#actually i’m not really even having a good time but semantics

[theemporium]

[6.1k] most of the league welcome a bye week as all-stars hits the season calendar. with both brothers picked and the rest of the boys on the team flying out somewhere warm for the break, luke has a decision to make. and that decision ends up being a staycation in new jersey with you—not that anyone else in his life really understand why. (smut)

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“Whoever is in charge of this schedule sounds like a sadist.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah!” You repeated with a small huff, staring down at your phone screen where—he presumed—you were looking at the Devils’ game schedule. “Surely there’s a better way than playing, like, three back to backs in such a short time span.” 

“It’s hockey,” Luke shrugged, like that somehow explained everything. “It’s just how it is. How it’s always been, to be honest.” 

“This makes no sense,” you grumbled, your eyes narrowed in distaste. “You literally played four games last week! Four! In the space of six days!” 

Luke snorted. “Yeah, Cherry, I’m fully aware. I was at the games. Playing.” 

You shot him a look before letting your brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t get it.” 

“The schedule?” Luke asked. 

“No, the hockey player sex god stereotype,” you retorted. “How the hell do they find the time to even have sex? How the hell do they have the energy to even have sex?”

Luke tried—and mostly failed—to bite back his grin. “That’s your big question about hockey players?” 

“Yes,” you deadpanned. “I know you are professionals and all but surely this is a bit ridiculous.”

“Hockey is hockey,” Luke answered, shrugging once again. “It’s just always how it’s been.” 

“So, hockey players are sex gods and sadists,” you muttered to yourself, your focus back on your phone screen. “Good to know.” 

Luke only laughed in response. 

“I don’t get why they don’t just move some of the games to the first week in February,” you pointed out. “You have nothing on then.” 

“Because that’s when All-Stars is,” Luke answered. “They send a bunch of guys from different teams to compete in these challenges and stuff.” 

“Like the Hunger Games?” 

“I—” Luke’s nose scrunched up. “Yeah, but less death and violence. People usually stay nice for it.” 

“Have you been reaped?” You questioned, grinning a little. 

Luke rolled his eyes. “No, I have not. They choose the best.” 

You frowned. “You are the best. You’re the best hockey player I know.” 

Luke shot you a look. “I’m the only hockey player you know.” 

“Semantics,” you waved him off. “My point still stands.” 

“No, I get something better,” he stated. “I get a week off.”

You grinned. “Big plans?” 

Luke shrugged. “Honestly, I was just looking forward to a week without Jack banging on my door for morning skate.”

“So you’re going to spend the week hibernating,” you teased, lightly nudging his thigh with your foot. But before you could pull your foot back, Luke had grabbed your ankle and easily maneuvered your feet onto his lap. “God, I’ll need to find someone else to cook for me for a week then.” 

And the thing is that Luke knew you were just teasing. For all his claims of being a great cook (which he was, just in the few meals he actually knew how to cook), he had grown into a comfortable habit with you. He enjoyed spending time at your place. He enjoyed unwinding after bad games or grueling practices. He just enjoyed being around you, both before and after his recent realisation of his feelings. 

But now he was staring at you from across the couch, watching the way you were lounging in one of his old Michigan sweatshirts and just felt that overwhelming urge to say something stupid. 

Instead, he settled on, “you should come over.” 

You paused, raising your brows. “Come over where?” 

“To my place,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Jack will be gone and I’ll have the place to myself. We can just—” He paused, his brain going blank at the sight of your amused expression. “Chill.” 

“Chill?” You repeated, grinning.

“Chill,” he nodded, squeezing your ankle. “Just…I feel like…I’m always imposing in your space, you know? You can impose in my space too.” 

“You are a weird guy, Hughes,” you commented, though Luke liked to think you sounded fond when you spoke. 

“Is that a no?” He asked before he could help himself.

You beamed in response. “It’s not a no.” 

He felt something quite like hope spark in his chest. “So, it’s a yes?” 

“Depends,” your eyes glinted. “Are you still Team Stefan? Because if the answer is yes, I will have to decline.” 

Luke groaned. “I said that after we watched, like, three episodes! Stop holding that over my head!” 

…

“This sucks!” 

“Yes, it sucks so much being acknowledged for your skills,” Dawson deadpanned, watching the way Jack wandered around the locker room after practice, whining and complaining about everyone else making their Bye Week plans.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jack huffed, narrowing his eyes at the boy before shifting his attention to Nico, eyes wide and hopeful. “Take me with you? I want to go somewhere warm. I want to go somewhere where the chances of freezing my balls off are lower than zero.” 

“Dude,” Nate scrunched his nose, laughing. “We play ice hockey for a living, you can handle a bit of cold.” 

“Suck it up, superstar,” Curtis called out with a huge grin. “Gotta pay up for having the Hughes name on the back of your jersey.” 

“Moose lucked out,” Jack sighed. “I have Quinn and the bajillion Canucks players that are also going. I swear he rigged the thing.”

“Bajillion?” Nico repeated with a disgustingly fond expression.

“Bajillion,” Jack nodded. “There’s too many of them. No one needs that many Canucks in one place. It’s an infestation.”

“I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” Nate snorted. 

Jack glared. 

“You not going up to Toronto to support your brothers?” Dawson asked, turning his head to look over at Luke. However, the boy barely reacted. He repeated the question again, and one more time before finally throwing a ball of rolled up tape at the side of Luke’s head.

Luke tore his eyes away from his phone, snapping his head up to find half the locker room already staring at him. “What? What did I miss?” 

“Jack complaining about All Stars,” Curtis answered.

“Oh,” Luke blinked. “So nothing new then?” 

“You're not going to Toronto?” Nico asked this time, before Curtis could say whatever witty response he had ready to go.

“Uh, no,” Luke shook his head. 

“Scared you’ll steal their thunder?” Nate joked, patting Luke’s shoulder as he walked past to get to his stall. 

Jack snorted. “He thinks he’s too cool for Toronto. Probably following John to wherever the hell he is going.” 

John’s ears perked, turning whilst he was still removing some of his gear. “What? Luke said he didn’t want to come with us.” 

Jack paused, frowning a little before turning to Luke. “You’re not going away for the week?” 

Luke could feel his cheeks burning up. “No?” 

Jack’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“At least he also won’t be somewhere warm,” Nico stepped in, a hand on Jack’s shoulder providing more than enough distraction from Jack asking questions as he turned to look at Nico with the embarrassingly obvious heart eyes he has always had for the captain.

It gave Luke the short reprieve he wanted, avoiding the other curious looks he was getting as he glanced down at his phone screen for a moment, grinning at the messages before he locked it and put it back in his bag so he could finish getting changed.

cherry🍒: i hope you know that i am using this opportunity to steal as many of your hoodies as i can before the week is over 

cherry🍒: consider this your one and only warning

…

It was surprisingly easy to prevent Jack from asking any more questions. 

A little too easy, if Luke was being honest. 

But Luke was also not an idiot so he didn’t question Jack’s silence after he mentioned a friend would be staying with Luke for the week. Jack had just stared blankly for a few moments before laughing, shaking his head and walking out the room, muttering something about needing to stop by Nico’s after he finished packing. Luke took it as the blessing it was and didn’t bring it up again.

Truthfully, it didn’t hit Luke how insane it felt to have you with him the whole week until he was running around the apartment, cleaning up whatever he could before his phone began ringing from the other room.

“Dude, you have shit timing.” 

Ethan laughed on the other side of the phone. “You’ve been ignoring me! I feel abandoned. What happened to the Luke who said he missed me?” 

“I never said that,” Luke retorted.

“Rude,” Ethan huffed. “Why do you sound so out of breath? Were you training or something?” 

“Nah, just tidying the place up,” Luke replied absentmindedly, staring at the hoodie he picked up on the floor with a frown. If he was being honest, he didn’t know if it was his or Jack’s, and usually he didn’t care. But the image of you wearing it thinking it belonged to him when in reality it was Jack’s passed his mind and he quickly shoved it into the washing basket. That would be a problem he dealt with later.

“Ugh, don’t even,” Ethan whined on the other side of the phone. “I’m so jealous, dude. I would kill to be on a beach somewhere right now.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke muttered as he continued to pick up a few empty bottles of gatorade on the coffee table before pausing. “Wait, what? What the fuck are you on about? Who’s going to the beach?” 

Ethan sounded just as confused on the other side. “You?” 

“No, I’m not?” Luke replied, frowning. “I just told you, I’m at my place.” 

“Yeah, because you are tidying up before you fly out somewhere. For Bye Week.”

“Who told you that?”

“I thought it was obvious? Why the fuck would you not be flying out somewhere?” 

And honestly, Luke didn’t have much of a comeback for that one. Because to everyone else, it did seem weird. He knew that. He gathered as much from the rest of the boys’ reactions in the locker room the other day. He gathered it from Jack’s reaction and Quinn’s message (‘wtf rusty’) when he broke the news in the brothers group chat. 

He knew. 

But somehow trying to justify it to one of his best friends over the phone made him realise how fucking dodgy it sounded when none of them really knew about you.

“So, let me get this straight.” 

Luke let out a deep sigh.

“You declined on going up to Toronto with your brothers because you didn’t want to impose, or whatever dumb shit you said, and let them enjoy All-Stars.” 

“Yes.” 

“And then you had the offer to go to Cabo and the Bahamas with teammates, which you also declined.” 

“Mhm.” 

“And then you decided to stay in New Jersey instead of even visiting us up in Michigan with your week off?” 

“Yup.”

“Dude,” Ethan squawked, offended and confused and downright discombobulated. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have a concussion? Is this like a mid-season breakdown? Do I need to call for help?” 

Luke rolled his eyes. “You’re always so dramatic.”

“I think I am being perfectly reasonable here.” 

Luke disagreed—majorly—but he valued his life so he stayed silent.

“You’re gonna get so bored staying in Jersey all week,” Ethan pointed out. “What are you even gonna do?” 

Luke opened his mouth to reply just as the buzzer sounded through the apartment. If anyone asked, he would deny the way his face instantly broke out into a smile. 

“Sleep my ass off. It’s hard being in the NHL,” Luke said in the snobbiest voice he could, letting Ethan cackle on the other side and try to get another word in before he spoke up again. “Look, I gotta run, I’ll call you later. Promise.” 

“He plays in the big leagues and thinks he’s so much better than us.” 

“I am better than you,” Luke grinned. “I remember winning beer pong.” 

“That doesn’t fucking count! Mark was the one who—” 

“Bye, Ethan!” 

Luke couldn’t hang up and rush to open the door fast enough. 

…

Deep down, he knew it was stupid for him to feel nervous about you staying over at his place for the week. 

He had stayed over at yours more times than he could count on one hand. You had become an integral part of his life in New Jersey. You were one of his closest friends. He knew you. He knew you knew him. There should have been nothing that made the week weird. 

But he couldn’t help but feel like it meant more. This was him inviting you to stay over for a few days, to stay at his place whilst his brother was out of town, to spend the week with him when he should be resting and drinking some overpriced cocktail on a beach somewhere warm. 

You were his friend but spending his whole stay-cation with him in his apartment like the two of you were playing house was something far from platonic. 

It was a bit of a mindfuck, but not as much as realising just how fucking easy it all was.

It was different from the various nights he spent at your apartment. It was different seeing you in his space, fitting into his life so easily. It was different seeing you relaxed and laid back, looking like you belonged. 

It was different from the night at his birthday party, where you were one of many faces. It was just you and him, standing in his kitchen or sitting on his couch or lying in his bed. It felt so different but so fucking good. 

Only a few days had passed and yet Luke forgot a time where you weren’t here, where you weren’t by his side throughout the whole day. 

It was dangerous but the warning signs were easy to ignore when his attention was fully focused on you.

“Are you calling me lanky?” 

“It was a compliment!” You insisted, but there was a smile on your face—not that he could see, considering your face was currently pressed against his chest as the two of you laid on the couch to watch the fastest skater skill event. “You would do well in this challenge. It would take you, like, five less strides than the rest of them.”

Luke snorted. “Geez, thanks.” 

“You’ll see,” you murmured, nuzzling your head further into his chest. “You’ll do it one day and win and know that I’m right.”

“And then you’ll tell me ‘I told you so’?” Luke guessed, his eyes now on you rather than the tv screen. 

“Obviously,” you replied, lifting your head so your chin was resting on the spot your cheek was squished against moments ago. “I’m always right, Hughes. The sooner you accept that fact, the easier your life will be.” 

Luke raised his brows in amusement. “So when you very confidently said that you loved that movie where Andrew Garfield played Batman—” 

“Shut up,” you groaned, lightly pinching his side but he quickly caught your hand. “We were watching Twilight! I was thinking about Robert Pattinson! I got confused!” 

“Uh huh,” Luke beamed. “Just always so right—”

“You’re being a dick,” you huffed, even if you were smiling. “Here I was trying to give you a compliment—”

“By calling me lanky.”

“—and this is the thanks I get,” you shook your head. 

Luke’s expression softened, his hand reaching up to tuck some hair behind your ear as he smiled down at you. “Thank you, Cherry. I appreciate the confidence.” 

“Confidence is sexy,” you retorted, your palms warm and comforting against his sides. “Soon you won’t need me to remind you.” 

“But I like when you say it,” Luke retorted.

“Professional athletes and their praise kinks,” you sighed, grinning a little when he reached down to pinch your side this time. 

“I’m the only professional athlete you know,” Luke pointed out, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach at the mere idea that maybe he wasn’t. That maybe you knew more, that maybe you had experience with more, that maybe they were far more experienced than him and—

“And you have a praise kink,” you said, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. “Therefore, my theory has not been disproved. I’m right.”

Luke’s cheeks burned hot. “I do not have a praise kink.”

You snorted, grinning as you lifted a hand to playfully squeeze his cheeks. “Aw, baby, you do and it’s hot. Don’t get all shy about it.”

“Whatever,” Luke murmured, turning his focus back to the tv instead of the growing smirk on your face. 

But the thought lingered in his mind even as the two of you continued to cuddle on the couch, watching whatever movie you had chosen after the All-Stars events ended. It picked at his brain, chipping away at the self-restraint he had to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the night until the two of you were getting ready for bed. 

He was lingering by the doorway, watching you get your side of the bed (because apparently that was also something that came easily to the two of you) ready before you climbed into bed. And before he could stop himself, he was already blurting out the words that were on the tip of his tongue for most of the night.

“Do you really think the praise kink thing is hot?” 

His cheeks were already blushy and pink and hot when you turned your head to look at him.

“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” You asked, something lighthearted and teasing in your voice that was oddly reassuring. You didn’t think he was a freak for asking. Not that he ever assumed you would judge him, you both were far from that point. 

“Does it change your answer?” He asked, not sounding half as confident as he wanted to. 

Your smile softened a little as you walked around the bed and towards him. You tilted your head back once you were in front of him, watching him with a look he couldn’t quite work out. 

Luke swallowed a little.

“It doesn’t change my answer,” you answered honestly. 

Luke could feel something in his chest tighten. “And what’s your answer?” 

“I think it’s hot,” you told him, saying it so casually as though the two of you were discussing the weather. “I think everyone has a praise kink to some extent but…”

Luke could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “But?” 

“But it’s different with you,” you said, your fingers lightly skimming against his stomach before curling around the hem of his shirt. “You’re so…responsive. It’s hot.” 

His body twitched, like his skin was too tight for his body. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you confirmed, smiling a little before using the grasp on his shirt to tug him closer and close the distance between you both. Not that there was much.

Luke was almost embarrassed by the noise he made the second your lips were on his, your hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as you used the leverage against him. He ducked his head down, trying to chase your lips as you continued to tease him and tempt him. He barely realised his feet were moving until the back of your knees hit the bed and you pulled back to look at him. 

“So pretty,” you murmured, close enough to hear the way his breath hitched before you moved down onto the bed, with your grasp on his shirt enough to drag him down with you. 

It was far from sexy, if Luke was being honest. An awkward maneuver of too many limbs and shuffling up the bed that should have ruined the moment, but it didn’t. Because it was you and you were laughing and smiling and snorting when Luke almost decked it on top of you after he got his foot stuck. You made it feel so normal. Like it was all just a part of the charm. 

Maybe it was. Maybe feeling safe enough to be human and imperfect was a part of the charm. 

Because despite the uncoordinated and clumsy scrambling onto the bed, you were still looking at him like you wanted to see how pink his cheeks could turn.

Luke barely put up a fight when you pulled him back down, happily following your movements as he settled between your legs and let you wind your arms around his neck so his nose was brushing against yours before you leaned in to kiss him again. 

Unlike a lot of the other makeout sessions the two of you had, there was no rush. There was no lingering adrenaline from a game he wanted to work off or some bad plays he wanted to forget. There were no teasing messages or risky phone calls that were building up to this moment. There was absolutely nothing but just the two of you lying in his bed, making out because you wanted to. 

Because you wanted to kiss him and he wanted to kiss you. Because you enjoyed the weight of him on top of you and he enjoyed the way your fingers entangled themselves in his curls. Because for reasons that were beyond his understanding, you wanted this as much as he did.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, his tongue lightly skimming over the area of his bottom lip you nipped with your teeth.

You smiled up at him. “See? So responsive. It’s cute.” 

He swallowed. “Cute?”

“Cute, hot, sexy, whatever word you want to use, pretty boy,” you murmured, one hand sliding down to cup his face as your thumb skimmed over the apple of his cheek. “All I know is that I like the noises you make.” 

Luke responded by leaning back down, kissing you because he could, because he wanted to, because he liked the way your laugh vibrated against his lips before you kissed back.

But whatever control Luke thought he had on himself when he was with you quickly dwindled as you pulled him closer, letting his body fall on top of you and let your thighs squeeze his sides until he was rocking his hips against yours, until he was practically panting between kisses.

“Mmm,” you hummed, pressing one, two, three pecks against his lips before your lips traced along his cheek and down his jaw. “That’s it, baby. I can feel how much you like this. S’cute how worked up you get just making out.”

“You’re hot,” he gasped out, like it was self-explanatory. Like it justified why he could feel his dick twitching in his sweatpants, probably already making a mess that he would pretend didn’t embarrass him as much as it did.

Your smile was softer, your hand on his face feeling more intimate as you guided his eyes to meet yours. “I think,” you started, your thumb lightly tracing down his cheek and skimming his bottom lip. “You’re hot too. And that you can come like this. Make a mess f’me.” 

And fuck, he could.

It wouldn’t be the first time he did, helplessly grinding against you whilst you kissed him and praised him and made his head fucking spin before he was coming harder than he really should be able to from a simple act. He could lean down, press his lips against yours and slide his tongue against yours and feel the way you cling onto him as he comes. He could do it. 

But there was a buzzing voice in the back of his head, getting louder and louder until—

“I bought condoms.” 

He could see the initial surprise on your face as you processed the words he just blurted out, the eyes locked on his kiss-swollen lips shifting to look up and watch the way he squirmed under the realisation of his words. He watched the way you tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes narrowing slightly like you were observing him, keeping on edge until he spoke.

“You bought condoms,” you repeated, trying and failing to keep the smile off your face. “Big plans for this week?” 

“I—” Luke’s face burned. “That wasn’t… didn’t mean…I was just—” 

“Luke,” you said in a softer voice, your smile faltering a little into something more sincere. “M’only teasing.” 

“Okay,” he whispered, a knot twisting in his stomach with every passing second. He swore he was moments away from just exploding out of pure embarrassment or something just as humiliating. 

“Breathe for me,” you murmured, smiling a little when he let out a shaky breath. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Just because you bought them, doesn’t mean we have to do anything with them just yet.”

Luke swallowed, his whole body thrumming as he replied. “I…I want to.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, his brows furrowing slightly. “Only if you want to, too. Because consent is sexy, you know.”

You laughed a little, both hands now cupping his face so your eyes could meet his. “I do, if you want this. If you’re ready.” 

“It is,” he whispered, nodding again. “I trust you, Cherry. I want this. With you.” 

“Okay,” you whispered before kissing him again, slow and sure and content. 

It made him feel a little less like his skin was shrinking all over his body.

And you kept kissing him until his body didn’t feel so tense, until he didn’t feel like a wooden plank on top of you, until he was relaxed and making those little noises between kisses that let you know he wasn’t as nervous as before. 

You kept kissing him as you lightly nudged him back, letting him lean back on his knees until he was straddling your body, giving him enough movement to lean over and scramble through his nightstand until he found the unopened box of condoms.

He tried to tear the plastic covering over the box off, tried to peel it away but his hands were shaking more than he liked and his heart was pounding in his chest and—

“Hey, relax,” you murmured softly, sitting up and taking the box from his hands with little fight from him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. “Nerves, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” you promised. “You know we can stop at any time, just say the word.” 

He swallowed harshly. “No, I do—”

“I know,” you smiled. “But I also want you to know that.” 

“Only if you do too,” Luke responded, looking completely serious as he said it. “If you want to stop at any moment too, you have to say something too. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this with me because it’s my…first time or whatever.”

“I promise,” you smiled before nudging him back, until he was settled with his back against the headboard and you were on his lap. “Don’t worry about the condoms right now, okay? Just focus on me.” 

And Luke did.

Because, in complete honesty, it was very easy to ignore the box of condoms and the bubbling nerves and the growing realisation of what was about to happen. The voice in the back of his head saying ‘oh fuck, this is it’ was barely a whisper when his focus was on you. 

It was easy to get lost in the familiarity of you. He was used to this. He was used to you sitting on his lap, straddling his thighs and kissing him senseless. He was used to you dragging your shirt over your head and throwing it to the side. He was used to you tugging his sweatpants down and letting your own follow and guiding his hand between your legs whilst you whispered filthy things against his lips. 

He was used to the way you always targeted the spot just behind his ear, blowing cool air until he physically shivered. He was used to the way your eyes fluttered shut when his thumb lightly skimmed across your nipple. He was used to choking out a breathless moan whenever your thumb slid along the slit on the head of his cock. He was used to the way you tugged on his hair when you were close, letting the dull pain throb wonderfully at the base of his skull whilst you pressed your face against his shoulder. 

You were right, all those weeks ago back at the start of the season, when you said he needed to build up to this moment. You were right about the different experiences and experiments the two of you had tried and tested over the last few months. You were right when you said it was just like practicing hockey. 

It felt a bit fucking poetic and pathetic to compare his sex life to hockey right now, but he got it. 

The same nerves that bubbled up before his first NHL game were no different. Because even though he had played hockey his whole life, it still felt nerve-wracking to play in the NHL. And even though he had spent the last few months doing so much with you, it was still kind of daunting to know it was all leading up to this.

But just like his first NHL game, it just felt right. 

You felt right. 

This whole moment felt right. 

Luke knew he was not like his friends or teammates. He had spent years growing up with locker room talk, hearing about random hookups in the backseat of a car or halfhearted blowjobs in a bar bathroom. He heard about one night stands and casual flings and situationships that tended to go sour. He had heard it all and it was unsettling to imagine that was the future waiting for him. 

But it wasn’t. 

And it felt a bit comforting to know that he never had to look back on this experience and regret the person he was with or where he was or whatever stupid risk it could cause his career. All he had to think about was him and you and the way you were looking just as affected and turned on as he was right now.

“You still sure?” You whispered, soft and comforting and so fucking caring, it made his throat feel a little tight. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, smiling a little as he leaned in to kiss you again to emphasise his point. “I trust you. I want this with you.” 

You smiled, still looking so fucking genuine before you leaned over to grab the box of condoms, removing the plastic peel with an ease he was only slightly jealous of. He watched you grab a small foil packet, glancing at him every few seconds like you were waiting for him to jump back on his decision.

“I trust you,” he repeated, confident and sure. 

His hands laid on your legs as you tore open the foil packet. His hands squeezed the fat of your thighs as you rolled the condom on him, stroking him a few times until he was bucking into your touch. His hands were on your waist, supportive and guiding as you slowly sunk down onto his cock. 

“Shit,” Luke breathed out, his breath shaky and gasping. “Shit.”

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, one hand on his shoulder and the other gripping the back of his neck. “I—fuck—I’ve got you.”

The squeeze of your walls around his cock made him want to close his eyes. It made him want to lean back against the headboard, keep his eyes closed and fucking bask in the feeling of you being so warm and tight and intense around him. But the desire to watch the way his cock disappeared into you was stronger, to watch the way your eyes fluttered shut and your lips parted as you settled fully on his lap. 

It was fucking memesiring watching the way you slowly lifted your hips and sunk down again. It made him feel like his head was spinning as he watched you continued to move, to sink up and down on his cock, to fuck yourself on his cock and moan his name and look into his eyes and—

“Can I—” He cut himself off, a pathetic and whiny noise leaving his lips when you squeezed around him. “Can I please—”

“Whatever you want,” you murmured, breathless and panting as you leaned in to kiss him like you needed it.

He let himself enjoy the kiss, to enjoy the feeling of being inside you and the weight of you on his lap and your lips on his before he moved. Before he reminded his brain that he can move, that he didn’t have to feel so boneless and helpless, as he shifted until the two of you had rolled over and you were beneath him and—

“Oh fuck,” you moaned, loud and shameless as he hooked an arm under your knee, lifting your leg out of the way enough for him to thrust back in as your head feel back against the pillow. “Shit, yes, like that.” 

For a second, it was hard to remember he was even in his own body as he watched you. It was fucking mesmerising as he watched you moan and whine beneath him, as he felt your nails digging into his skin and scratching down his back as you demanded him for more, as you muttered his name between pleas and begs and whimpers. 

Luke kind of wished this moment would last forever. 

Unfortunately for him, he was utterly weak when it came to you. Because you were pretty and sweet and you felt fucking unreal around him, and you were looking at him like he fucking meant something and—

It was so much. Too much. Just fucking enough. 

“I can’t—” He gasped out, his whole body feeling like it was buzzing alive as the knot in his stomach twisted tighter and his thrusts became sloppier. “I’m not gonna last long—”

“Come for me,” you breathed out, your hands cupping his cheeks as you wound your legs around his waist. “C’mon, Luke, wanna feel you come in me.” 

And well, he stood no fucking chance lasting after you said that to him.

He could have sworn his ears were ringing when he came. It was intense and overwhelming and disorienting and, fuck, it felt so good. He could feel his muscles tensing, his body rigid and shaking as his orgasm washed over him. He could feel the wave of pleasure rushing through him, leaving every fucking nerve in his body buzzing as he let himself enjoy the way you were squeezing him around him.

He felt like he was on cloud nine when you ran your hands through his curls, your lips against his ear whispering god knows what. But your voice was low and humming and comforting and he could feel his eyes slipping close to enjoy the sound of it. 

He could feel you running your hands over his body, feel the way every inch of skin was pressed against you, feel the way your legs were tightening around him like you didn’t want him to move just yet either. 

After the rush of adrenaline and pleasure, his body felt syrupy. His movements felt slow and unhurried, his thoughts felt like they were floating away. His brain felt fuzzy and pleased and content to just lay on the bed with you, bask in the feeling a little longer before the grossness and desire to clean up took over. 

Luke was more than happy to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, to close his eyes and let out a happy sigh and let himself relax after the really intense last few minutes the two of you had just experienced.

And if Luke was more awake, he would have noticed the way you tensed up the second he spoke. The way your eyes widened, the way your body instantly locked up, the way you went a little pale. 

If Luke was more awake, he would have been able to think twice before he spoke. 

But Luke wasn’t awake. He fell asleep after muttering the one thought that had been on his mind since New Years. 

He closed his eyes and slept like a fucking baby and woke up to an empty bed and an empty apartment and not a single sign of proof of the night before except the marks on his skin and the used condom lying on his bedroom floor. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” he had slurred into the crook of your neck, his voice barely louder than a rumble as the sleepiness really hit. 

If Luke was more awake, he would have stopped himself from completely fucking everything up. 

.

[tojisun]

I’m soooooo obsessed with your poolverine! Especially where Logan is fucking reader while Wade watches!

But what if Wade gets so desperate that he cums untouched just humping his rosey leaking cock into the air as he watches Logan fill you round after round

teehee thank you!! and this is so delish oh my goood <33 // cw: SMUT; afab!reader; poly with set power dynamics (dom logan, sub reader n sub wade); voyeurism; praise kink // divider by @/plutism

it’s—

it’s heinous, really, how wolve-fuckin’-rine could just go for hours fucking you, breeding you, while leaving wade leaking like a motherfucker. tearing up too, sure, but he’s still got his mask on so they can all pretend that he isn’t truly crying.

(he’s actually weeping but, well, semantics.)

it started the way it always does.

“stay there, bub,” logan sniped, his grin just a bite too mean, but wade didn’t even fight back because the three of you are used to this back-and-forth; of logan taking you like even after all these years, he still had to stake his claim, while wade was made to wait.

after all, this game is one of a hunt; it starts with wade waiting, raptly watching the way logan devours you, before being allowed the scraps—licking logan’s cum off your cunt, wade’s tongue pushing you to another shaking orgasm.

a hyena that is allowed to feast after the lion had its fill.

but it was different today—logan was more mean. he was more impatient to wade.

logan kept going; fucking his thick fingers in your cunt, crooning how he was doing this for your own good.

“shh, yer not ready for pups yet, darl,” he hummed, a heavy hand pressing down on your stomach to stop your thrashing; holding you down to force his thick fingers in, and scooping out his cum amidst the squelches of your cunt.

you keened, fisting the sheets as tears leaked out of your eyes, wetting your already-damp cheeks.

“s’too much!” you cried, unable to stop your hiccupping. “l’gan, please!”

but logan just nuzzled his maw on the inside of your thighs, puffing out breathy chuckles.

wade was straining then, his grip breaking the wooden arm rests. he ignored the splinters digging into his flesh, unable to do anything that wasn’t watching.

waiting.

he was slowly realizing that he would not have his turn today.

logan has you in a mating press now.

you’ve yelled so many times, warning logan—warning them—that you’re cumming but there was no gushing squirt nor trickling cum, and the two of them realize with hitched breaths that logan’s finally fucked you into dry orgasming.

it was a delicious sight, one that pushed wade to finally free his cock from inside his suit.

logan had shot him a gleeful look, his ravenous eyes tracking down the mess that wade has become—heaving chest, leaking cock, mask finally damp with his tears.

(you’ve glanced at your lover too, devouring how he looks, ever so patiently waiting even when he’s been denied for hours now.

wade always chirps. he’s always filled the silence with his chatter, but he’s been so, so quiet today. like he’s at a loss for words, unable to sound any more that isn’t ragged wheezes. like by staying quiet, he’s able to force himself to not jump you or to not touch his own cock.

fuck, what a good boy wade is.)

“almost, bub,” logan murmurs to wade, humping his cock in you like he’s affirming his own words. the action forces another choked moan out of you, and wade’s cock jumps, pre- dripping down his length.

logan tracks it throughout.

“yeah?” wade finally rasps out, his voice sounding so utterly broken. “y’fuckin’ swear?”

logan rolls his eyes at his words before huffing a fond laugh.

“swear on it,” logan replies, licking at his salty lips.

he pauses, turning his attention back to you. he ruts his cock in, nudging at the pudgy walls of your pussy with a pleasured hiss.

(you’re an unbelievable marvel, peanut. all soft and sweet.

all so delicious.)

amidst your high-pitched squeals, logan shoots wade another glance. he looks even more hungry now, and wade doesn’t get to ask his stuttered ‘what?’ when logan croons, “‘fore that, won’t y’cum for me, pool?”

wade’s body jumps to obey the order, only—

“but no touchin’ yerself.”

the whine wade lets out is so pathetic and broken, but it only makes logan smile wider, like he knows wade would be a good mutt and follow his command—

jesus. thinking about logan praising him just made him ultra-horny.

wade shuffles on his spot without a word, legs parting even wider to make it easier for himself. he’s so busy squirming at the feeling of the cool air wrapping around his cock that he’s missed you and logan changing positions on the bed—you’re riding logan now, your back to his chest, with logan’s chin hooked on your shoulder as the two of you watch wade.

wade curses underneath his breath when he finally looks up, and it tickles a giggle from you. it quickly peters into a high keen when logan fucks you up the length of his cock before dropping you down, using gravity to sit you snug and stuffed full.

fuck.

wade’s bitten moans spill into the hot space between the three of you, and he wonders: between you and wade, who is logan’s prize?

whose keening desperation is logan watching?

wade humps at nothing, unable to stop himself anymore. he times it with logan’s manhandling of your body—thrusting up when logan grasps at the back of your thighs to lift you up from his cock; then pressing back down on the couch when logan drops you back to engulf the entirety of his length.

wade’s not even embarrassed to admit that it doesn’t even take a while before his whole body is locking, pleasure and desperation mixing like a vice to grip at his body.

his orgasm builds—

“cum f’me, wade,” logan sings, sounding so utterly soft like he’s not in control of both you and wade’s pleasures, but wade has always been logan’s good boy. always been desperate for logan. always—

his orgasm rips him apart—that is the only way wade can explain it.

it wracks his body with unimaginable tremors, like wade’s body is undergoing its own earthquake. he nearly blacks out at the pleasure, and it should be embarrassing—it will be, later when logan’s cock is in his throat and your strap is fucking wade’s hold, and the two of you are murmuring how wade is your precious and desperate little cum slut—but right now, he basks in the pleasure and the pride shining in logan’s eyes.

jesus fuck. that was good.

biting a rock bcuz this one rlly had me sweating like mmmmy god

im so sorry if this is bad 😣 wrote this while walkin’ around the mall so it might be choppy n clipped in some parts GAH

wade gets a turn (somewhat)

[angel-in-your-basement]

It’s wild that you’re not OK with age play but you’re OK with saying that assault is a kink …. rape is not a kink! Why do so many people not understand that it’s CNC or it’s assault? Do y’all just do this for attention or what because I’m really confused on why you would think such a terrible thing could be considered a kink. Coming from someone that was raped before I was even five years old.. I just don’t think that we should sit here and act like rape is ever OK. like I said you’re looking for the term CNC, not rape. please stop contributing to men thinking rape is OK because they’re out here assaulting people in the real world when y’all do shit like this making it seem okay when it’s not. whether you think your little dumb posts are contributing to real world assaults or not, they absolutely are.

Hi there,

I can see you’re feeling really triggered by this, and I am going to explain my thinking, but first, I want to gently encourage you to take some time to self-soothe and take care of yourself, because engaging with this in a state of heightened emotion is not going to make you feel good.

I am answering this now out of the understanding that you are hurting, and this may be a good opportunity to share my perspective on these ideas, but I’m not going to answer any further asks about this. I don’t come on here to debate things.

Anyways, if you, or anyone else is interested in my take on this, here it is under the cut.

I’m going to address a couple different things here, with a reminder that is my perspective, and you absolutely don’t have to agree.

1. “You’re not okay with age play”

I actually am okay with age play, and there are some aspects that I, myself, enjoy. The reason it’s in my DNI is not bc of the kink itself, but bc of how much shit I’ve seen on tumblr of people actually being under age or seeking out under age people and using that type of tag/fantasy/etc. to do it, and I want nothing to do with that entire side of tumblr, as much as I can avoid it. Undoubtedly, there are people on here that are into age play that do so in consensual, risk-aware ways, and I support that, but I don’t actually engage with it online bc of what I said before.

2. “Rape is not a kink / it’s cnc or it’s assault”

So, we agree on this, except on the semantics of the language. Part of kink is exploring shameful and taboo topics in a safe, consensual way. It’s important to understand the limits of where play can become harm, absolutely, but I think that is very individual, and nitpicking how other people explore with no understanding of why they might be doing that is not productive.

With that understanding, it doesn’t make sense to me to say “well it’s okay if someone wants to be held down and have someone hurt them and not stop even if they say no, but they can’t say the word ‘rape’.” Language does matter, but it becomes counterproductive if we spend too much time prioritizing semantics over context and meaning. I prioritize safety, curiosity and connection, because that is what kink is about to me. I feel secure in myself that I can explore these dark fantasies without harming myself or other people, and that doing so is healthier than shaming myself for it.

3. “Do you do this for attention?”

I’m going to gently remind you here that I am also a person, who has my own set of trauma and bad experiences, and who chooses to process them in the way I choose to process them. I created this blog as a space to express myself in ways that I generally don’t get to in real life, because it’s not socially acceptable to talk about the scary/dark/repulsive thoughts that we all experience.

We are so conditioned to feel shame, and to shame others, and shame causes more damage than anything else does in humans, in my experience. Shame doesn’t make people change, it just makes them isolate and repress themselves, which leads to them dealing with their thoughts, emotions and urges in unhealthy ways. I choose to acknowledge the darker parts of people, and to be open about it so that we can learn to deal with it in healthier ways.

And yes, I do enjoy the attention, and I enjoy that people enjoy the content I create.

4. “You are contributing to real world assaults”

My question with this statement is basically: where do we draw the line? If I made the exact same posts and never used the word “rape”, would that make it okay? If I put a disclaimer on every single post, would that at all discourage someone who already thinks it’s okay to do these things without consent? Should I post about cnc at all, knowing it may be feeding into someone’s shitty ideas about the world? How much responsibility is on me, specifically, to prevent people from being assaulted?

Basically, it’s an endless rabbit hole. We have no control over other people. I choose not to take on the burden of feeling like it is my job to be perfect so that I never contribute to anything bad happening, because that is impossible. Instead, I choose to focus on the good I put into the world, and what feels good for me so that I can continue putting good into the world.

More importantly, if you want to make change in something as huge and pervasive as sexual assault, is your energy best spent lashing out at random people online? Or is it finding ways to help yourself heal, so that you don’t hurt yourself and other people? What about finding ways to support people who have through similar experiences? Or working through activism to support changing the systems at large?

I am very satisfied with the ways in which I put good into the world through educating people, supporting people and doing my best to be authentic. I have made a lot of meaning out of my suffering by helping other people.

If you genuinely want to make things better, find better ways to do it.

[ballsandbabes]

Harder than I thought

authors note: Hi everyone, this is the first time I've done an illustration for one of my stories. I draw under the tag ‘D.Mon’. I hope you like it. // y/n = your name// not proof read// GIF not mine // Have fun <3

pairing: michael kaiser x fem!reader

summary: What if youd swapped duties with Kaiser, after nagging him forever about how hard your job was. So when he decides to drag you onto the pitch, its not the only reason your heart begins to race ;)

genre: romance, enemies to lovers I guess

word count: 6.2k

You just got your bachelor's degree in marketing and management. Happy to have finally done it, you were faced with the next challenge: What now? You hadn't really thought much about what you wanted to do with your degree during your studies.

A good friend of your mother's, Anrei Teieri, had a job with a football programme and suggested that you try the sports industry during a visit. You had always been sporty and were particularly interested in basketball and swimming.

For lack of alternatives, you decided to give it a try. And now you were here. For a year now. But this wasn't how you had imagined your very first job. Because you were pretty sure you had the hardest job in all of Bastard München—not because it was technically demanding, but because your job involved him.

Michael Kaiser.

Football’s golden brat. Germany’s arrogant "crown prince". And the absolute bane of your sanity. You were his personal assistant. Emphasis on personal, which, as it turned out, meant "do everything short of breathing for him."

And right now, that meant sprinting across the training grounds with his cleats in one hand, his protein bar clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing in your pocket with overlapping meeting notifications. It was stressful, although that is probably an understatement. It was as if you were living two lives. You had to think about everything, his diet, appointments, press, even his private appointments like dates, were managed by you.

“Kaiser!” you shouted, skidding to a stop near the pitch, sarcasm dripping from your voice,“Your royal shoes, Your Highness.”

He didn’t even glance at you at first. He was stretched out like a cat in the sun, all smug smiles and silky hair that glinted gold in the light.

“I didn’t forget them,” he said lazily,“You’re supposed to bring them.”

“I’m your assistant, not your maid,” you grumbled, tossing the cleats next to him.

“Semantics,” he replied, finally turning his smug, beautiful face toward you, “You look winded, Schatz. You should start training with us.”

He loved calling you that. It started when you asked him for his passport for the game in seville. While you were busy giving his details to the team's airline, he'd got hold of your passport, which you'd left on the table. It turned out that you were also German. Knowing that you would also know what this nickname meant, he now always called you that. You hated it. You weren't his ‘treasure’, you were his servant. At least that's how it felt when you had to run errands at six in the morning.

“Oh, you mean actually collapse instead of just feeling like I will?,” You plopped down on the bench nearby and took a long sip from your water thermos, “If I knew this job meant babysitting a full-grown toddler with a God complex, I’d have picked something easier. Like working in a marketing agency or something.”

“You love it,” he said with that annoying lilt of arrogance,“You’d be bored without me.”

“You left your phone in the fridge yesterday,” you said flatly,“I had to defrost it to get to your text messages.”

“That was a creative decision. Cold calls, you know?,” he smirked. You snorted, shaking your head,“You’re impossible. I hope you know that.”

He grinned wider,“And yet, you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth to argue—but the smirk he shot you made your heart betray you for a beat.

Damn it. It wasn’t that you didn’t like your job. It was just that Michael Kaiser made it very difficult to focus on anything except the way his shirt clung to his abs, or the way he always seemed to know just how to fluster you.

So you’d developed a strategy over time: complain about everything. Constantly. Loudly. He thought it was funny. You told yourself it wasn’t flirting. (But it was definitely flirting :)

___ _ _ _

It was one of those days, the mountain of work barely manageable. yes, and then there was kaiser, an active blockade that prevented you from going about your tasks. You would have liked to nail the door to his office shut. Unfortunately, you couldn't. Which is why you've been standing in the playing booth for the last ten minutes or so, having what you think is a much-needed conversation. you didn't want to admit it, but inside you loved these little random moments.

“Michael,” you said flatly, “you cannot keep texting me ‘important question’ and then follow it up with a selfie and ‘do I look hotter in blue or black?’ That’s not urgent. That’s narcissism. I got actual work to do...”

Michael leaned back in the locker room bench, one leg lazily draped over the other, spinning his phone between his fingers. His eyes sparkled with the kind of smug mischief that usually preceded international incidents. You had actually called him about the press appointment for the game at the weekend, but then it had once again slipped into a lecture from your side, when you had to actually step into the locker room, because he didnt want to come to you to discuss the matter.

“I’m cultivating my brand, Schatz,” he replied without shame, “You’re the keeper of my empire. You should care.”

You crossed your arms,“Your "empire" is built on ego, dry shampoo, and late-night calls to ask whether your features look too sharp in certain lighting. Like fans could die from you looking to good...”

He tilted his head,“You said they were devastating.”

“That’s not a compliment, it’s a warning. People trip over them,” you replied with annoyance. Michael chuckled, a low, warm sound that always made your stomach do backflips. He leaned in, elbow resting on his knee, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” his face displaying a smirk.

“I’m always annoyed,” you deadpanned.

“Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your tablet. You were trying to update his schedule, but it was difficult when he kept staring at you with that smug little smile—like he was watching a show only he understood the punchline to.

“I’m filing a report,” you muttered, “Personal assistant verbally abused by narcissistic striker. Emotional damages include migraines, sarcasm fatigue, and... chronic exposure to shirtless selfies.”

Michael smirked, “You save those selfies.”

“Because I need evidence for HR,” you explained.

He stood, stepping close, just close enough to loom—annoyingly tall, annoyingly confident, annoyingly aware of the effect he had on you.

“You could just admit you like me, you know,” he said casually, brushing a golden strand out of his face. “It’d save you all this dramatic whining.”

You looked up at him, unimpressed,“I don’t like you. I tolerate you. The same way people tolerate reality TV. It's chaotic, it lowers brain cells, but it’s weirdly addictive.”

“Ouch,” He clutched his chest,“Brutal.”

“You love it,” you now teased him.

“I do,” he said, that cocky grin softening just slightly, “Especially when you get all flustered trying not to smile.”

You refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you turned back to your iPad screen and said, “If you’re done stroking your ego for five minutes, you have training in twenty. And you still haven’t filled out the media request forms for the pre-game interviews.”

“I thought you were handling that,” he said.

You glared, “I’m your assistant, not your secretary, Kaiser. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, moving toward the exit, hands in his pockets,“You’re the girl who yells at me every day and still brings me my favorite protein bar.”

You called after him,“That’s because if I don’t feed you, you might collapse mid-backflip and sue the club.”

He turned around with a wink,“Or maybe it’s because you care.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Damn him. You hated how he made teasing sound like confession. How every throwaway flirtation felt like a test—and how badly you wanted to fail it.

“Stop looking at my mouth, Kaiser!,” you snapped.

“I was looking at your lips, actually,” he said, backing out the door. “There’s a difference. They are pretty.”

And with that, he vanished down the hallway, leaving you with a heart pounding far too fast and a very dangerous thought:

If you didn’t do something soon, this entire job was going to turn into one big, unavoidable, steamy disaster.

___ _ _ _

You dramatically flopped into his chair in the team lounge one morning and announced, “I deserve a raise or a Nobel Prize.”. He barely looked up.

“What now?” he asked, sipping an energy drink that absolutely wasn’t approved by his nutritionist.

“You had three interviews booked at the same time yesterday,” you said. “Three. I had to call your sponsors, your agent, and your mother to fix it. Also, you’re scheduled for two different hair stylists today. At the same time.”

“I like variety,” he said with a shrug.

“You’re a menace. It was a total disaster to rebuild your calendar so everything would work just fine,” you muttered. He set his drink down, leaned back in the chair like a king on his throne, and raised an eyebrow,“You know what, if it’s so hard, how about we trade?”

You blinked,“Excuse me?”

“You join me in training. For a month. Full schedule. And I’ll take care of my own life. No assistant. Total independence. More free time for you.”

Your jaw dropped,“You’d forget your own name after three days.”

He grinned, “Then prove it. If you last a month on the pitch, and I keep my life together, the loser buys dinner.”

“And the winner picks the outfit,” you added, smirking.

He gave a low laugh,“You’re cruel. Deal.”

___ _ _ _

Training was hell. Cardio at 6 a.m., tactical drills that made your legs feel like jelly, ice baths that nearly made you cry. The team, of course, found it hilarious. Raichi gave you a supportive thumbs up. Ness tried not to laugh every time you tripped over a cone. The boys were very pleased that you were now part of the training programme. And then there was Kaiser?

Kaiser was having the time of his life.

“You’re sweating,” he teased one afternoon, tossing you a towel,“Cute.”

“I’m plotting your murder,” you muttered. He leaned in, breath warm against your ear,“Do it after dinner. I already made reservations.”

And meanwhile, his life without your help?

An absolute disaster. He missed two interviews, forgot to reply to three sponsors, got his hair cut wrong (a national emergency), and was late to practice twice.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped when you smugly handed him a crumpled fan letter he’d forgotten to answer.

“I’m just impressed,” you said sweetly and full of sarcasm,“I didn’t think it was possible to double-book yourself with yourself.”

He groaned,“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You bet your smug ass I am,” you laughed as a reply. But somewhere between the playful bickering and the chaotic schedules, something shifted between the tow of you. What had begun as a serious hatred of his schedule and his person had now become something like an edge. something that belonged to him, without which he would not be himself. Something you tolerated, because of him.

It was no different on his side of the emotional world. He missed the sarcastic jokes you used to make when he messed up again. Or how you'd fall asleep cutely on the keyboard in his office because you couldn't take it anymore. The constant moaning and fussing about his inability had become music to his ears. So he started lingering near you after practice.

You on the other hand, started looking forward to his stupid texts.

You caught him watching you during drills, expression softer than usual. You’d both been dancing around it for weeks, really—like one long, drawn-out press conference of denial.

Until the final day of the bet: You were sprawled on the pitch, utterly exhausted. Sweat dripped from your forehead, your muscles screamed, and your lungs felt like they’d been lit on fire. Kaiser had given you two sets of his own tracksuit clothes to make it feel like his everyday life, he had said. that meant you were sitting there in the black shirt with the gold trim and the bugunder-red tracksuit bottoms with his initials and his match number. The others had made fun of it. They had said it was like a house number, so you knew who lived in the house together. It was an open secret that the others thought you were like an old married couple when you were together.

Kaiser dropped down beside you with a water bottle and that stupid grin,“You survived.”

“Barely,” your breath still unsteady.

“You win,” you gasped,“You’re… actually in shape. Who knew?”

He laughed,“And your schedule was a living nightmare. I missed three hair masks and I think Adidos is mad at me for not showing up to the shoe launch.”

You rolled your eyes,“Really??? The shoe release?? I worked so hard on that deal for you...You can’t function without me.”

He leaned closer,“I don’t want to.”

You froze. He was looking at you—really looking at you. No smugness. No jokes. Just something real.

“I’ve been flirting with you for months,” he said softly,“You’re not exactly subtle either.”

You blinked,“Was it that obvious?”

He grinned,“You called me a ‘walking migraine with abs.’ That’s basically German for ‘marry me.’”

You laughed—nervous and bright and maybe a little breathless.

“And now?,” you asked. He smirked, “Now I cash in on my prize.”

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, “Dinner. With me. No running around. No emails. Just you.”

You stared up at him, “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll just have to keep booking back-to-back hair appointments until you give in,” he teased. You laughed again, eyes fluttering shut as you leaned into him.

“Fine,” you whispered,“But only if I get to pick the outfit.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling, “Deal.”

___ _ _ _

You sent the message an hour ago:

"Be ready at 7. Suit. Formal. I’m picking you up. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me." – Y/n 😘

No response. Just a single read receipt and a suspicious lack of follow-up sarcasm. You were wearing your favorite dress—dark red, sleek, perfectly sculpted to your figure. Modern lines, no frills, just class and edge. The matching lipstick had taken you three attempts and two makeup wipes to perfect. But one thing was for sure, the two hours of styling where totally worth it. It felt good to be able to really doll up. You weren’t even sure why you were this nervous.

It wasn’t a date...Okay, it was definitely date-coded.

But still.

You had pulled strings to get tickets to a private advance screening of your favorite old German film—one Michael had, in his words, “definitely pretended to have seen to impress someone once.”

You smiled just thinking about his face when he realized the theater was empty. He didn’t know you knew he had rented it out.

Of course he had.

___ _ _ _

You pulled up outside his place at 6:59 sharp. The building was sleek and modern—exactly the kind of penthouse palace you’d expect a Kaiser to inhabit. And then the door opened.

Your mouth went dry. Michael stood there in a deep navy-blue suit that somehow made his hair look even more golden than usual. A white shirt underneath, buttons half-done, tie in his hand. And he was staring at you like he had forgotten the entire German language.

“Wow,” he said finally.

You smirked, stepping inside,“That’s it? Just wow?”

“I’ve seen you in sweatpants, high ponytails, and with three pens stuck in your bun yelling at me for double-booking a photo shoot,” he murmured,“And I thought that was cute.”

He let his gaze travel down slowly, lingering just enough to make your skin feel too tight.

“But this?” he continued,“You’re trying to kill me.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking,“Then die quietly and put your tie on so we wont be late.”

He held it up,“You’re the assistant. Help me. Besides you were the one, who wanted to dress me...”

You rolled your eyes but stepped closer, taking the silk from his fingers. His scent hit you—clean cologne, a hint of mint, and something just inherently Kaiser. Warm and impossible to ignore. You looped the tie around his neck, fingers brushing his collarbone. He watched you the whole time, eyes flickering between your lips and your hands.

“You’re nervous,” he said quietly.

You huffed,“I’m not.”

“You’re breathing like I just made you run laps,” he stated the obvious.

“I’ve seen you run laps. That’s not impressive.”

He laughed under his breath, and you paused with the tie half-knotted. His hand came up, fingers brushing your wrist—lightly, casually.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice dropping.

You swallowed, “You’re stalling.”

“I’m enjoying the view,” he smirked. You stepped back, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks, “Shirt next. You’re barely decent.”

He smirked, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Michael.”

“Y/n,” he got back at you teasingly. You rolled your eyes again and reached for his waist, grabbing the button of his pants.

And then it happened. You looked up. He looked down.

A second stretched thin between you—his breath catching, your fingers frozen at his fly, the silence charged with something very different than before.

He was close. So close. And when your knuckles brushed against his abdomen, he tilted his head like he was already leaning in.

“Stop looking at my lips,” you whispered.

“I’m thinking about kissing them,” he whispered back.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

But when you finally buttoned the last piece, his hand slid gently to the back of your neck—and this time, there were no jokes. He kissed you like he'd been waiting all month. Like all the teasing and tension had finally found its spark.

And god, did it ignite. His mouth was warm, commanding but careful, like he didn’t want to rush but couldn’t stop himself either. Your hands curled into his jacket, pulling him closer, lips parting like second nature.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, breath shallow.

“That was... overdue,” he murmured. You licked your lips,“We’re late.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” you smirked, still flushed from the kiss.

“Fine,” he said, “But I’m kissing you again after the credits.”

___ _ _ _

You tried to play it cool when you arrived. Act surprised. Gasp a little. Look impressed. But the second you stepped into the dark velvet of the private theater and saw the single set table tucked to the side—candles, wine, catered food—you turned back and smacked his chest,“You rented the place.”

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Didn’t want distractions. Or other people seeing me cry if the movie’s boring. I have an image to obtain.”

“You are ridiculous,” you said under a light laugh.

“You love it,” he said as he gave you one of his charming winks.

You glared,“A little.”

Dinner was incredible. The movie was even better. And through it all, Kaiser stayed close—but not in his usual arrogant way. He asked questions. Listened. Smiled when you quoted your favorite line before it happened. Let you grab his arm during the emotional parts.

It was the softest you’d ever seen him.

And the most honest you’d ever felt with him.

___ _ _ _

The city lights glowed below as the two of you stepped onto his terrace. It was late. Quiet. Cool wind brushing against your bare shoulders. You leaned on the railing. He stood behind you, his suit jacket draped over your arms.

“I had fun tonight,” you said softly.

“Me too,” he smiled, looking at you. You turned, meeting his gaze again in the silver-blue light.

This time, you didnt felt like teasing. Just the space between you, waiting to close.

He stepped in, cupped your face. You let him.

The kiss was slower this time. Deeper. More certain.

You curled into him, fingers in his hair, lips parting with soft sighs and lingering touches. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and it wasn’t just tension anymore—it was want. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, your smile as he placed a hickey onto it.

And when you kissed him back with a soft, breathless laugh, you finally admitted it to yourself:

You weren’t just falling for him.

You already had.

I hoped you liked the story and the illustration.

[tiny-pun]

Angel child, devil parent

Underrated trope: I absolutely loathe you but your kid is genuinely an angel/ but you make my usually distrusting child smile so I’ll tolerate you.

This could include

Possible jobs for A: kindergartener, baker, ice cream vendor, barista, librarian, bus driver, doctor etc.

Both of them acting all kind and polite in front of the child with underhanded jibs and sarcastic comments towards each other if the kid is around

Both Voices going higher at least 2 octaves around the child.

Whisper yelling at each other when the kid is distracted/a few meters away

“How the hell did you manage to raise an actual angel when you’re literally a satan himself?!?” “News flash: the devil was an angel himself!”

“You so clearly take after your other parent, sweetheart.”, with a shit eating grin towards the parent.

“ I will never understand how you tricked, no bewitched, my sweet child like that. The moment I find out we! Are! OUT OF HERE!!” “ Oh I just have that effect on genuinely good and nice people like that. You wouldn’t understand.” “Fuck you!” “Oh no! Such horrible language! Truly a terrible parent! That poor child! I’m gonna pray for them!” “You’re not even religious!?”

‘Oh no when did I learn the ins and outs of their daily life ?!?’

“Oh sweetie, you can’t just invite someone over without telling me. And theyre a very busy person and we wouldn’t want to interfere with-“ “No it’s fine! I have time!” Through gritted teeth:”We really wouldn’t want you to come all this way, just for us.” “It’s fine! I’ll come by at 12!”

“Hey this is me by the way!” “How the fuck did you get my number ?!?” “Your sweet child gave it to me!” “And you dickhead just took it ?!?! Why the hell would you even need it, asshole ?!?” “Again with those words in front of a child. Tsktsktsk” “We’re on the phone, dumbass.” “And you’re on speaker. Say hello to your parent, sweetie!” “Hello!” “H-Hey sweetie! Oh god.”

“Don’t teach my child such language!” “I think they’re learning worse from you actually.”

“I’m so sorry I know this is so last minute and it’s your off day/ Friday night but could you please look after my child?“ “sure!” “What?!? Just like that ?!? I was gonna do a whole speech about how I have an important event to go to and my usual babysitter just got sick and I don’t know who else to call and I yell at you most of the time we talk but I know you would never hurt my child- and !” “It’s truly fine! Even if I had something to do I know you wouldn’t resort to me if you had literally any other option so it must be an emergency. And also your child is an actual Angel, why wouldn’t I want to spent some time with them?!?.” “Oh god that you!I’ll owe you! Anything you want! ”

“Soo, you trust me?” “Bitch, That’s not what I said at all. I trust you with my kid. Nothing more.” “Semantics, sweetheart!”

Also the good old “oh shit did your/my child just trick us into having a date with one another ?”

Feel free to add!

[spikyiwaizumi]

It’s a perfect morning for a hike.

The chill dusts Yaku’s nose as a soft winter kiss, his hot breathing tearing up his throat as he pushes onwards.

His thighs strain with pleasant effort, the slope harsh and unforgiving under his well broken-in boots, a stone breaking free of the thin, frozen layer of snow to bounce down behind him. They're all familiar sensations, worn into his skin almost as deeply as the court.

With one difference.

A gasp heaves behind Yaku. He turns back to his companion, who is bent over, hands on his knees.

“Wow, you really have left yourself go, huh?”

“Shut —“ here one of Kuroo’s hands lifts weakly, flagging his words. “— the fuck —“

“I’m waiting.”

“Up.”

The last line is delivered with a laboured expulsion of breath. Kuroo’s hand drops back to his knee, his gulping of air audible to even where Yaku is standing. He grins.

Kuroo had always been a single step faster than him in high school, and even in the early years of university he could hold his own; it’s nice to get the upper hand for once.

Yet something needles at Yaku; a slight twinge in his knee. A reminder that he, too, is getting older.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo continues, straightening up. “That I can’t keep up with an Olympian while having an actual career.”

An actual career, huh?

Kuroo probably hadn’t meant it like that, but Yaku becomes aware of a pit in his gut, one that had been growing since he hit thirty. It seemed to swallow good moments with the overwhelming knowledge of time, and Yaku hadn’t adjusted to it yet.

“Your career is literally making my career a viable thing.”

“Semantics.”

"I don't think you know what that word means."

"I don't think you know either."

Yaku flips up his middle finger at him, and Kuroo cracks a grin, trudging up alongside Yaku.

“I’m good to go for a while longer.”

“I can carry you, if you’d like.”

The answering glare that Kuroo gives him makes Yaku grin again, the movement of his cheeks feeling welcome, as if dislodging a layer of frost.

The camera shutter noise rings out alone in the deserted, slumbering mountains.

“Shame Kai couldn’t see this,” Yaku mentions as he sends the photo to him.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s devastated,” Kuroo says. “Being flown in to Australia to consult on Japanese flora there instead of waking up at an obscene hour for a hike must be so awful for him.”

“His girlfriend got a ticket too, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Kuroo sighs, resting his hands on his hips. “Well, fiancé now. He had a plus one, and I can't believe that he brought his fiancé instead of say, one of his best friends of…”

He scrunches his brows, hesitating. Yaku wants to laugh.

“Don’t strain your—“

“Eighteen years!”

“There you go,” Yaku says encouragingly, and Kuroo shoots him a death glare.

“Don’t pretend that you were any better at me at math.”

Sticking out his tongue, Yaku winks at him. "At least I'm not the one who called Akaashi at two in the morning, crying over his project finance homework."

"He told you that?! And I wasn't crying, just on the verge of tears -"

"Like that's any better."

It works, as it always had. Kuroo doesn't notice Yaku speeding up, doesn't notice how they move faster when sunk into arguing. Maybe he does, and chooses to say nothing.

The sunrise is a haze of orange and pink, and Yaku thinks that it looks beautiful. It shines against the snow-patched hillsides, throwing up brilliant glares as it spreads across the mountains, claiming them for the morning. Here and there, a grey cluster of rocks emerge from the snow, as if waking up.

He glances across at Kuroo. Kuroo, who had agreed to take a day off of the work he loved so dearly to join Yaku at ass o’clock in the morning to clamber up a mountain to catch a sunrise.

He’d sounded tired on the phone when Yaku had called, just at the end of his workday, just long enough for Kuroo to run into his boss’ office and tell him that he needed the day tomorrow — yes, he apologised for the short notice, yes, he had everything in order — and then returning to Yaku to curse him out for forcing him to do that.

Yaku had asked why he wasn’t the boss yet, how come his career was flatlining, and Kuroo’s swearing at him had increased at a rate Yaku hadn’t thought possible before.

Yet he’s here.

“I missed this,” Yaku says.

“Yeah,” Kuroo agrees. His tone is a little wistful, softened by the sight in front of them. “I can’t remember the last time I went hiking.”

He's here, with his hands set on his hips, his chest driving out with each hard breath. There's unmistakable satisfaction in the curl of his lips.

“Better than lazing about on the beach, huh?” Yaku comments, moving closer to elbow Kuroo in the side. “Glad to hear you’ve seen the light.”

“Hey, that was not me saying that mountains are better.”

“Not yet.”

Yaku grins up at him, and he sees the edges of Kuroo’s lips curve upwards in response, despite trying to cling onto the mask of annoyance. His gaze wanders upwards, over Kuroo’s rough cheeks, a day’s worth of black stubble sprouting up, to the almost invisible scar on his cheekbone left from one of Fukunaga’s “inventions,” to rest on the grey bags beneath his eyes.

Cradled in the delicate glow of the sunrise, Tetsurou feels familiar and strange, all at once.

The pit stretches its muscles inside Yaku’s gut again, the pit that consumes his friends’ lives and leaves men in their places that Yaku only half-knows. His absence had been a choice.

He doesn’t regret it, but he acknowledges the painful consequences.

Swallowing, he turns back to the sunrise, and thinks he feels a wave of warmth from it. Kuroo is still a bachelor. Yaku has waited over a decade, expecting him to be one of those consequences, one that he paid the moment he chose to pursue volleyball professionally. He wets his dry, cracked lips, and glances up at Kuroo again.

Kuroo’s face is awash with an orange tint, and there are folds Yaku doesn’t recognise, smile lines faded into his skin, his bone structure just a fraction more prominent than before. Yaku wants to relearn all of it — maybe even better than before. His eyes are creased up in the way they always did when he was considering something; his tongue working within his mouth.

“I’d have brought you here sooner if I knew this is what made you speechless,” he says, and Kuroo’s removed, thoughtful expression vanishes. It's replaced by a flicker of a fondness, a momentary splinter before his usual laid-back expression settles in.

Instead of a snarky retort, Kuroo only leans his forearm on Yaku’s shoulder. He's heavy. Yaku can feel his body heat, revved up from the walk, radiating against his side.

“You’d get bored without my quick wit,” Kuroo proclaims. “We can't ever go to a mountain peak at sunrise again. Only beaches from now on, I think.”

He flashes a smile down at Yaku, and Yaku, after climbing up a tough trail for two hours, now, only now, feels woozy. He wasn’t a stranger to how Kuroo makes him feel. He’d been ignoring it for years.

Consequences.

Yaku looks down at Kuroo’s hand, jutting past his shoulder, dangling in the air. He’d stripped off his gloves at some point during their hike, and the tips of his fingers are tinged with a dusty pink, just visible through the brown. They’re lined. Yaku thinks of Kuroo telling him how his last relationship didn’t work out, that they wanted different things.

For the first time in a long time, Yaku stares at a Japanese sunrise and thinks of coming home.

Bending his elbow, he reaches up and takes Kuroo’s warm hand in his, interlacing their fingers. Beside him, Kuroo shifts his weight; taking more off of Yaku.

One last time, Yaku upturns his face to meet Kuroo’s gaze. His whole body is buzzing with the risk he’d just taken, but Kuroo’s steady eye contact grounds him; reminds him that they’d be alright, no matter what.

He inhales the crisp air, tasting a new day.

Waits.

“You’re serious?”

Kuroo’s voice is low, stripped of all and any teasing edge.

Yaku nods.

“I’m serious.”

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumpuary No. 6

Share your favorite whump creations (others or yours!)

This is such a good one!!!

I have a list, ahem, hem! Get ready:

Number one all time fave is obviously @whumblr Home is where the hurt is, EZ, no notes, no questions moving on

Wait, fuck I forgot about Nero and Dani… fuck!!! But HIWTHI is finished and so satisfying, but Bookish is soooooo deliciously whumpy!!!!

Okay!!! We are changing the order it goes, Bookish, fuck— Crossed out and THEN home is where the hurt is AND THE ONLY REASON HIWTHI is last is because the other two are still being uploaded and so it’s exciting but a good story… a good whump filled delight that’s finished is HIWTHI number one absolutely

Okay the rest are not in order, but are still my faves ahahahahah—

Whumping the Whumpers and the showstopper series by @painsandconfusion are also amazing!!! Love those

WOAH WOAH WOAH!!! Hold on, when I was getting the links to the series I saw there is a series with a female whumpee👀👀👀👀👀 AHAHAHAHAHHA YAAAAASSSSS LADY WHUMP LETS GOOOOOO

Any @short-form-whump or @mj-iza-writer writing is always spectacular!!! Especially MJ, because I DESPISE CARETAKERS in whump, but MJ’s caretakers just hit so different *bites fist* and Short-form-whump’s pieces are so tense and visceral that it actually makes me tremble, like you get hooked so quick and then it’s over and you’re so beyond satisfied by the end

Omg!!! @whumble-beeee series with Stan and Declan!!!!! EEEKKKKK!!! An (un)official guide to hero keeping, MWAH MWAH MWAH SO WHUMPY GAAAHHHH!!!! Yes brilliant

Any @whump-in-the-closet as well, holy fuck I just read a drabble and GUHHHH!!! Mal is FUCKING BADASS!!!! Badass lady whump is quickly becoming a fan favourite (it’s me, I’m the fan)

And then literally yesterday I started reading @jumpywhumpywriter and their series with Shadow and her done-ness with the world, and the winged whump and the lab whump and the WHUMP!!! IS WHUMPING—

Then in my own writing—

I think my whump-writing really shines through during whump events/calendars like this one because it’s one shot whump which is so much more whumpy and fun than writing series’s— now I love all my series but I think they’re not as whumpy as one-shots… having said that—

Defiant Leader x Confident Villain [past team member turns evil and captures their past leader… whump ensues😈]

Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker [fucked up family and sick whump, sick fic?? I think that’s the term, anywhooo— illness baybay]

Supervillain’s brand [omg this isn’t even in my masterpost, whoopsies…] [ALSO!!!! to the anon’s who are requesting more of this, it is coming!!! I just have a lot of series that are ongoing😅 It will happen I promise!!!]

Oh wait fuck and SEMANTICS very whumpy!!! [to the anon’s who are requesting more of this, it is coming!!! I just have a lot of series that are ongoing😅 It will happen I promise!!!] — this also isn’t in the masterpost dear god, this blog is so disorganised🫡

Are probably my whumpiest and most whumpy series!!!^^^

Those are gratuitously violent and whumpy and delicious, and OMG ACTUALLY THE STRANGER TOO IS VERY WHUMPY!!!! If you like it when Whumpee’s cry and are emotionally distraught (which I do, yummy)

[the-audio-archive]

⠀ »(EPISODE 2)«

╭──────────╮

𝚂𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎?

╰──────────╯

└——————— - [ 📼 ]. +〘𝚈𝚎𝚜〙 or 𝚗𝚘

⠀⠀✧ 1:20 ─〇───── 15:00

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⇄   ◃◃   ⅠⅠ   ▹▹   ↻

Okay, listeners! The radio is fixed! My friend received the parts, and we both have the next couple hours free, so let’s see if I can connect with Blu again! It’s about the same time we talked to them last time, anyways! Okay… zeki, would you introduce yourself while I set the radio station?

You hear some fidgeting with the radio while a new voice pipes up, deeper than the previous two that have previously been heard. It sounds a little bit husky underneath the drowsiness.

Hi, I’m Ezekiel. Novah calls me zeki. I work in IT for a big company, and have a passion for technology. Especially radios, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Um… I guess that’s intro enough, they look done.

Wonderful intro, zeki, couldn’t have introduced you better myself! There’s a slight pause before Novah continues speaking. Is Blu there?

Yes she is! I recognize that voice! What happened last time?

Novah immediately responded, sounding thrilled.

Blu! I’m guessing your pronouns are she/her then? Good to know! My radio is super old, and parts are… apparently uncommon. It gave out on me unexpectedly, so I had my friend fix it! Zeki is here now, actually! He’s making sure this time runs smoothly.

Hi, Blu!

Hihi! Good to hear from you again, Novah! And nice to meet you, Zeki! My pronouns are she/he/they actually! Gosh, your radio really gave out on you? That must’ve been so stressful!! How hard was it to fix, since the parts are uncommon?

Oh! Okay! Thank you for sharing your pronouns! Zeki should answer the mechanical stuff. I don’t really know much when it comes to that.

Well, I won’t bore you with the semantics. You just have to know where to look, and be okay with using parts that will work, just aren’t necessarily built for that specific radio or whatever you’re repairing. It’s… kind of like building a new computer in a way- you don’t have to buy all the parts from one manufacturer. You can mix and match as long as the computer can run okay and do what you want it to do in the end because the parts are compatible. The most tedious part was the shopping, the rest was fun since i like working with my hands.

Oh! Okay! It’s so cool that you know how to work with electronics like that! If we ever speak again, I’d love to hear more about electronic repair! How do you even know so much about this kind of stuff?

Blu sounded like he genuinely intended to ask about the topic at a later date, and must think electronics were interesting, much like Zeki.

Picked it up as a hobby, and I have a career in IT. Wasn’t too bad college wise, only took four years to get my computer science degree!

Novah piped up next, sounding ready to move topics.

Blu, last time we spoke, you said you had a lot of extra curricular activities for school? What ones do you have?

You could hear the extra excitement in Blu’s already unusually animated voice as she spoke about her activities. She sounds like she truly cares and is into what she is gushing about!

Yes! Gosh, I have so many things! I’m in a science club; I’m one of the club leaders, so I help find conventions and events for us to attend, plan what happens each meeting, lead the club meetings and discussions, things like that! I’ve also joined a ham radio club, I’m there right now! I’m just one of the attendees though! I definitely don’t know enough about ham radio to run the club! That’s just school activities though, I also volunteer at the library near where I live, and I work on drag looks and post them online, I want to be a content creator for drag specifically some day!

You hear some delighted chuckles from both Novah and Zeki before Zeki pipes up again.

Wow, sounds like you’re incredibly busy! Do you have any time for relaxation, kiddo?

No, well, sort of! I get some here and there, mostly on weekends, but I like my schedule pretty full! I like to always be doing something, I feel happier and more like myself when I’m out doing things and interacting with others! So, I guess I don’t really need downtime!

You hear what you assume is Zeki cluck his tongue, but was just ambiguous enough to be Zeki or Novah, realistically.

Be careful to not burn yourself out or keep a too busy schedule, kiddo! I know we just met, but I truly do want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.

There was a short pause, and it sounded like Novah started to say something before Blu nervously piped up.

Thanks zeki! Don’t worry, I’m definitely taking care of myself! I’ll keep my schedule in mind, though. Speaking of which, I gotta head home and work on homework. Maybe I’ll catch you both another time!

The radio started to play static, and you hear it get turned off. you hear Novah start to give Zeki an earful.

Did you have to lecture Blu about his schedule, Zeki? I know they’re just a kid, but I’m sure they have themselves figured out!

The recording clicked off.

╭──────────╮

𝙴𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗

╰──────────╯

╭──────────╮

𝙵𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝙱?

╰──────────╯

└——————— - [ 📼 ]. + 𝚈𝚎𝚜 or 〘𝚗𝚘〙

[shyvioletcat]

I love this au, you love this au. Let's just get to it.

~ Masterlist ~

~~~~~

Today Aelin was only booked in for a half day at the aquarium. It was off-peak, middle of the school term and the usual slow Wednesday crowd. There weren’t many visitors to the aquarium besides the odd school group and to keep it fair the mermaid shifts were split. Aelin had the morning and Lysandra would do the afternoon. 

There was about an hour between performances and Aelin had just finished shedding her tail along with all her other mermaid accessories. She was only dressed in her swimmers and was on her way to the showers when Lysandra walked into the dressing room. 

“Hello, hello,” she greeted brightly. 

“Hey,” Aelin replied, pulling out her clothes to make sure she had everything she needed. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d accidentally left her underwear on the bed.

“Isn’t that the sweatshirt Mr Hot ‘n Loaded lent you?” Lysandra said, sighting the jumper that had just been unloaded from the bag and flicking the cuff.

”Maybe.” It was all Aelin was willing to admit, and quickly stuffed it out of sight, diverting the conversation away from it. “Speaking of, I could have died.”

Despite the seriousness of the words, Lysandra laughed. “You were not dying. We’ve been over this. And you had a far better saviour than me, let it go.”

“Not the point,” Aelin deflected, “and you know I know how to hold a grudge.”

“You’re just jealous,” Lysandra said with a casual shrug and a self satisfied smile. 

Aelin huffed, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m very proud of you for taking the opportunity of casual sex in a bathroom.”

“It was a bedroom, actually,” Lysandra corrected. “Apparently there’s at least three guest rooms.”

“Semantics. What I’m saying is that there is a time and a place, and that was neither.”

Lysandra dropped her bag onto the chair in front of the vanity mirror. “The way I see it, thanks to my little escapade with that very handsome blond you were able to get your own dose of flirting in, you just aren’t game enough to do anything about it.”

Right, because when Rowan had undressed Aelin in that pool room, desperately trying not to look, and really except for one teasing line she had missed her opportunity. She had been too cold and frazzled to take advantage of the situation. Aelin could feel herself blushing even though she hadn’t been shy in the moment. Maybe it had been because of the onset of hypothermia or maybe it was because she had found Rowan’s own embarrassment so entertaining, either way the pink in her cheeks was damning right now.

”I have no idea what you're talking about,” Aelin tried to bluff, even though on the drive home while yelling I could have died every five minutes, she had gone into heavy detail about what had occurred. Right down to how soft Rowan’s fingers had felt as they brushed over her skin. 

“Yeah, huh. You still have his number, right? Call him, text him,” Lysandra pulled her tail from the wardrobe. “Do something about it.”

For good measure Lysandra flicked the centre of Aelin’s forehead, like that would banish the remains of the hesitancy swirling around in her brain. Swatting the hand away and hissing, Aelin scowled after her friend disappeared into one of the cubicles to start getting ready. 

What Aelin couldn’t figure out was why she was hesitating. It was clear there was mutual attraction ignoring the lack of tact Rowan seemed to have when interacting with her. She had busted him checking her out more than once. And it seemed like he was a decent guy when he wasn’t accidentally propositioning her for shifty sounding private events.

On the other hand, there was a vibe that Aelin had got from the woman she assumed was Ivy’s mother. She had never addressed Aelin directly but there was a definite feeling that she wasn’t happy with a mermaid being in attendance. Rowan had been very clear that he was divorced, so that came with the implications that his ex-wife wasn’t entirely in his life. There was obviously some kind of coparenting situation going on but Aelin didn’t know much more than that. There was so much falling into the unknown category, and there was only one way to fix that and find out. 

Aelin grabbed her bag and left the dressing room. She didn’t need Lysandra hovering and goading her into action. When she got to her car Aelin dug out her phone from where she’d thrown it into her bag and scrolled to the message thread with Rowan. She just needed some kind of opening, something casual to test the waters. The cuff of the borrowed jumper slid over her hand, almost swallowing the phone. Since the party it had lived in her car and she had worn it more than once. It was insanely comfortable and had that nice male kind of smell about it. And it was her ticket. 

Going off their previous conversations, Rowan didn’t seem like much of a texter, so Aelin took the plunge and hit the call button instead. It rang for longer than she expected, and then she realised he was most likely at work, working a real job with real hours. Aelin blushed again and was about to hang up when it connected.

”Rowan Whitethorn speaking,” his tone professional.

”Hi, this is Aelin Galathynius, mermaid extraordinaire,” Aelin said, hoping her quickly summoned bravado covered her nerves. 

“Aelin, hi,” his tone immediately dropped into something more casual. “What can I do for you? Did the money not go through?”

”No, no that’s all fine,” Aelin replied. “You were more than generous.”

”You went above and beyond. Ivy had the time of her life.” She could swear there was a smile in his voice.

”I’m glad.”

Aelin was leaning on the car, fiddling with the too long sleeve on her free hand. She was grinning as well, pleased with herself for doing such a good job.

“I don’t mean to be rude or rush you, but I’m in between meetings,” Rowan said, breaking into her thoughts.

”Oh, yes!” Aelin blurted. “I wanted to return your jumper and maybe say thank you for helping me not freeze to death after I was left for dead by my friend.”

Rowan chuckled and Aelin ignored how it skittered over her skin. 

“What did you have in mind?” He asked.

Aelin’s confidence had returned and she went for it. ”Dinner, Saturday,”

“Just give me one second,” Rowan said and there was some clicking in the background. “I don’t have Ivy, this weekend. She’ll be sad to miss you.”

And he’d gone and missed the point by a mile. “I meant just you and me, Rowan. Like a date.”

There was a heavy beat of silence, then Rowan laughed again, this one astounding significantly more self deprecating. “You should see how red my face is right now.”

”I’m sure I can imagine.” Aelin had already had the privilege of seeing it before and could picture it perfectly. 

“That sounds wonderful, Aelin. We’ll text and work out a time?” 

”Sounds great,” Aelin said, nodding even though Rowan couldn’t see.

“Bye, then.”

”See ya, Rowan,” Aelin replied and hung up the phone. 

For a moment she stood there, smiling, proud of herself for getting a date so smoothly. The whole misunderstanding of Ivy being there would be forgotten and never spoken of again. This was a triumph and Aelin was ready to celebrate, which would start with some polite bragging. 

>> I got that date you were bugging me about. Now you have to help me figure out what to wear.

When Lysandra sent back an emoji of a smiling devil Aelin knew they were about to cause some havoc and Rowan would be their target. 

~~~~~

I already have Aelin's outfit planned and she'd gonna wreck him

[sincerelyamee]

i finished reading divine ruination and

i was. so. fucking. hooked. it was like a drug. class a. i couldn't stop. it was like murder to macbeth. shoko to cigarettes. gege to sickeningly tragic endings.

i think the way you constructed spices' days with sukuna is, in all genuity, down right, fucking amazing. it feels so carefully curated down to the tea, with things like how you can see that they were pitted in similar situations in their early life, yet spices managed to diverged from it whilst sukuna embraced it, then made that misery and all the more his life mission.

i also loved how you ventured into darker territory with them actually falling in love, despite how twisted it all was, because its such a delicate topic, and you managed to execute so well.

i really felt the pain on spices side when she broke down to shoko about loving him; just from imagining how split her heart must be between the parallels in her life.

moreso, in some of the more recent chapters with the flashback to sukuna's pov, it's genuinely so heart wrentching to know that he learnt to love, or something in the semantics of it atleast, and he felt love - but it happened all too late in his life. he, at a baseline loves her but his lack of morality, or even the semblance of it is something that he can never realistically overcome when you look out how intrinsic it is to him.

it's so conflicting as a reader ( in a good way) to process and come to terms with how much real, genuine love he holds for spices, but it's all tainted with blood. i think making it apparent that he's fully aware of this, when you said " stolen love has an expiration date " is so vital because it was highkey a fat fucking slap back to reality to remember how he intentionally tried to break her down to carbon and remould her the way he wanted. even if that's not what happened in the end, a love started like that is in no capacity okay, but it's sukuna - he doesn't pay any mind to that at all.

and im so intrigued ( understatement. im literally tweaking the fuck out waiting for the next chapter AHHHHH😝😝😝 [please take your time, and take care of yourself too though of course !!!] ) to see how their endgame pans out. i have no idea how their relationship could ever play out as something mutually agreeable, so i assume there's a very, very painful demise and more mental spiralling incoming, but your roll out for angst is my favourite everrr so im highkey stuck in emotional limbo right now💔

thank you so much for investing your time into this series !!

Thank you thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me 🥹

Honestly, I’m always a little insecure about this fic, not gonna lie. It doesn’t get nearly as much attention as the prequel, which is totally understandable. I’m not complaining, really! Divine Ruination has a completely different tone and direction. Despite the fluff and comedy, it’s still a heavier, darker story. And let’s be honest, most of us turn to fanfics for comfort, not emotional damage 😭

Even I need to take breaks and go work on my fluffier stuff sometimes, so I completely understand the readers who said they wanted to give it a try but couldn’t, or who had to tap out halfway through. That said, this is still a story I want to tell, so I’m sticking with it. Wish me luck! And that’s also why I appreciate you (and the others who’ve stuck around) so much for weathering this angsty storm with me ❤️ We’re in this for the full enemies-to-lovers arc all the way to the bitter, bloody, beautiful end.

And can you believe Sukuna wasn’t even supposed to be a love interest in the prequel? He just… hijacked the plot every time he showed up (classic canon Sukuna behavior ☠️). I think people asked for a sequel expecting something soft and fun in the style of the prequel, but now here we are, 275k words later and he’s still as evil as ever.

But that’s the beauty of it, right? Spices loves him despite everything he’s done to her and everyone else. And Sukuna loves her, fully aware that she’d never choose him, that she’s constantly plotting his downfall, and would 100% rip his heart out if she got the chance.

Neither of them will change for the other… and yet, they still love one another as they are. That’s what they both crave: to be loved and accepted, completely and unconditionally, without compromise.

[cacowhistle]

werewolf woes

fandom: paranatural wc: 913

It is a beautiful summer’s day, and you are a very sick werewolf. in which jean eats a deer while he's werewolfing all over the place in his youth and has a bad time afterwards. that's all.

read below the cut or on ao3 babeyyy.

It is a beautiful summer’s day, and you are a very sick werewolf.

The sun has been up for maybe one hour, now, and Jean Garcia has found it to be a very miserable hour. The monthly ritual of hunker down in Camp Lakeside’s basement, because they have a basement, for some reason, while Jean experiences the worst pain he’s felt in his life and then kind of stops being Jean for a little while went off with a few hitches, this time. The dominoes that led to the whole thing toppling, so to speak, were…

One: someone forgot to lock the doors behind them. No fingers have been pointed yet, but Mina keeps shooting guilty glances his way, so the jury may still be out, but Jean’s pretty sure he’s got this one solved.

Two: the board covering the window to keep the moonlight out? Broken. Not secured to the wall properly. Nobody can be blamed for that one, he supposes.

And then three, and four, and five, and so on, and basically it all added up to Jean getting a helping of moonlight when he should not have, and somehow he ended up outside, and there was apparently a big chase through the woods and a near-miss with the shadow thing when Rick tried to steal the moonlight from Jean, and when he came to in the morning he was chained to the forest floor with solid light, and his mouth tasted like death and broken dreams.

Needless to say, an eventful night. Mina said he’d gotten into a deer before they could catch him.

And, once again needless to say, it’s not sitting well with him this morning.

“Ugh,” he groans, drawn out and miserable. He’s laying curled on his side on Mina’s bed, both arms curled around himself. Rick sits beside him, cross-legged, one hand on his back.

“You should drink some water,” he suggests unhelpfully.

Well, okay, Jean’s just being uncharitable. He should drink some water. Rick’s right about that one. But then he has to sit up, and go through the motions of drinking water, and he feels kind of like he’s going to throw up if he moves or breathes or blinks wrong. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It does not help the nausea.

Across the room, at her desk, Mina is tinkering away with her… science stuff. Jean’s a science guy, sure, but he’s like… more an environmental sciences kind of guy, not exactly—point is, Mina is doing supernatural science, and Jean doesn’t know what the hell any of that’s about, and he’s currently too sick to care. She’s not anywhere near earning her stripes yet, but she’s intent on becoming a doctor of all trades, and medicine seems to be her specialty.

It’s a little bit of a relief, to be honest. Jean knows that she’ll have something whipped up in no time, or at least he hopes, and really that’s the same thing with Mina.

“Guys,” he says, swallowing back another groan, “I think I’m like, dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Mina says, sounding a little amused. “Aren’t you tough? You’re supposed to be tough, Jean.”

“I’m so tough,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “Fuck. Why did you let me do it.”

“We didn’t let you do anything,” Mina argues, but Jean waves a hand halfheartedly.

“Semantics,” he says, wincing. “Rick, if I die, my crossbow goes to—to that Guerra kid.”

Rick just stares at him from behind the glasses. Or at least Jean thinks he’s staring. Actually, he’s pretty good at telling where Rick is looking, even with the glasses and the whole darkness where eyes should be thing. “Jean,” he says, “she’s four.”

“She’s a really badass four year old,” he says, before squeezing his eyes shut with another whine. “Oh my god. Mina, tell me you have something figured out over there.”

“Not quite.” There’s the sound of glass clinking against glass. “You’d probably feel better if you just threw up, you know.”

… huh. He hadn’t thought of that. Jean begins lifting a hand and reaching toward his mouth, the only thing stopping him from putting on a real violent and visceral display of sickness being Rick’s panicked Jean, no, and his blind grab at Jean’s arm to stop him. He struggles against it more for the show of it, only to slump back down against the covers when the nausea hits again.

Rick leans over and brushes the hair out of his face. Jean just sort of… freezes, not sure what to do with himself. That hand settles back on his shoulder, and Jean does not look at Richard as his face goes a little red. He entirely misses the mirrored look on Rick’s face, the internal why-did-I-do-that clear as day.

There is some comfort to be had, he supposes, surrounded by his friends instead of just… dealing with this alone, in the woods, without any support. This is preferable, really, to all the times spent alone, curled up in Shrike’s old cabin, after…

Jean swallows, closing his eyes again. It’s just preferable.

In about twenty minutes, Mina will have some success, and whatever it is she’s whipped up will help his stomach settle over the next hour or so—but until then, he will lay here, surrounded by the two people he loves more than anything in the world, and he will feel cared for.

And that, really, is all he’ll ever need.

[pentacass]

Our of curiosity about Vestra and Lana. Why did they decide on Vestra carrying their first child. I know most fans of your work joke about the 'oh god that's a possible trainwreck considering hormones and Vestra's Vestranesss'

But I'm curious how they'd come to that decision, was Lana not able to carry for some reason in your hc? (Be it temporarily or permanent) Or did Vestra really want to carry?/Lana didn't want to? Some other reason?

ahh very good question and perfect chance to straighten out my thoughts. thenk nonny!! (also i love the term ‘vestraness’ lmaoo)

To start, I must first present: GRAAAANDPAPPY KHEM VAL!!!!!!!

Ok but seriously, I’ve written the jokey thing where Khem’s the first to broach the subject of children right. It’s been years and I’ve tweaked things since then (mainly Khem’s mindset), but that’s actually, really the start of it. 

He doesn’t just plant the idea of children in their heads, it’s the idea of a lineage. He emphasises heavily on Vestra being the legacy of Kallig, and her responsibility of continuing their bloodline, which he deems worthy of keeping alive. (After all, despite being defeated in the end, Kallig was regarded as ‘the most dangerous of my rivals’ by Tulak Hord.)

Both Lana and Ves don’t care about bloodlines - in that Kallig’s blood must be passed down. But (funnily enough) it ended up being one deciding factor among a couple of others.

Lana doesn’t have some great Sith heritage, being the child of regular citizens. But she was raised in a society that places great importance on Sith legacies, so while she is glad to have a child anyway, she does see how ‘meaningful’ it would be for Ves to carry the child.

On the other hand, Ves is dismissive of the idea of continuing a bloodline she’d never even known before Lord Kallig himself slammed her on the floor like a fucking toy. She kinda hates it when Khem talks about bloodlines like that, but then Lana mentions the child won’t be Kallig’s. It'll be hers.

What eventually warms Ves to the idea of carrying is that, even if she would continue a legacy, it wouldn’t be in Kallig’s name. It’ll be Lenshe - for her father. Her non-Sith father who held her when she was scared as a child, who snuck her his meagre rations even when he was starved thin working in the mines. She’ll have children out of love, as she was raised, not out of Sith duty and obligation.

Also by this time, Ves would’ve progressed much in her Mental Health Journey™ and has a more sustainable workload in the Alliance (vs in the Empire), so she is mentally and physically in a better place to focus on carrying the child to term.

(+ additional point I’ve not decided on yet: Ves’ spiritual healing may or may not weaken her power in the Dark Side of the Force. If it does, then Ves will probably volunteer more readily because she recognises Lana can better protect her if someone does come after them during this vulnerable period.)

I also hc that Lana is…not…completely comfortable with the idea of being pregnant? Like, Vestra is totally able to talk her into it, and she would happily do it for her wife, but she would prefer not to if possible. (Ves carries both their children!)

Also also, I’m using sci-fi science-y stuff to let the children be of their DNA, so the minutiae of whose blood is being passed on is honestly just a matter of semantics and traditional (outdated?) beliefs. But they do discuss it in my fic canon, and it goes along this bloodline angle SO. There ya go!!!

[mamawasatesttube]

For the fic prompts: 52) “I Wouldn’t Change A Thing About You” with the Souperfam? Thinking about them again (<- Guy who’s always thinking about them)

👉🏾🥺👈🏾

“—in the originals, there were actually five different guys playing Darth Vader! They had the main guy who played him in the full suit, David Prowse, and then his stunt double for a lotta the fight scenes, Bob Anderson, but then his voice was James Earl Jones, obvie. But James didn’t do the breathing! That was another dude named Ben Burtt.”

Across the table, Kon pauses to suck at his milkshake. Kara swings her legs back and forth before hooking her heels back onto the bar on her barstool, humming. He was right; this place has really good fries. And the burgers are solid, too.

“That’s only four guys, though,” she says, counting them off on her salty fingers. “David, Bob, James, and Ben.”

“Yeah! I’m getting there.” Kon grins. He dips one of his fries into the pink swirl of his milkshake (strawberry, because he says he likes everything fruity). Kara wrinkles her nose. That still seems weird to her. But Kon pops it into his mouth, chews, swallows, and continues: “The last guy is Sebastian Shaw. Who was only Vader in two scenes! Although technically you could argue he was never Vader and was only Anakin, if the semantics of that mean anything to you.”

Kara has seen these movies a grand total of once. Very recently. As in, Kon got her to agree to watch all of them this weekend. As in, they finished watching Return of the Jedi about ten minutes before they came here for a late lunch.

“They do not,” she assures.

To her surprise, though, Kon deflates a little. “Oh.” He drops his gaze to the fries left in his basket, then looks up again with a grin that doesn’t seem quite as genuine. “Right, yeah, I’ve been rambling for a while, haven’t I? It’s probably gotta get boring to anyone who doesn’t have these movies literally uploaded into their brain.”

He laughs, but Kara doesn’t join in. She frowns. “I wasn’t telling you to stop,” she objects, and lightly kicks him under the table to accent it. “I was just saying the semantics don’t mean anything to me!” Another kick.

“Stop kicking me,” he pouts, so naturally, she kicks him again. “Linda!”

This time, when her foot connects with his jeans, it freezes in place. Kara gasps, then glares at him. She could probably pull free of his telekinetic grip, but that’d definitely take superstrength, and this diner might not look too kindly on a potential hole in the ceiling. “Let go!”

“Only if you stop kicking me!”

“Then stop pouting and keep telling me movie trivia!”

“You don’t have to say that if you’re getting bored!” Kon huffs. His glasses do nothing to hide the flush on his cheeks. “I know I get rambly sometimes. Blame Cadmus, they’re the ones who made me so good at being annoying.”

He grins again, but Kara’s not buying it. He’s not very slick about hiding that this is an insecurity, is he? He probably thinks he’s being slick. He’s not. It’s endearing.

“I don’t think you’re annoying,” she says honestly. “I like that you get enthusiastic about stuff. I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

And then, because that’s embarrassingly earnest to say to her cousin while they’re in public, she has to follow it up properly, before she starts blushing too. Lightning-quick, she swipes a finger through his milkshake and dabs a dollop onto the tip of his nose. Ha!

Kon squawks. “Linda!” he protests, face even redder. He scrubs his hand over his nose, then licks the melting milkshake from his palm. “Jeez!”

Kara grins at him. “Your move, Conner.” As a concession, she dips one of her fries into her milkshake (simple and plain vanilla), then pops it into her mouth.

Kon huffs at her and makes a big show of rolling his eyes and scrubbing his face with a napkin. “Uncivilized,” he sniffs. But the telltale soft look in his eyes tells her she’s won, even before he opens his mouth. “Anywhoozies. So after the release of the prequel trilogy, George Lucas decided they needed to do some continuity edits on the originals, and there was a rerelease, and…”

[soullessjack]

Full disclosure I am not the previous anon but building off of their message: I'm saying this with all due respect. Not accusing you of abuse apologia for your opinions on a fictional character, but I honestly feel like you have a strange bar for what constitutes an abuser. I strongly disagree that abusers don't regret their actions. An abuser can 100% show regret or remorse for what they did, they can show genuine love and affection to the people they victimize and still be an abuser. Dean is obviously not a black and white villainous caricature, but very rarely in real cases are abusers black and white villainous caricatures. We tend to single out Dean when dissecting the family dynamics because his abuse was the most extreme but all of them, Sam, Dean, and Castiel, are a murder cult who groom Jack into their line of business. So I don't really see the point in the semantics game.

1. that’s a fair point! I just think there’s some distinction between being abusive and being a straight-up abuser, if not distinctive connotations for those terms. I’m also not trying to be apologetic about Dean’s behavior more so than I’m just trying to explain it and make it more understandable than a surface level viewing of him.

2. agree again! nobody is completely black and white and that’s always been a consistent theme (alongside free will and family) within the show, as well as the choice to be a better person, so it’s very confusing to me when fandom discourse is all semantical about who’s worse or who’s better. your favs are wanted by the FBI and violated the Geneva Conventions numerous times, but they still try to do the right thing where it counts.

3. actually I think dumbing down TFW’s dynamic with jack as a “murder cult who groomed him into their line of business” is playing right into the semantics game and the villainous caricature.

for one, hunting just is not a cult. please can we not turn cult into the next internet buzzword. it’s a lifestyle that almost nobody involved actively enjoys living (Gordon and the other dude from Black Rock are outliers) because it’s nothing but trauma and loss and violence constantly, but for one reason or another it’s incredibly difficult to leave, or even compromise with a somewhat normal life. even Dean views it as a death sentence, and the violence he regularly commits within it only ever added to his low self worth as he considers himself a designated “grunt.” even in the later seasons when it’s framed more casually or comedically, the violence and murder of hunting is still ultimately a bleak and begrudging necessity; grunt work for the grunts. to say it’s a “murder cult” is just wrong and, well, a little cartoonish if I’m being fr.

second, jack wasn’t ‘groomed’ into being a hunter/murderer. I swear takes like these make me question what show everyone else is watching ,I’m sorry. he’s literally a born-adult supernatural creature with a heritage and birth circumstance that’s been intertwined with the lives of all three of his chosen fathers since before they all existed and cosmically dangerous powers. there is no way he could ever be normal or have a life outside of hunting (or one that lasts, at least). and considering what we know from his first death now, he probably would’ve just died as a normal baby if Cas had removed his grace. Yes, TFW has some major dysfunctions in their parenting with Jack and it’s absolutely worth talking about, but they still make an effort to be good father figures for him, even with fathers that frankly set them up for failure in that regard. to say they’re all groomers is, to put it mildly, insane and ridiculous

[immeasurablesaladagere]

can u make one where little House is transmasc and gets rly dysphoric while little (maybe cuz he got his period?) and cg Wilson comforting n reassuring him

Hi, here you go! Sorry this took so long and isn't a super big fic, I rewrote it multiple times and couldn't get it quite how I wanted it haha. It gave me a challenge in a good way, so I hope it turned out well!

Also kinda struck a chord because I'm questioning myself and always get more dysphoric(?) when I'm regressed.

-----

Word Count: 549

Summery: House is regressed, on his period, and has a very big question for Wilson. Hooray!

-----

“Wilson?”

Wilson looked up from his book. House was lying on the couch upside-down, watching SpongeBob’s latest adventure with a blank expression. His hot water bottle had long cooled off by now and he was lazily slapping it against the carpet.

“Yeah, buddy? Do you want your water bottle warmed up again?”

The slapping stopped. “Why can’t I be an actual boy?”

Oh boy, what a question for ten in the morning. “You are an actual boy, House.” He said, hoping for the slim chance that he could get away with simple assurances this time instead of talking about the semantics of society’s relationship with gender with a seven-year-old.

But of course, he was talking about House here and even while regressed he wasn’t fooled by platitudes. He needed answers. Complicated, oh so complicated answers. “No, I’m not. Real boys don’t have periods ‘cause they don’t have a uterus. Only girls have a uterus.”

Wilson sighed and bookmarked his page, knowing he wouldn’t be picking his book back up again any time soon, and moved to sit next to him on the couch. He probably should have expected this. House’s dysphoria always reared its head when he was regressed, or maybe he just lost his inhibitions about hiding it, and House had been quiet after he had changed pants and shamefully asked for a hot water bottle for his cramps after breakfast. 

“Well that’s not always true. Do you remember that man you treated a few months ago? How he was born with both boy parts and girl parts? He was still a boy, wasn’t he?”

The man had come into the clinic with severe abdominal pain, and after the usual battery of tests came up with nothing, House had taken interest. It turned out that the man was born intersex, with a blind uterus that had gone unnoticed until an ovarian cyst ruptured. One hysterectomy later and he was able to go on his way.

House wriggled himself upright and toyed with the seal around the plug of the water bottle. He didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but it’s different. He had the boy parts too, I don’t.”

“Sure. But if he had both parts, how did he know he was a boy?”

House stopped fidgeting, and Wilson could almost see as the gears turned in his head and he came to an answer. Still, stubbornly, he shrugged and pouted at the floor.

“Because he was a boy in here.” Wilson pointed to House’s forehead, “His brain knew he was a boy, just like yours does, even if he had different body parts, just like you do. That’s what really matters.”

“But…”

Wilson cut him off before he could come up with a new way to put himself down. “And your name is Greg. Would a girl like being named Greg?”

To his relief, that managed to work a small smile out of him. Now that, House couldn’t argue with. 

“Hey, are your cramps feeling better? How about we go get you some ice cream, anything you want.” He offered, and House perked up like he’d said “car ride” to a puppy.

A wide smile came across House’s face. “Anything..?” He asked, in a tone that said you’ll regret this later.

That was future Wilson’s problem, he decided. “Anything.”

[enbyleighlines]

hmmm for pride month prompts... oskieran & snow

Ty for the prompt!

Drabble below cut:

Yearly visits to the mercenary fort were necessary for Oscar’s peace of mind. No amount of letters could fully convince him that his brothers were surviving perfectly fine without his constant mother henning, no matter that they were both now grown adults. But while the visits themselves were full of joy, they also exhausted him.

So as always, Oscar was glad of the solitude during his trip back to Melior, with only his trusty stead Nutmeg to keep him company.

Their journey was slow and steady. The gentle rhythmic trot of Nutmeg’s hooves clip-clopping on the street nearly put Oscar into a meditative trance. He fondly reminisced on the last few days. He wistfully envisioned everything to which he was returning: the familiar routine of working hard for the good of Queen and country, and the eager embrace of the man he loved.

Distracted as he was by his own thoughts, it took Oscar a moment to notice the change in the air, the subtle drop of temperature. But when he did, it prompted him to pull Nutmeg to a complete stop.

Oscar let out a sigh at the beauty surrounding him, and his breath materialized before his eyes like a puff of dragon smoke. From the heavens, tiny specks of white danced their way down, tumbling to and fro upon the wind, only to immediately melt upon contact with the earth. And as if in reverence, the world itself had gone silent.

It was the first snow of the year.

Oscar took another minute to appreciate the view. He had always loved the early days of winter: the excitement of the coming holidays, the smooth shine of undisturbed snowfall, the hush in the air, the entire majesty of it all.

He watched as the snowflakes caught in Nutmeg’s mane, marveled at their unique shapes, so intricate and yet so fragile.

Beautiful.

But then Oscar urged Nutmeg into a proper gallop, because with the first snow of the year came a far less pleasant yearly visitation.

—

Kieran was a hale and hearty man, but he was not immune to illness. And every winter, with the changing of seasons, came a terrible cold that swept through the soldier barracks with the ruthlessness of a scorned lover.

And no matter the precautions he took, Kieran was always among the first afflicted.

So Oscar was not surprised when he asked around the soldiers training in the fields outside the royal villa and learned that his lover had been forcibly resigned to bedrest.

After taking a moment to hand Nutmeg off to the stable hands, he went straight to the kitchens. The head chef, seemingly having expected him, waved off his question before it could fully leave his mouth, and granted him permission to do as he pleased.

Within the hour, Oscar was armed with a tray of bowls, silverware, a steaming cauldron of soup, and a fresh loaf of bread, courtesy of the head chef. These he took to his shared quarters with Kieran.

Oscar announced his presence with a kick to the door.

All too quickly, the door was opened, and it was immediately clear that Kieran had been blatantly disobeying his superior’s orders.

For one, he was still in his armor. Secondly, the bed was made, albeit clumsily. And lastly, Kieran had his favorite training axe still in hand.

“Oscar!” Kieran exclaimed, or attempted to, before he was beset by wheezing coughs.

“Sit,” Oscar ordered. “You are meant to be resting, or so I heard.” Not that had ever stopped Kieran before, but it had to be said nonetheless. “I’ve brought soup.”

“After I’ve finished this set,” Kieran promised. “I can’t relax until I’m done my daily training, you know that! My body simply won’t let me.”

Oscar had, indeed, heard as much before, but he was still no closer to actually believing it.

But arguing semantics with Kieran would be a waste of time. Even on his best days, that man was as dense as a brick wall, and just as easily moved.

So Oscar tried a different tactic.

Sighing, Oscar replied, “That’s a shame. This minestrone really only tastes good warm, and it will surely grow cold in the time it takes you to finish. Perhaps I should offer it to the nice lady down the hall.”

Color bloomed on Kieran’s already fever-flushed cheeks.

“To Lady Ethel, you mean?”

For reasons unknown to Oscar, Kieran had recently struck up a rather one-sided rivalry with the young Lady Ethel, a new recruit within the Royal Guards. If Kieran had any inclination towards the opposite sex, Oscar might have been concerned.

“Yes, to Lady Ethel.”

“But you have made it for me!” Kieran declared. His voice was hoarse, but he didn’t let that stop him from speaking his mind in full. “Or am I mistaken? It is your mother’s recipe, yes? You cannot deceive me! Even with sinuses besieged by mucus, I can smell the basil that you have undoubtedly plucked yourself from Rhys’s garden! That means you have made it with me in mind, knowing as I’m sure you do that your mother’s minestrone is my favorite soup! And yet you would give this soup you’ve made with love to the nosy little harlot down the hall?”

Oscar tried not to smile too wide. His lover was so predictable at times. “I did make it for you,” he allowed. “But you are too busy training to eat it now, and as I’ve said, this minestrone does not taste half as good once it’s cooled.”

Kieran glowered powerfully at him. The effect was unfortunately tarnished by his comically red nose.

“Unacceptable,” Kieran sniffed. “We will eat it now, while it is hot, and I will simply resume my training afterwards!” He spoke with great confidence, as though this was a compromise that he was offering, and not what Oscar wanted from the beginning.

Oscar swallowed down a laugh. “A sensible suggestion.”

He carefully set down the tray upon their table. When Kieran moved closer to take a seat, Oscar stole a quick kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, none of that!” Kieran protested, flinching back as if struck. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow myself to pass this terrible plague unto you! Keep to yourself, and do not tempt me with your embrace until I can breathe through my nose once more.”

“But I missed you,” Oscar demurred. It was an uncomfortable truth, yet it was worth it to see Kieran melt like butter in the sun.

Kieran faltered, visibly struggling between his good conscience and his desire to make up for the days of separation between them. His eyes fell to Oscar’s mouth, glimmering with longing. For a moment, Oscar believed he had succeeded, but then—

“No!” Kieran pulled back further. “Nice try, you conniving, sultry-eyed fiend! But my heart will not be swayed.”

Allowing this loss, Oscar put up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I will not try to seduce you again.” It took a lot of effort to say such with a straight face, but somehow Oscar managed. He ladled soup into each bowl, making sure that Kieran’s was full to the brim. “Eat, my love, and grow healthy once more.”

Kieran rubbed his hands together and set upon his helping with a vicious glee.

They ate in companionable silence. Oscar crossed his ankle over Kieran’s under the table, which his lover allowed, but not after shooting him a suspicious glare. Oscar kept the rest of his body to himself, which seemed to reassure Kieran.

It was not long after Kieran finished his second helping that his lids began to droop. Halfway into his third, his movements slowed, then stopped.

“Perhaps you ought to take a nap,” Oscar suggested.

Kieran tensed, ready to protest.

“With a short rest, you’ll soon have the energy to train twice as hard,” Oscar quickly reasoned.

Silence filled the room. Kieran’s face was still twisted, struggling to find the words to argue, but a sudden yawn swallowed whatever dwindling willpower to which he had been holding.

“Fine,” he said at last. “A short nap, then.”

Oscar stood to help Kieran to the bed. It said much about his level of fatigue that Kieran did not try to push him away.

Before long, Kieran was snoring like the rumblings of a distant storm, the spiky locks of his fiery red hair the only thing visible from the cocoon of blankets he had wrapped around himself. Oscar watched over him for a moment.

He couldn’t wait until Kieran recovered, and they could have their first proper snowball fight of the year.

Their life together was predictable, yes, but no less interesting for it.

The End