. No doubt about it!!!

#mafin #mafin commentary #mafin speculation #text post

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hakugreenfinch · 3 days ago

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i replayed this conversation again today and im finding it very interesting and telling of how curly and jimmy think of responsibility.

i will not go very deep into dissecting how faulty curly is, there are plenty of posts out there about that and i dont want this to just be another.

what i noticed is that curly uses singular first and second person in this scene when talking about what to do next. "you will get through this" "i can fix this", "you" and "i" separately. he knows he should have been keeping his men in check but he doesnt group himself together with jimmy. "you did this, i can try and run damage control as much as possible." to curly, being responsible for his crew means making sure everyone is doing as fine as they can be and helping them out if his help is needed, which is why he offers to do jimmy's evaluation and gets daisuke out of the foam. this is also why realizing that he hasnt been properly looking out for anya gets him so worked up when he finds her in the cockpit and why it, well, breaks him that its too late to keep things together. half of his crew is caught up in something he cant resolve and its his fault that he didnt notice sooner that something is up.

jimmy on the other hand (initially) uses plural first person. its "we failed", its "us". to him curly is not really a separate person who has his own thing going on and it shows even more when he shifts to second person - he slowly pushes the blame onto curly. its what "we" did, its what "you" will be remembered for. theyre like a team where he does whatever and can pull curly out of his pocket and have him take the fall for it. curly's responsibility to jimmy means anything can be blamed on him. i mean its pretty wild to look someone in the eye and say "actually, me raping someone is your fault only" isnt it? but thats what he believes. we see him associating the captains responsibility with another opportunity to play the victim during the third pill feeding too. to him its not about a mutual exchange with those under him where he has to do things for the team to really work as a team, its about everyone doing what he wants and having to do nothing for it.

i dont really have a pretty ending for this. im just very intrigued by the subtle pseudo power play between these two, curly desperately trying to fix something he should have noticed is breaking long ago and jimmy only caring about bringing him down as well if he has to go down, not as in "we are in this together", more like so that he has someone to fall on when hes pushed.

#mouthwashing #bird chirps about mouthwash #its just really fucking weird how curly is like. hey you raped someone and thats bad and we should do something #and jimmy just keeps deflecting. yes but what about you. is this really my fault and not yours. i think it is yours have you considered tha #curly mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing

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arkaniske · 2 days ago

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Say it like you Mean It

AO3 Link \\\ Chapter Three: Bluebells

2500 words \ SFW \ Jayvik

Tw: blood, blisters.

Beta read by @kitcatkim

Summary: Five times Jayce brought flowers for Viktor and one time Viktor brought flowers for Jayce.

This was how he found his third flower to gift. He had spent another hour scrambling through the language of flowers, finger tracing over every word until he found exactly what he needed. More words he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, but could could weave into petals and stems.

Chapter One: Daffodils \\\ Chapter Two: Sunflowers

The lab was quiet, save for the low buzz of machinery and the occasional scrape of tools against metal. Jayce was hunched over his workstation once more, trying his best to focus on the intricate wiring of the device in front of him. He was supposed to be testing the power flow of one of their Hextech prototypes, but his thoughts kept straying from circuits to sunflowers.

It wasn’t like him to get distracted like this, and all over flowers? They were such a simple thing, yet somehow, picking them out had consumed his mind. He’d spent nearly two hours reading through his book yesterday, taking notes and making lists. The language of flowers had become his quiet obsession, each bloom a chance to say something he didn’t have the courage to put into words just yet.

What if I’m doing too much? What if I’m being annoying? Jayce thought, adjusting a tiny wire with his pliers. Daffodils were fine, same with the sunflowers. He seemed to like them? Are roses too much? Yes. Yes they are too much, don’t even think about it.

He frowned, biting his lip as he flicked a switch on the device. A faint hum told him it was powering up. He glanced across the lab to Viktor, scribbling notes in his ever-present notebook, his focus sharp and uninterrupted. He always made it seem so effortless, every move deliberate and calculated. Jayce found himself staring at his partner’s hands again, his own tightening slightly around his tools.

He probably thinks it’s ridiculous. Jayce thought, his stomach twisting. Bringing flowers into a lab like some… lovesick puppy. He sighed, dragging a hand halfway down his face before processing his own thoughts. Ok. Hold on. Lovesick? That’s a new thought, maybe not lovesick, that sounds like a lot. Maybe I just want him to know how much I appreciate him, and everything he does and is, and how I kind of want to wake up with him next to me and oh! Make breakfast for him, bring him his sweet milk while he’s snuggled up on my couch, maybe also like hold hands and maybe a kis—

The hum from the device grew louder, turning into a strained whine. Before Jayce could even react a sharp crack filled the air, followed by a burst of sparks.

Jayce’s head snapped up just in time to see the consequences of overloading the power regulator. The wires were becoming too hot, insulation burning away as the circuit surged with unstable energy. It glowed an ominous orange and sparks arced between wires like tiny lightning bolts, threatening to cascade into the rest of the system. The device sputtered violently, heat radiating from its surface.

“Jayce!” Viktor’s voice rang out sharply, cutting through the chaos. Before Jayce could react, Viktor was already moving. Panic rose quickly as the acrid scent of burning insulation and scorched metal filled the air.

“Wait, Viktor, don’t-“ Jayce started, but was too late.

Without hesitation, Viktor reached for the exposed wires. The heat radiating from the device made Jayce flinch, but Viktor’s hand remained steady. His fingers moved quickly with calculated precision, gripping the wires just above the sparking nodes to break the current without spreading the surge to nearby components. His knowledge of the circuitry made the dangerous act look deceptively simple but Jayce couldn’t ignore the way arcs of energy snapped at Viktor’s fingers.

The surge collapsed with a crackling hiss, the systems core flickering for a moment before shutting down entirely. Smoke curled up from the wires, leaving a sharp tang in the air.

An angry swear filled with uncontrolled pain rang through their lab. The damage was done. Viktor yanked his hand back with a sharp hiss, his fingers curling instinctively as he staggered back a few steps from the device.

Jayce rushed forward, his heart pounding as his eyes locked on Viktor’s hand. The skin of his fingertips was red and blistered, shiny with the beginnings of burns from the intense heat he had exposed himself to. A thin, jagged cut ran diagonally across his palm where one of the wires exposed edges had bitten into his skin. Blood welled from the cut, trailing down his wrist in thin, uneven rivulets before pooling in small drops on the floor.

“Shit!” Jayce’s voice cracked as he reached for Viktor, fingers gently placed along the back of his injured hand, careful to not touch the cut. “Viktor, are you-“

“I am fine.” Viktor said quickly, his voice tight but controlled. Another swear escaping, this time hushed and more frustrated than anything as he pulled his hand back. Jayce could see his partner’s jaw clenching from the reaction to pain, even in this moment Viktor tried to stay calm. “It is minor burns, nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious?” Jayce’s eyes widened, trying not to raise his voice in disbelief. “V, you’re bleeding, and your fingers are - sit down, please. Let me-“

“Jayce.” Viktor’s voice softened as he attempted to wave off the concern. His non-injured hand curling around the wrist of his other hand as if he could starve off the source of pain. “It looks worse than what it is.” Viktor muttered, his jaw tight. “It is pain. It will pass.”

Jayce shook his head, guilt and panic swirling into a sickening storm in his chest. “You’re not brushing this off.” He said firmly, his voice low but resolute. “Sit. Please.” It came out more as a plead than a request. His bleeding heart on his sleeve as he almost felt dizzy with guilt.

For a moment Viktor hesitated, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as if considering whether to argue. But whatever he saw in Jayce’s expression made him relent. With a quiet sigh he sank into the nearest chair, his injured hand cradled against his chest.

Jayce didn’t waste a second. He was quick to grab the small first-aid kit from their storage and hurried back to his partner side. He crouched down in front of the man, pulse still thrumming in his ears with adrenaline as he opened the kit. He was by no means proficient in medicine, but years of experience in the lab had made him no stranger to cuts and burns. Quickly he got everything he needed out of the bag, antiseptic wipes, gauze and a roll of bandages.

“Let me see.” Jayce finally lifted his eyes, his voice even softer as guilt ate away at the edges of his words.

Viktor sharply inhaled, but still he extended his injured hand. The faintest tremble betraying the pain he was trying to hide. A small twitch to his upper lip told Jayce just what he needed to know.

Jayce took Viktor’s hand delicately, cradling it in his larger one as though it was cracked porcelain. The warmth of Viktor’s skin was a sharp contrast to the cold antiseptic wipe. His gaze flicked over the burns and cuts, wincing as his chest tightened further. The blisters on the tips of Viktor’s fingers were raw and angry, the heat having seared delicate skin. The harsh cut across his palm wasn’t deep enough to scar, but it was still enough to sting. To become a reminder of how close they’d come to something worse.

“This isn’t just ‘nothing’, Viktor.” Jayce said quietly, his brows furrowing as he began gently cleaning the wound. He dabbed the cut with the antiseptic wipe, his touch as light as he could manage. His movement stopping with every twitch or hitch of Viktor’s breath.

“I’ve dealt with worse.” Viktor answered just before flinching as the wipe neared the center of his palm. His voice was steady despite the way his free hand gripped the arm of the chair, knuckles turning white.

“That does not mean this won’t hurt.” Jayce muttered, glancing up at him briefly. “Please, let me take care of you.”

Viktor didn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to the floor. Jayce continued working in silence, carefully wrapping the gauze around Viktor’s palm. His fingers brushing against Viktor’s skin as he secured the bandage with a strip of tape. He continued by applying a mild scented ointment to the tips of his partners fingers, covering the burns and gaining a soft sigh of relief from the man above.

“There.” Jayce said softly, leaning back on his heels to look at Viktor’s hand. “That should hold for now but…” He hesitated for a moment, worried about overstepping their unestablished boundaries. “You have to let it heal. You can’t push through this like you do everything else.”

Viktor’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know me better than that, Jayce.” His tone dragged with dry amusement gaining him a huff from Jayce.

“Yeah. I know. That’s why I’m saying it, hoping one day you might listen.” He lingered for a moment, his gaze flickering to Viktor’s hand again, as if double-checking his work.

“Thank you.” Viktor said after a moment of silence, voice quiet but sincere. His hand turned in Jayce’s grip, a gentle press of their palms.

Jayce’s chest tightened at the words, the surprising warmth in Viktor’s tone chasing away the lingering guilt. He looked back up, eyes meeting Viktor’s. For a split second he could swear he felt the ever so gentle caress of an uninjured finger across his wrist. “Anytime.” His voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment the air between them felt heavy with something unspoken. Viktor’s gaze lingered on Jayce’s, studying him as though searching for something. Jayce felt his breath hitch, the weight of Viktor’s attention making his heart skip a beat.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but charged. As if the static from the failed experiment was still dancing between them. Viktor’s golden gaze, sharp and calculating, softened slightly, and edge dulled by curiosity or perhaps something else Jayce couldn’t name.

Viktor’s uninjured hand shifted slightly, fingers twitching as if they might reach out. Jayce’s gaze dropped momentarily to the faint movement before snapping back up, catching the faintest flicker of hesitation in Viktor’s expression.

“Jayce.” Viktor said at last, his voice low, almost quiet enough to be lost in the hum of the lab. His lips parted as though to say more, but instead, he simply let his injured hand rest more fully in Jayce’s grip. A deliberate weight that sent a ripple of electricity down Jayce’s spine, a shiver following after.

Jayce swallowed hard, his throat dry, his voice stuck somewhere between his chest and lips. The air between them thickened again, pressing closer. If he just moved an inch, if he just straightened his back, if he just leaned in a little closer —

Viktor blinked, and the spell was broken. He leaned back in his chair, expression settling back to its usual measured calm. “We should finish the diagnostics on the prototype, yes?” He said, though his voice carried an unspoken warmth that lingered in the space they had just shared.

Jayce nodded, his voice lost while he quickly gathered up the first-aid kit. The lingering warmth of Viktor’s touch stayed with him as he returned the kit to its place. For the rest of the day he found himself stealing glances at Viktor.

\\\

Later, as he replayed the day’s events, Jayce found himself flipping through his book of flowers with newfound purpose. This was how he found his third flower to gift. He had spent another hour scrambling through the language of flowers, finger tracing over every word until he found exactly what he needed. Gratitude. Care. Protection. More words he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, but could could weave into petals and stems.

The next day, Jayce entered the lab with a small bouquet tucked under his arm. Bluebells, delicate and vibrant. The flowers were understated but full of meaning, a quiet apology and a promise all in one. He didn’t even hesitate as he stepped into the lab.

His eyes quickly found Viktor’s, sitting by the blackboard with a mug of something sweet smelling in his hand. The injured hand resting across his lap, now with a proper wrapping of bandages and bandaids. The mans eyes flickering from Jayce’s face and to the bouquet. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Another one?” Viktor asked, setting his mug on a desk before leaning back slightly in his chair. His voice carried its usual dry amusement, but this time there was an unmistakable warmth in his tone that made small sparks flicker in Jayce’s chest.

“Yeah!” Jayce answered, surprised at the softness in his tone. He stepped forward, holding the bouquet out toward his partner. “I wanted to say thank you. For, uh, yesterday. I realised… If you hadn’t stepped in it might have blown up in my face. Although I wish it had not been at the expense of your safety and hand. Just- I… Yeah. Thank you. It is appreciated, you are appreciated. And I am so, so very sorry about not being more careful with the power regulator, I will do better. I don’t even know what came over me not reacting, or seeing the signs.”

Viktor could barely keep up with the ramble of words Jayce produced, yet he took the flowers with a soft chuckle. Resting it in his lap to give one of the bells a gentle flick with one of his non-injured fingers. “These are bluebells, yes?” A sound of wonder followed as Viktor studied the flowers.

“Your apology is not needed, though if it makes you feel better I will accept it.” Viktor watched as the last bits of tension bled out of Jayce’s shoulders. A softness settled between their stolen glances.

“Wait, does this mean you’ll take it easy on yourself while you are healing?” Jayce could feel himself perk up, pushing his luck ever so slightly.

“Do you think flowers will keep me from overworking myself, Jayce?” The dry, unamused tone somewhat of a comfort. Knowing they had fallen back to their usual rhythm.

“Viktor, if I thought it would I would bring you a whole garden.”

Viktor’s lips quirked upward, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. His eyes lingered on Jayce for a beat longer than necessary before returning to his work, leaving Jayce with a faint flush and racing heart.

“Back to work, Talis. There is much to be done.” His tone unmistakably weaved with affection. And if Jayce noticed the faint flush creeping over the back of Viktor’s neck, who was he to point it out with his own cheeks in full bloom.

#jayvik #viktor arcane #jayce talis #jayce x viktor #vikjayce #ao3 #my fic #silymi

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the-crooked-library · 3 days ago

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You are so right with your takes about Nosferatu that someone who looks soft and speak nicely is, in fact, capable of causing pain regardless. Add Von Franz to it. On the surface he’s silly funny grandpa who talks to Ellen nicely and is attentive to her and understands her. And in what it culminates? In that he’d gladly use her as a sacrifice to solve their vampire problem! He has no problems to use her in such a way, he has no problem with sacrificing another human being, he’s not even particularly heartbroken when she dies -he just arranges the flowers on bed ritualisticly and takes her cat being very happy and proud with himself ! He also has that maniacal episode when he laughs like a lunatic in the manor and burns everything down, laughing while he knows Ellen is feeding herself to vampire. Because he actually failed her too, because he didn’t even try to find or use other methods to kill Orlok like staking him or dragging his body during daytime to daylight and just burn it. All his nice eccentric talk and his interest in her occult powers, all it was just a fancy to him for research purposes, and ultimately just so he could use her as a tool against vampire. So we have Sievers who ties her up and drugs her against her will, Harding who supports that and hates her and Von Franz who talks soft on the surface and under surface is quick and ready to essentially kill her if this killing would help against vampire. Plus Thomas who doesn’t fully understand her, is afraid of her powers and would try to have sex with her because of his fragile masculinity despite Ellen being in not right state mind at that time. It seems Ellen indeed had no chances in the land of living with such normal people around her.

exactly - and Von Franz especially is an interesting character in that sense, since (as you said) he does present himself as a largely benign, eccentric, funny old man. The way he treats Ellen is not perceived as an outright attack, as it is with Harding or Sievers - or a betrayal, which is the connotation of Anna's snapping at her, or Thomas' horror at her psychic fit. Ellen is, by and large, complacent with the way he speaks of her and to her; and that is because he represents the Moral aspect of society, of which she believes herself to be in violation.

Von Franz is seemingly kind, he prioritizes always the "greater good," he pities Ellen's lot in life - and he is curious, delving into the occult with all the excitement of a tourist; and while he is blundering and (unlike Stoker's Van Helsing) severely lacking information on vampires specifically, that is still the closest thing to acceptance that Ellen's ever received from a human. As such, she does not actively resent him as much as the others; but their relationship is still characterized by a distinct sense of obligation. Even if he is hesitant to broach the topic, she offers herself as a sacrifice; and that is, in a structural sense, a direct narrative follow-up to his professed worldview.

Their dynamic rests on Ellen's diagnosis. Von Franz believes her to be cursed - which is not only incorrect, but also the sort of statement that, contextually, bears a significant moral and religious weight. While the social influence and popularity of Christianity has in some ways diminished over the last two centuries, it is still so ingrained within the cultural setting of Nosferatu that it practically goes unsaid. However, what I think is important here is that, in various Christian-influenced folkloric traditions, a curse is often something that must be earned; while some curses happen as a result of sheer bad luck, others are just as often presented as manifestations of God's wrath at oneself or at one's ancestors - who, through some grievous sins, have doomed their entire bloodline to its effects (if you go looking for contemporary fiction featuring the subject, may I recommend Gogol's Terrible Revenge (1831)?.. His context is Slavic and Eastern-European, not German, but it's still a fascinating read). The point being, since she was 1) born with her powers 2) summoned Orlok herself 3) broke their vows by marrying Thomas, therefore being the reason he came to Wisborg, Ellen believes that she is uniquely at fault for her own - and everyone else's - suffering.

With that, sacrificing herself appears to be the next logical step; after all, she is already doomed. To her, it is atonement; it is an excuse to indulge a side of herself she has repressed all her life, guilt-free, for one last night; but you are correct in saying that Von Franz sees her primarily as a tool. Ellen's value, to him, is mutable - defined by circumstances (priestess or sacrifice), rather than inherent; and his easy willingness to sacrifice her, despite his tendency to ignore her complexity in favour of bland, palatable, angelic innocence, speaks volumes. Whether she is perceived with sympathy or vitriol, Ellen is still dehumanized. It may be seen as an allegory for the madonna/whore complex, disability porn/demonization, respectability politics perfect minority shit; I mean, take your pick. There's layers. The point is, within the eyes of society, she is expendable - no matter how you spin it.

That said, Von Franz is himself a heavily symbolic character. As the physical representation of Ellen's understanding of socially acceptable Morality, it is only expected that he would sacrifice her, and she is not only unsurprised by that outcome, but also justifies it - she believes that she deserves to die. His manic glee at the destruction of Herr Knock, who may or may not have been in the process of turning, is also something she (and thus the viewer) would expect; after all, the European understanding of morality in the 1830s (and in our modern day, let's be honest) was heavily Christian - and when Good triumphs over Evil, what else would it look like?.. How does a wrathful, vengeful God manifest?.. Would He laugh as He did the smiting?.. In either case, He does not offer much in terms of comfort to the sinners, and Ellen obviously believes herself to be one. She is struggling with overwhelming guilt, turning to one character after another for anything she could interpret as forgiveness; but Von Franz cannot reassure her that Evil does not come from within (the Father does not grant her absolution). Even as she reaches out to the most caring, sympathetic members of her surrounding society, she discovers that they cannot provide her the relief she desperately wants. As you say, she has no place with them. She does not belong with them or with God. She is not meant for humanity.

Rejected by the Light, Ellen is left facing a reverent, hungry Darkness that wants her more than anything in the world; and, curiously enough, Von Franz fulfills his Fatherly aspect in this regard, as well. Specifically, he plays the role of her father at a wedding.

He gives her away.

#nosferatu #nosferatu 2024 #ellen hutter #von franz #lily rose depp #willem dafoe #robert eggers #vampires #nosferatu spoilers #horror film #gothic horror #horror film analysis #nosferatu meta #gothic horror film

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