#and I have a vague schedule for the next month which helps a lot

[exopelagic]

supervisor was met. god help our souls

[derinwrites]

How can I make money writing fiction?

I'm gonna be straight with you. There is no guarantee that you'll make enough as an independent writer to make it worth your time. You very well might -- I make a liveable wage as an independent writer -- but many don't. Most writers I know also have a job. And luck plays a big part in it.

If you're interested in going forward in spite of this, you have two main options for monetisation open to you, and you are going to have to pick one. I call them the sales model and the sponsorship model, and you are going to have to pick one.

The sales model involves writing stories and selling them to readers. You can put books up on Amazon or Smashwords, sell them direct from your own website, enlist the help of a traditional publisher to handle that for you and let them decide where to sell, whatever -- the point is that your money is made from the sale of books to readers. If you go with a traditional publisher, you're using this model (though they will give you some of the money ahead of time in the form of an advance). Most indie authors also use this model, publishing through draft2digital, Ingram Spark, direct through Amazon, whatever. I've never relied on the sales model and can't give you any advice on how to do this, but Tumblr is full of indie authors who probably can.

The sponsorship model involves soliciting small amounts of money from various readers over time. This is ideal for web serials, and it's what I use. I use Patreon, which is designed specifically for this purpose, but you can use other sites such as ko-fi. This model involves providing regular content for free, with bonuses for those who support you.

"Can't I do both? Sell books and have a Patreon?" You absolutely can! I know several indie authors with a Patreon. I sell my completed books as ebooks and will eventually sell them as paperbacks. But your time and attention is limited, and so is your audience's, and you're going to have to half-arse one of these in order to have enough arse to whole-arse the other. You're going to make a lo of decisions that benefit either the sponsorship model or the sales model, not both. So pick your primary income source early and commit.

I can only advise on writing web serials and using the sponsorship model, so I'll go ahead with that assumption. If you want to make a liveable wage doing this, not only will you need luck, you'll also need patience. This is not a fast way to build a career. at the end of my first year of doing this, I had one single patron, and they were a real-life friend of mine. When I reached an income of $100/month, I threw a little party for myself, I was so happy. It had taken such a long time and was so much work. I reached enough to cover rent/mortgage after I'd been doing this for more than four years. It's a long term sort of career.

Here are some general tips for succeeding in this industry, given by me, someone with no formal training in any of this who only vaguely knows what they're talking about:

Have a consistent update schedule and STICK TO IT

The #1 indicator for stable success in this industry (aside from luck, which we're discounting because you can't do much about that) is having a consistent update schedule. Your readers need to know when the next chapter is coming out, and it should be coming out regularly. Ideally, you should have no breaks or hiatuses -- if you're in a bus crash or something, that might be unavoidable, and your readers will understand if you tell them, but if you're stopping and starting a lot for trivial reasons, they WILL abandon you. You can't get away with that shit if you're not Andrew Hussie, and I'm pretty sure Andrew Hussie doesn't message me for career advice on Tumblr. If you find you need a lot of hiatuses to write fast enough then you're updating too often; change your schedule. A regular schedule is more important than a fast one (ideally it should be both, but if you have to pick between the two, pick regular).

2. Pay attention to your readership, listen to what they want from you

Your income is based on a pretty complicated support structure when you're using the sponsorship model. this model relies on people finding your story, liking your story, and continuing to find it valuable enough to keep paying you month after month. This means that your rewards for your sponsors should be things that they value and will continue to pay for ('knowing I'm supporting an artist whose work I enjoy' counts as a thing that they value, to my great surprise; there's a lot of people giving me money just for the sake of giving me money, so I can pay my mortgage and keep writing for them without needing a second job), but it also means supporting the entire network that attracts readers and keeps them having the best time they can with your story -- being part of a rewarding community. Because this is advice on making money, I'm going to roughly divide your readership into groups based on how they affect your bottom line:

sponsors. People giving you money directly. The importance of keeping this group happy should be obvious.

administration and community helpers -- discord moderators, IT people, guys who set up fan wikis, whoever's handling your mailing list if you have a mailing list. You can do this stuff yourself, or you can hire someone to do it, but if you're incredibly lucky and people enjoy being a part of your reader community, people will sometimes volunteer to do the work for free. If you are lucky enough to get such people, respect them. They are doing you a massive favour, and they're not doing it for you, but to maintain a place that they value, and you have to respect both of those things. My discord has just shy of 1,300 members and is moderated by volunteers. I'd peel my own face off if I had to moderate a community that large. If you've got people stepping up to do work for you, you need to respect them and you need to make sure that they continue to find that rewarding by doing what you can to make sure that the community they're maintaining is rewarding. Sometimes this means taking actions and sometimes this means staying the fuck out of the way. Depending on the circumstances.

fan artists. Once you have people drawing your characters, writing fanfic of your stories, whatever, treat these like fucking gold. Give them a space to do this, and more importantly, give them a space to do this without you in it. Fanworks are a symptom of engagement with your work, which is massively important. They are also a component of a healthy community, an avenue for readers to talk to each other and express themselves creatively to each other. Third, fanworks act as a bridge for new readers. When readers share their art on, say, Tumblr, it can intrigue new people and get them into the story. Your job in all of this is to give them the space to work, encourage them as required or invited (I reblog most TTOU fanart that I'm tagged in on Tumblr, for instance), and other than that, stay the fuck out of their way. These people are vital to the liveblood of your community, the continued engagement of your audience, and the interest of your sponsors. Some of the fan artists will be sponsors themselves; some won't be. Those who aren't sponsors are still massively valuable for their art.

speculators, conversers, theorists, livebloggers, and That Guy Who's Just Really Jazzed For The Next Chapter. Some people don't make art but just like to chat about your story. These people are a bedrock of the community that's supporting your sponsors and increasing your readership, and therefore are critical to your income stream. Give them a place to talk. Be nice to them when they talk to you. Sometimes, they'll ask you questions about the story, which you can choose to answer or not, however you feel is appropriate. They'll also want to chat about non-story-related stuff with each other, so make sure they have a place to do that, too.

that guy who never talks to you or comments on anything but linked your story to ten guys in his office who all read it now. Some of your supporters are completely invisible to you. You can't do anything for these people except continue to release the story and have a forum they can silently lurk on if they want to. But, y'know, they exist.

If you want to focus on income then these are, roughly, the groups of people that you will need to listen to and accommodate for. You can generally just make sure they have space to do their thing, and if they want anything else, they'll tell you (yes, guys, paperbacks will be coming eventually). Many people will fit into multiple groups -- I have some sponsors that are in every single one of these groups except the last. Some will only be in one group. A healthy income rests on a healthy community which rests on accommodating these needs.

3. If you can manage it, try to make your story good.

It's also helpful for your story to be good. Economically, this is far less important than you'd think -- there are some people out there writing utter garbage and making a living doing it. Garbage by what standards? By whatever your standards are. Just think of the absolute laziest, emptiest, hackiest waste-of-bandwidth story you can imagine -- some guy is half-arsing that exact story and making three times what you'll ever make on Patreon doing it. And honestly? Good for him. If he's making that much then his readers are enjoying it, and that's what matters. Still, one critical component of making money as a writer is writing something that people actually want to read. And you can't trick them with web serials, because they don't pay in advance -- if they're bored, they'll just stop. So you have to make it worth their time, money and attention, and the simplest way to do that is to write a good story.

This hardly seems mentioning, since you were presumably planning to do that anyway. It's basic respect for your audience to give them something worth their time. Besides, if we're not interested in improving our craft and striving for our best, what are we even writing for? I'm sure I don't need to tell you to try to write a good story. The reason I list this is in fact the opposite -- don't let "I'm not a good enough writer" paralyse you. The world is full of someday-writers who endlessly fuss over and revise a single story because it's not good enough, it's not perfect, they're not Terry Pratchett yet. Neither was Terry Pratchett when his first books were published. If you're waiting to be good enough, you won't start. I didn't think Curse Words was good enough when I started releasing it -- I still don't. I started putting it out because I knew it was the only way I'd get myself to actually finish something. I don't think it's all that great, but you know what? An awful lot of people read it and really enjoyed it. And if I hadn't released it, I'd have been doing those people a disservice.

Also, it taught me a lot, and based on what I learned, Time to Orbit: Unknown is much better. If I'd never released Curse Words, if I hadn't seen how people read it and reacted to it and seen what worked and what didn't, then Time to Orbit: Unknown wouldn't be very good. And it certainly wouldn't be making me a living wage, because it was the years writing Curse Words that started building the momentum I have today.

And Time to Orbit: Unknown as it is today has some serious problems. Problems that I'm learning from. And the next book will be a lot better.

So that's basically my advice for making money in this industry. Be patient, be lucky, be consistent. Value your community; it's your lifeline, even the parts of it that don't directly pay you. And try to make your story as good as you can, but make that an activity you do, not a barrier to prevent you from starting.

Good luck.

[hopefulromances]

can you do 37. “Is that my shirt?” with jamie? also love your writing <3

Thank you so much dear! Thank you for the ask!

37. “Is that my shirt?”

You stretched out on the sofa, feeling the stretch all the way from your fingers down to your toes. Jamie was out at some away game. You wanted to come but it didn't match up quite right with your work schedule, so you had to stay behind this time.

You missed Jamie so much, you really did. But man was it nice to have some alone time. All day everyday you were constantly bombareded with social interactions. From work, colleagues, after work activites, then going to pick Jamie up from training, you rarely had a moments peace.

Jamie was due back the next day, and you were excited to have him home. You couldn't wait for him to walk through the door, excitedly telling you about the city they had visit, what rom com Ted had forced them to watch, and the exciting play-by-play of the game. After about an hour of listening to him, he would ask you how you had managed the weekend without him to which you would respond with telling him your exciting weekend plans (which mainly contained lots of baths and New Girl marathons).

Which was exactly what you were up to at this moment. You laid out on your couch, an episode of New Girl that you'd seen a million times playing on the TV that you weren't really watching, while you played a mindless app game on your phone. Tomorrow night you'd most likely be doing the same thing except Jamie would be there.

To mimic that, you'd gone over into his single drawer that he had at your place and stolen one of his shirts. As much as you loved your alone time, Jamie's presence was one that you needed in your life. His upbeat yet laidback energy helped you to relax and wearing his clothes when he wasn't around helped you to find that energy.

Not that he knew that, of course. You weren't sure how he'd feel about you stealing his clothes just yet. Having just passed the 8 month mark in your relationship.

You felt yourself just start to nod off, when you vaguely heard the door open and close. At first it seemed like the dreaming part of your brain making it up. Jamie wasn't meant back until tomorrow and no one else had a key to your place. But then a voice confirmed that someone was indeed in your apartment.

"Is that my shirt?"

Your eyes flew open as you looked up to see Jamie smiling at you from the doorway.

"Jamie!" you exclaimed, scrambling up from your spot on the couch.

He opened his arms to welcome you in as you embraced him hastily. The shirt was no match for the real presence of Jamie Tartt. He chuckled as he pulled back breifly to look down at you.

"That's my shirt." He repeated, looking down at the Manchester City shirt you were wearing.

Your cheeks began to burn as you realized your situation. No pants, wearing Jamie's shirt, and nothing else. You pulled on the bottom of the shirt. "Oh... yeah it is."

"Aww, you missed me, did ya?" He teased, pinching your cheek. You batted away his hand and frowned.

"No! I just... liked the fit is all!" You denied, though you knew he was completely right.

Jamie couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by his affection for you. He pulled you into another embrace, his arms keeping you tight against him.

"Well, I'm home now, sweetheart, no need to steal my clohtes anymore." But he was quick to add. "But you're free to if you want cause you look fit as fuck in my shirt." He reached down and pinched your ass, pulling a squeak from you before you dissolved into laughter.

"You want to know what looks even better?" You asked, releasing him from the hug.

"What?" He cocked his head at you. God, he was so cute.

"Me without the shirt."

"I have to agree with you there."

Let's just say you weren't wearing Jamie's shirt for much longer after that.

[logically-asexual]

i do believe that thomas is enthusiastically working on sanders sides and i think that the long time it has taken for the video to be made is due to other problems, and i get why people who don’t agree with criticisms of thomas think it’s weird to assume that thomas has given up on sanders sides, since even though his updates are vague as hell and come like thrice a year, they’re still updates.

however. i do think the other side is also understandable. mostly considering what the past couple years have been like.

so if you’re someone who thinks it’s crazy that people think thomas has given up on sanders sides here’s a hopefully helpful explanation. i’m not looking for an argument, i just want to explain this in good faith because i’ve seen people confused.

so in the past couple years the discourse has been a lot of -> people being upset that there’s no videos -> people arguing in defense of the waits with different arguments -> the first group not accepting these arguments and still being upset -> and so on.

first the argument was like “he has a small budget and small team, so it makes sense to take a while to make a good quality video!” and like… fine.. he did put out working through intrusive thoughts which had a bunch of cool effects and props and equipment etc and showed that there was a lot of work going into the video that justified a few months of wait. (it was still annoying because it was supposedly “just an Asides” and it clearly did take time away from working on the next actual episode.)

but then he had the patreon and by this point the budget couldn’t really be an excuse? the idea was that with patreon not only videos like WTIT would exist, but that every video could be like that and they could come out just as often as before, because such a big production shouldn’t get in the way now that they had the money and the people to get it done efficiently. that is, unless thomas has a terrible business model where he still spends more than he earns despite probably earning enough to pay a good enough team if the money was well managed? i don’t know how much he earns but he was able to make putting others first and working through intrusive thoughts with no problem and the patron amount has only increased since then right? so that excuse didn’t really last.

then the main episode still didn’t come so the defense was “the pandemic obviously makes it harder to film.” which. of course it did. but then there were vaccines, restrictions were mostly over and thomas started putting out content where he did film with others, just not the main episode. okay. this excuse is now cancelled and then it must be something else.

then we have “thomas has health or personal issues that make him feel uncomfortable in front of the camera.” very reasonable. if he was in the filming stage and so the production of an already-written video had to be paused while he recovers. however. we later found out he is still in the writing stage, after three years.

and writing doesn’t need in-person meetings, it doesn’t need a huge budget further than what they pay for rent at their office and paying the writing team., it doesn’t need thomas to attend scheduled meetings and show a fake-happy face to thousands of viewers. personal issues could get in the way of thomas feeling motivated to write but he still has an entire team of writers and also it’s been three years… and he did make other scripted content in between and didn’t seem to have a problem with that. if it was an issue that made him sad enough to not want to write then after stretching the writing stage a few months then ,, by that point it would probably have been more productive for him to take a full break (letting the audience know) before coming back ready to work.

so. these excuses, mostly thought by the fans trying to justify the lack of videos, are actually very reasonable on their own. but when compared with the reality that time has shown us they seem to be just. excuses. and not actual reasons for the main episodes to come out. so two different conclusions can be taken from this:

1. there’s another problem* that we haven’t figured out yet (and in this sense it would be nice if thomas told us a bit more so we could at least have an idea of what this mysterious problem is. a lot of people in the ts criticism tag only wish thomas was more honest about whatever is going on).

*i personally believe this and i think the problem is simply that they’ve bitten off more than they can chew, which is something that thomas and joan do have a record with. like with the puppets episode. but they always have solved those problems that come with having ambitions bigger than their abilities and the result is always great so thomas’s team keeps doing it. but without thoughtful planning it might reach a point where this style is no longer sustainable and i think that’s what has happened with the finale. also made worse now by the lack of joan to improve the writing of the show. but that’s my own guess.

or 2. thomas is straight up lying with his updates. and he’s just. not working on the finale or working very slowly because he barely pays any attention to it. this is the conclusion (from what i see in the ts criticism tag) that a lot of people have come to. because they feel like every other reasonable explanation has been proved wrong and thomas’s lack of more explanations and defensiveness when anybody asks about sanders sides makes them think that he’s not willing to admit something, and that that something is that he doesn’t want to do the show anymore, despite still wanting to earn money and sell merch and leave the possibility open in case he does feel like doing the episode later.

again. i personally don’t believe this. but i understand where the idea comes from. i think thomas isn’t responsible for everything fanders assume about him but there is some blame to be placed on him for the distrust these fans now have on him. because he’s let actual years go by without a word about why writing the finale has taken so long, and because he’s so defensive when people ask about it. he can’t control everything fans think but he could have handled it better. he still could. but i don’t think he’s going to change anything and he’s just hoping to put out the video as soon as possible and let it speak for itself, and he’s hoping that with that people will just naturally come back and let the past go once it’s done. not a good idea imo. but that’s how it seems to be.

anyway. again i’m not looking for an argument. but you can comment your opinion if you like.

[rainbluealoekitten]

hey so i don't know you at all, but i saw on an old post that you did an IB eng lang+lit extended essay,,, and if you have ANY tips on choosing a topic for that i would literally appreciate it so much,, i have to choose my topic in the next 24 hours (procrastination </3) and i have vague ideas but no clue how i could structure them or what kinds of topics the IB prefers :/ literally any help, via dm or answering the ask, would be so so helpful ((( but no pressure ofc :] )))

omg hi babes, i'd be super happy to give my advice and i hope i'm not too late?

ok so you know the 3 categories i'm assuming? idk what your school is like but if you need more guidance on the ee in general, go to philpot's step by step guide

when you're told to pick something that interests you, DO THAT. you will spend MONTHS on this topic, researching and writing for hours upon hours, so you HAVE to be invested. even if you love love a topic, you might still struggle for a variety of reasons (my tips on this later on). regardless, you are on tumblr engaging in fandom and media for a reason. WHAT is that reason? what compels you? what themes, character dynamics, settings, motifs compel you? what shows, what books, what films? what about in lang and lit class? do you like ad analysis and the societal implications? do you prefer minute details that make a movie just so so good (e.g. lighting)? did you watch the dead poets society and you've been reading poetry aloud ever since?

the ib requires you to write about an "acclaimed" literary or non literary work, which gives you a LOT of choice. you could write about doctor who, for example.

i'll explain my process when i was picking my topic.

i have always liked greek mythology (like a LOT) and my favourite figure is akhilles. i decided i wanted to do something exploring his relationship with patroklos, but alas! i could not look at the iliad as it was not written in english originally, which didn't fit into either cat 1 or cat 2. so... why not the song of achilles? it's well known and acclaimed, plus would be more fitting for a dp level of literary analysis. but how to explore the characters? well... what else was i interested in?

what makes a character a hero?

this was the central question. i ended up changing the specifics of my question a million times which... don't do that. eventually, my question was (more or less), "how does miller conform to and subvert the characteristics of a hero through characterisation?" (that was not the question. i promise that the actual question was a million times better).

NOW. my extra note.

before you start researching and outlining, here is something i recommend you do before starting, based on my own issues. now, i did get a predicted (knock on wood) A, but after way too much deliberation.

make a list of your strengths and of your weaknesses. consider literary analysis vs diegetic and non diegetic sound analysis (idk if that's even what it's called but yk). consider time management skills. consider outlining skills. consider research skills. what do *you* need in terms of help and support from your supervisor? what do you need to do to help yourself? for example, i should have forced myself to pick a question from the start, before even starting research. this is an issue i have in other subjects too, and caused me a lot of grief for my history ia. i also asked my ee supervisor to help me come up with a realistic, step-by-step schedule bc i struggle assigning myself deadlines.

for the second part of your ask, structure is going to be super dependent based on your topic and category. i recommend reading examples similar to your topic (don't waste time reading ad analysis if you're doing poetry aha). i did mine with bg info on the classical view of heroes, then each bp was a different aspect (first conformity, then subversion). i have a friend who wrote hers on a feminist film and her bg was about feminist theory, with mentions of that time period, which then informed her fairly standard-structure analysis.

let me know if this helps in any way at all, and don't hesitate to reach out again if needed! i wish you the absolute best with the ee and dp more broadly :)

[wildemaven]

A Cut Above

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Hairstylist!Reader

WC: 2680

Warnings: T; Mentions of food, divorce, lots of pining and fluff otherwise.

A/N: I wanted to write a Hairstylist!Reader story a few years ago, but l wasn’t feeling super confident about my writing and just never got around to it. In the last few months I’ve had this urge to get back behind the chair again, which is what sparked this fic. Still haven’t decided if I will get back into doing hair as of yet, but I can enjoy writing about it. This is not beta’d and hope it reads well cause I’ve been run low sleep. Enjoy!!

Masterlist / Series Masterlist / Next

“You done for the day?”

The question pulls you from your thinking. It’s an organized chaos of mental notes streaming through your subconscious.

“I wish. I have one more then I’m done. It’s a new client too. So I’ll be a bit longer.”

“Color?”

“No, thank god! I don’t think my feet can take another 2 to 3 hours more.” The day was filled with back to back clients— a typical Saturday in the salon. Your clients who worked long hours, were always filling up your Saturdays. “Just a cut. Benny made the appointment for him, said his friend was in need of a change— very vague about it”

“Mmm.. Benny.”

“Earth to Hannah!! Gonna need you to touch back down girlie.” Hannah was the salon receptionist, and Benny Miller’s secret admirer.

“Huh? Oh sorry, got a bit distracted.”

“You don’t say? You know, you could just ask him out, would probably be way more exciting than sitting there and daydreaming about him 24/7.”

“I do not daydream about him 24/7–“ She tries convincing you, but you know her far too well. You shoot her a pointed look— you’re not buying it. “Okay! Alright, I do think about him— a lot! But I can’t help it, he’s so…”

“Pretty?” You finish her thought.

“Yeah. He’s so pretty.”

“Well, I have it on good authority that said Pretty Man Child Benny, might have an itty bitty crush on a cute little receptionist. So, put your big girl panties on and make a move.”

Benjamin Miller— Benny, was a long time client of yours, turned friend. He was in your chair every 5 weeks maintaining that gorgeous head of hair. Gotta look good for the ladies when I’m in the ring— his words.

As the years went on, you found you were collecting Benny’s friends and family as clients. His older brother Will, Will’s wife Nicole, his close friend Pope (still haven’t heard his real name), as well as Mom and Dad Miller. Benny kept your chair busy and you were grateful for that.

He’d text you on Monday saying he’d had a friend who was needing a cut, something about a fresh start. He was in luck because you had one spot open, so you scheduled some guy named “Fish” as your last client for the week.

“Wait really?! He knows who I am?!” Shock was written all over Hannah’s face.

“Hannah, you greet him every appointment— of course he knows who you are.”

“I think I black out the minute he walks through the door.”

“That would explain the drool every time.” You can’t help but laugh at her expense.

She rolls her eyes back at you as she gathers her things from the front desk. “Alright, I’m going to leave before you decide to carry on with this onslaught of nonsense. Going to go home and pour myself a glass of wine in celebration!”

“Celebration?? For what?”

“Benny Miller knows who I am! And he has a crush on me!!” You let her bask in her glory, as she all but floats to the front door.

“Hannah…” You catch her attention before she’s exits. “Text him! Preferably before the wine.”

“Yes mom!” She mocks back at you before the door swings shut.

*

You had 15 minutes until your appointment would be showing up, so you took the time to clean your station up a bit and set up for his hair cut.

Your shears, combs and clippers laid out on your hair cutting tray, clean cape folding on top of your station.

As you were checking over your schedule for next week, making a list of colors you needed to pick up from the beauty supply, the front door opened welcoming your client— your very handsome client.

He looks nearly 6 feet tall, and so broad. His hair is dark chestnut from what you can see peeking out from under his hat. There’s a casualness to him in the way he carries himself— a shy confidence.

“Hi! You must be Fish.” You give him your name as you make your way up to him, extending your hand out in greeting. His rather large hand gripping yours, firm but a gentleness to it.

“Did he really tell you my name is Fish?! Fuckin’ Benny.” He shakes his head, as if to fain off embarrassment. Shoving his hands in his pockets he starts laughing about it. “Yeah, he did. I am assuming that’s not actually your name though. Although, not judging if it is.”

“No, my name is Francisco Morales, but you can call me Frankie.” You notice the flush creeping up his neck— you make a mental note at how gorgeous he is before you get caught staring.

“Okay then, Frankie. You can come on back and have a seat here at my chair. Feel free to put your hat on my shelf there.” Helping him get situated.

“Let me go grab a clean towel and then we can chat about what you are wanting.”

Frankie sits himself down and starts to take in the space. You seem very tidy and organized as he glances over at your tray of cutting tools. He right away decides he likes that about you. Benny didn’t mention how beautiful you were when making him this appointment. He said you were pretty but he wasn’t expecting to be overwhelmed by how stunning you were— he knows he has to try his best to be cool and not ramble on.

He sees you making your way back to him in the mirror, his eyes locked on yours like magnets— he notices you catching him staring, but then you give him a smile that lights up your face. There’s that butterfly sensation tickling his insides, he hasn’t had that happen in a long time, but he welcomes it.

*

Arriving back to your station you take the small towel and place it on his shoulders before securing the cutting cape around his neck.

“So what are we thinking?” You ask as you begin to run your fingers through his hair, taking in the texture, density and the shape of the cut he has now.

“Uhh, I umm… I don’t know. I’m open to your professional opinion.” He didn’t realize he needed to come in with a style in mind. His usual barber usually says “Hi” then starts hacking at it.

“That’s okay.” You look at him in your mirror, his eyes already fixed on you and you feel your breath catch in your throat.

You hadn’t noticed his dimple earlier, and you can’t seem to keep your eyes off of it when he smiles. You steady your thoughts and continue to comb your fingers through his hair making note of how it lays and it’s natural growth pattern.

“You have a nice wave going on. If we work with it and bring your sides and the back in a little tighter the top will lay nicely.”

He’s captivated by everything you’re saying, and yet he doesn’t understand a single word of it. You could tell him he needed to shave his head and he’d willingly let you, no questions asked.

“How does that sound Frankie??”

“Honestly— I have no idea what any of what you just said means, but I trust you.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.” You find his nervousness charming. “You won’t be losing much length overall, it will be more shaping and connecting the sides to the top.” Your hands moving around his head as you try to explain your process.

“Again— no clue what you just said.”

“Got it! Enough hair jargon then. Let’s get you back and washed up first.”

The warm water hides the sweat that’s formed on your palms as you begin washing his hair. He’s settled into the shampoo bowl, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest in such a kicked back manner.

Your fingers work diligently as you begin to scrub the soapy liquid through his wet locks. As you spend ample time working over his scalp, you catch the sound of a faint moan. You don’t think he meant for it to sound so erotic, but it’s stirring a warm feeling with in you.

“Feel good?”

“Mmmhmmm..” It’s all he’s able to manage, your movements awakening him in so many ways, his spine vibrating with an indescribable desire.

Suds throughly rinsed, leave in conditioner combed through, you both get situated back at your station.

He seems way more relaxed, more chatty and asking questions as you go section by section, meticulously trimming away the unwanted ends.

His questions alternated between your professional life and personal— where you grew up, favorite food and what made you decide to become a hairstylist. In a different circumstance, it might have felt invasive— but there was an ease to Frankie that had you spilling your life story to him so freely.

In return you asked him for more about himself. He shared about his life in Delta Force, where he had met Benny, Will and Pope, who you now know as Santiago.

His life as a helicopter pilot keeping him busy most of the time. He even felt brave enough to mention his semi recent divorce. You didn’t feel like you needed to delve deeper into his failed marriage, especially for only just meeting him.

You shared the same sentiment in working long hours and how it had you feeling overwhelmed at times, like you had less free time for yourself— mentioning you were working on trying to have more fun and go out. You shared how your former partners were always annoyed with you for being so consumed with work, the main reason you hadn’t been dating as much.

Checking and cross checking the length, you’re happy with how it’s shaping up.

“How do you normally style your hair? What are your go to products?”

He looks at you with the most sincere and confused expression, nervous to share his routine with you.

“Normally it’s just straight out of the shower, quick rubbing of the towel over it so it’s not dripping, then toss the hat on.” Pointing to the battered hat he’d worn in.

“Frankie! If there’s only one piece of advice you leave here with, please let it be that you never aggressively rub a towel over your hair again!”

He thinks he should feel embarrassed but there’s a sweetness in the way you share your knowledge with him— he will make a conscientious effort to gently pat his hair dry from now on.

“Since you mentioned you are usually throwing on your hat, it’s probably safe to assume there’s not much actual styling going on?”

“Uh, yeah… Not much styling. The least amount of steps possible is my go to method.”

“While the hat vibe is cute, I would not be doing my job if I sent you out of here wearing—”

“You think I’m cute?” He cuts you off. That dimple again making an appearance, his grin slightly laced in flirtation.

“Umm, yes.” Your face feels hot, the blow-dryer not helping much, as you try to remain calm and collected.

“Hm!”

Grabbing some product and applying a small amount to your palm, you begin to distribute it throughout his hair. .

“But I think without the hat is cute too. Easier to see all of your,” You gulp at your next admission. “Attractive features.” You giggle as you finish styling his freshly trimmed hair, each strand manipulated with such precision— the new length really does add to his handsomeness.

“You think I’m attractive too?” He says shifting in the chair, his gaze still steady on you.

“Oh wow, I’m really just letting my internal monologue run my mouth aren’t I?”

He shrugs with the slightest cock of his eyebrows in response.

“And now would be a good time for the ground to just swallow me up!” You groan, hands covering your face as you attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“You’re cute when you get all flustered.”

“So you think I’m cute now? We just going to spend the rest of the night confessing our new found feelings having only just met?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” He states so casually.

The rest of his appointment is filled with more flirtatious banter, a connection that you’re both very much aware of— yet neither of you stating the obvious

“Thank you again.” Frankie says holding a bag of products he insisted he leave with, wanting to branch out from his usual “hat vibe”’as you called it— said hat’s bill tucked into the back pocket of his already snug blue jeans.

“So… Do you want to set something up for next time?” Pulling out your schedule, hoping that Frankie likes his cut, and you, enough to return regularly. “I think 5 to 6 weeks would be a good amount of time to see you again.”

“Actually— I was hoping I could see you sooner than that.”

“Oh! Okay. When are you thinking?” Slightly confused, you start scanning over the openings you have in the coming weeks.

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?? I’m not follow— Oh! Ooooh!”

“Yeah….” There’s a budding nervous energy about him as you realize what he’s asking. “There’s this sports bar around the corner— the guys and I hang out there from time to time. Anyways, they have some great appetizers and craft beer on tap… If you’re open to it, we could, um go… Unless you have other plans…”

“Yes! I’d love to Frankie.”

“Yeah?!” His face instantly beaming with excitement.

“Yeah! Just let me clean and lock up real quick, then we can head out.”

*

Drinks and appetizers flowed into a moonlit walk back to your car— both of you stalling out your goodbyes.

“So, I’ll call you tomorrow.” Frankie says as his hand cups your cheek, his warm gaze fixed on yours. “I hope this isn’t too soon, but would it be okay if I kissed you?”

“Yeah.. I’d like that.” Leaning into him to close the gap, fingers carding through the nape of his silky waves.

Frankie’s lips all but crash into yours, the intensity growing from your own, eager for more of him. He nips at the plumpness of your lower lip, encouraging them to part for him. His tongue slipping inside your mouth and you can taste the bitterness from his beer still lingering.

A grip is established on your hip, his hand slowly moving around to your backside eliciting a breathy moan from deep with in you as the heated kiss escalates.

Laughter from a rowdy group of bystanders reminds you both of your surroundings.

“Sorry, I got a little carried away there.” Frankie rests his forehead on yours as he tries to regain his composure, his breath fanning across your cheeks— they’re no longer cold from the frigid air.

“Well, I most certainly wasn’t complaining. In fact, I look forward to you doing it again sometime.”

He places a kiss to your forehead, before exchanging goodbyes. He promises again to call tomorrow, and you’re already breathlessly excited for it.

Heater cranked up in your car, willing your body to adjust to the heat. You grab for your phone in your purse, pulling open your message app so you can send a quick text before putting the car in drive.

-Hey Benny, just wanted to thank you for setting that appointment up for Frankie. He’s a great guy! Super funny and hella charming.

-You sure we’re talking about the same Frankie?? 😉

-Funny! Anyways, I appreciate it and I’m looking forward to seeing him again!

-Oh! Hannah called, we’ve got a date next week!

-You be good to her Benny!

-Of course! No problem! Make sure you and Frankie thank me in your wedding toast 🍾🍾 Night!!

You roll your eyes at his last text before tossing your phone in to the passenger seat. The entire drive home you can’t get Frankie out of your head, wondering if he’d find you too eager to call him when you got home.

The decision made for you by the buzzing of your phone— Frankie’s name flashing on the screen.

Next

[artsy0wl]

Public Display of Affection? More Like Personalized Dragon Affection

Yes, tis my attempt to make a pun out of PDA. But a funny punny. Truerivalshipping is still helping me out of a writing slump. This time with Sonia, Ash, and Goh popping in to say hi, Hop being sick, and Leon worrying.

“Sorry I missed the rest of your match.” Leon apologized. “Mom called me.”

Sighing, Leon leaned against Raihan. He hugged the dragon master, melancholic and deflated. It was a match Leon didn’t want to miss. It was to see who would qualify for a tag team tournament at the end of the month. The winner, got to team up with Leon. Which Raihan did, but Leon wished he could have seen the battle all the way through.

“It’s okay.” Raihan assured with a smile as he pat Leon’s head. “We both knew I was going to win anyways. I couldn’t let some pink haired punk with a Wobbuffet steal my partner.”

“Still… I should have been there to cheer you on.”

“Pfft, you can pay for dinner this time and we’ll be even.” Raihan chuckled, before shifting his focus elsewhere. “Besides, it’s your ma, so I completely understand. Is she okay?”

Leon sighed, tilting his head. “Mom’s fine. Hop… not so much.”

“Oh? What’s wrong with our little champ?”

“Pneumonia. Mom says he got it real bad.”

That made Raihan wince. Returning the hug, Raihan exerted sympathy and concern. “Will he be okay?”

“He hasn’t been hospitalized… yet, but the doctor said he would have if they waited another day or two. They prescribed bedrest, fluids, and some antibiotics. And if he gets worse, bring him to the hospital.” Leon sighed, hiding his face in Raihan’s coat. “I’m worried.”

He couldn’t blame Leon for that. Being a champion kept him away from his family on a regular basis, so worrying was natural. Besides, Leon always made an effort to be there for Hop despite the hectic schedule of championship.

“What caused it?”

“Mom says he got caught up in a storm while training in the wild area.” Leon relayed. “Which probably did, but I think depression and stress worsened it. That Bede fellow did a number on him after a battle. Said some pretty nasty things.”

“I see.”

Raihan vaguely remembered Bede. The kid was Rose’s recent choice for a sponsorship. Though it would seem that it didn’t really last as long as Bede hoped. The kid certainly had an air of arrogance and pride to him. One that the kid could hopefully change as he got older.

Not that it made how he treated Hop right, just what Raihan had observed and inferred. Hop’s enthusiasm and determination was a lot like Leon’s. An acquired taste for some, but ultimately harmless and admirable.

“Why don’t we go visit him?” Raihan offered, stroking Leon’s hair. “I have one last challenger today and my last before the tournament is in two days. We can grab dinner on the way.”

Leon nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

~

Emerging from the gym, the duo were holding hands. Leon was grinning widely and proudly. Raihan had beaten the challenger without much issue. Saving for a Machamp and Froslass that gave his Sandaconda and Gigolath a run for their money.

Waiting at the train station, Leon rested his head against Raihan’s shoulder. Sitting on a bench, they took a moment to breathe. They decided to hit the diner in Motostoke before catching the next train to Postwick.

From there, they’d check up on Hop and stay the night. Leon’s mother knew they were on the way. Which she promised to keep a secret in order for them to surprise him.

Amber eyes flashed, as he watched for the next train to come in, realizing something. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Leon kissed Raihan’s cheek. “That’s for you win in the exhibition match.”

“You sneaky little Vulpix.” Raihan chuckled, shifting slightly. “The least you can do is give me two. Double battles and all.”

Grabbing Leon, Raihan set the champion on his lap, stealing his hat in the process. Cupping the side of Leon’s face, using the other to hold him in place, Raihan went in deep. Legs bent as Leon welcomed the kiss. Amber eyes closed, ignoring the world around him, including the train coming into the station.

A small gasp escaped Leon as Raihan freed him, kissing him again. This time on the forehead. Giggling, Leon stretched out, legs resting on the bench as he leaned back, using Raihan’s arm as a cushion. His face was now an adorable shade of red as he stared at Raihan fondly.

“I love you, you know that?” Raihan asked.

Leon nodded. “The feeling’s mutual.”

The sound of a throat clearing distracted them as they realized they were being watched. Sonia, wearing a soft smile, stood beside Ash and Goh, who were curiously confused. Scooting off of Raihan’s lap, Leon sat next to his partner with a playful smile.

Ash and Goh had never seen them acting this way before. They had such a competitive dynamic that seeing them so domestic was odd. Not that Leon nor Raihan were looking to hide their relationship. It was just a first for the young duo.

“So you see, dragons don’t normally like knights.” Sonia playfully narrated. “But every now and then, they fall in love with the most charming and pure of knightly princes.”

“And I’m stealing this knightly prince for a nightly adventure.” Raihan stated, playing along. “Catching a train?”

“Yeah. Showed the boys the mural in Stow on Side and they offered to join me in my journey to Hulbury. I am dropping off a little gift to Nessa.”

Nodding, then stretching, Raihan stood up. He helped Leon up, wrapping an arm around Leon’s shoulders. Sensing Ash and Goh’s confusion, Leon stepped in.

“We’ve been together for a while now.” Leon stated, wrapping his arm around Raihan’s waist. “We haven’t gone public with it yet, and only close family and friends know. But we will when we’re ready. I hope you understand.”

“Of course.” Ash confirmed. “I’m surprised, but it makes sense. I’m happy for you.”

“Me too.” Raihan agreed, side hugging Leon tighter. “Since we’re all going the same way, why don’t you join us?”

~

“It took you long enough.” Leon’s mother stated, welcoming the pair in. “I almost thought you got lost… again.”

“Sorry.” Raihan apologized as he took his shoes off. “Ran into Sonia, and we ended up grabbing dinner in Hulbury.”

“How’s Hop?” Leon asked, eyeing the stairs.

“He’s okay.” His mom confirmed. “He should be awake if you want to peak in.”

Leon nodded, walking upstairs. They watched him, not saying anything until he was upstairs. His mother sighed, looking at Raihan with a tired smile.

“Thank you.” Leon’s mother said. “Hop needs it.”

“You’re welcome.” Raihan sighed. “Leon did too. He’s… Leon. Worrying like the lovable airhead he is.”

She chuckled. “I got Leon’s bedroom set up for you guys. Do excuse any mess. It’s been a while since Leon last visited.”

“We’ll manage.” Raihan assured. “Thank you for the accommodations on such short notice.”

Excusing himself, the dragon tamer followed after Leon. When he got to the top of the stairs, he spotted Leon in Hop’s room, both beaming with smiles. Standing in the doorframe, Raihan smirked.

Regardless of cause, they needed to see each other. Hop needed to see his brother. Leon needed the break and relief. Both needed the quality time.

And as any dragon would, Raihan was going to take care of his treasure. His knight. His prince.

[orange-orchard-system]

I brought up my experience with botched surgery in a previous post, so let's talk about the topic. What's the deal with botched surgeries?

A botched surgery is, essentially, any surgery in which something went wrong – a medical fuck-up, if you will. This can include a lot of things depending on the surgery, ranging from potentially deadly to "whoops, let me fix that real quick", and so everyone who's had one will only have experience dealing with their specific problem. I'm saying this as a disclaimer that my advice is going to be colored by my experience with a botched surgery, and also to let you know that a botched surgery does not necessarily mean the mistake was a big one. Small mistakes can cause a botched surgery, too.

Surgery is often fearmongered by people throwing around the vague idea or only specific examples of a botched surgery, especially when it comes to gender-affirming surgeries, or surgeries done to restore an intersex person's natural body. Hearing so many horror stories about surgeries that went wrong, you may be discouraged from getting your own, even if it would improve your life.

Now, some people would just point to how low the risks of something going wrong are, and say that's why you shouldn't listen to these arguments. Personally, I find this method unhelpful, because it doesn't actually confront the source of people's anxieties, so let's confront reality with all its risks. What can you do if you're having a surgery and are scared about it being botched?

Pick a surgeon that you trust. If you get the opportunity to select who will be doing your surgery, ask for recommendations from your doctor, look up patient reviews, and go for whomever you have the most trust in to do it right. Steer clear of anyone who has a reputation for botching their work. [PT: Pick a surgeon that you trust. / end PT]

Ask what the expected recovery timeline will look like for you. Surgeons will be able to give you a rough estimate of how your recovery will go and how long it will take, as well as any problems you might want to look out for. I find this is especially important for more complex surgeries, as something that may seem like a problem at first may in fact be normal and expected. [PT: Ask what the expected recovery timeline will look like for you. / end PT]

Bring a trusted person to your appointment. Some surgeries/clinics may not allow anyone aside from the doctors and patient in the room, but others will be fine with it, and it can make you feel a lot better to have someone there with you as you go under, or just knowing they'll be waiting outside for you when you're done. They can also help if there's something specific you want to ask about but are scared to do it yourself, or if you feel you may need someone there to advocate for you. [PT: Bring a trusted person to your appointment. / end PT]

Request or schedule a check-up during your recovery. Even if you don't suspect anything has gone wrong, a doctor may be able to help you check for any issues you have missed. [PT: Request or schedule a check-up during your recovery. / end PT]

Listen to other people's recovery stories. You are not alone in being scared or going through surgery, and there are plenty out there who will be able to tell you what it was like for them going into the surgery, recovering from the surgery, and months or years down the life after the surgery. Carry their stories with you for courage, community, and solidarity. [PT: Listen to other people's recovery stories. / end PT]

Contact your doctor if you suspect something has gone wrong. If you're feeling unusual levels of discomfort, noticing signs of infection, or anything else that would normally tell you something is wrong, tell your doctor as soon as you can. They'll be able to help you choose your next steps and get your recovery back on track, even if it has to take a detour. [PT: Contact your doctor if you suspect something has gone wrong. / end PT]

If you fear something has gone seriously wrong, don't panic, but treat it like you would any other emergency. Go to the urgent care, go to the emergency room; skate on the safe side. Sometimes things happen and sometimes bad doctors get licenses – so if you think there's a problem that needs emergency treatment, go get that emergency treatment. You are being responsible by making sure everything is okay, so don't panic, remain hopeful but cautious, and go get it checked out as soon as you can.

If a problem is discovered and your surgery was botched, the steps you'll be offered will likely depend on your issue and the surgery you went through. After initial treatment to get my recovery back on track (it mainly consisted of cleaning out the area that was operated on and taking notes about what to watch out for going forward), I was offered either a second surgery to correct the issue or medication to prevent infection and discomfort, and I chose the latter. Sometimes problems may require more complicated treatment, but I find treatment often comes down to either of these solutions or a combination thereof. If you choose a second surgery but do not feel comfortable having your original surgeon do it, speak with your clinic/doctor about other surgeons who could do it for you – they'll almost certainly understand. If you've had to go to the emergency room to have emergency surgery, speak with your nurse or the doctor working on your case about what to do next, and then follow-up with your regular doctor once you've been discharged.

Having a botched surgery does not mean you are a bad person. It does not mean you are unlovable, repulsive, scum, or any other insult people throw out to discourage surgery. Even if things go horribly wrong, you can go on to live a fine life with moments of joy, things you enjoy, and people who like to be around you; even if a surgery makes you "ugly" or leaves you worse off than you were before, that does not mean you are worthless or deserve to be hated. No matter what, you deserve kindness, respect, and a good life. Your surgery going wrong is not a reflection of your worth.

Some reminders about surgery to close out this post:

If you're getting surgery on your chest/top surgery, it's possible you may wish to have a revision (second, smaller surgery to improve the results of the first) down the line. This does not necessarily mean your initial surgery was botched; it may simply mean the results were not exactly as desired. This is common and can help you feel more comfortable with your body/surgery.

Regardless of the type of surgery, you will feel weird and out of sorts for a while afterwards. This does not necessarily mean having that surgery was the wrong choice to make or that you regret it. Your brain is still adjusting to the change to its flesh prison; give it some time, and you'll likely find your mood improving as your recovery progresses.

Prepare in advance for your recovery period; do not leave things to the last minute! Supplies I recommend and often see recommended include: neck pillow, very long charger cord, soft and/or simple foods (even if your surgery has nothing to do with the mouth or throat; don't throw too much at your body while it's recovering), soft and loose clothes, and simple activities you will be able to do while recovering.

On that note, don't deny yourself certain things because you're scared of being "cliche", "childish", or whatever else. "Oh, but I don't need ice cream –" but would ice cream make your recovery period better? Then get the ice cream. "Oh, but I don't want to seem weak by using so many pillows –" your body is recovering from being cut open and things moved around. You're not weak for using multiple pillows to sit up or otherwise help your body as you recover. "Oh, but what if I look childish for bringing a stuffed animal into my appointment –" is that stuffed animal giving you the courage to face your surgery/check-up? Bring the stuffed animal with you and use it to sock anyone who gives you shit for it.

You will want the pain pills, by the way. If you have the okay to take pain pills, take the damn pain pills. You are not cool or strong for making yourself suffer. Take the pain pills and let your body rest without feeling the need to send alarm signals to your brain about pain all the time.

Surgery is exhausting. Do not be surprised when you are exhausted, and do not force yourself to do too much too soon. Milk the time off for what it's worth and lift not a finger you don't truly feel the need to.

Even if it's a complicated surgery, there is work being done all the time to improve results and reduce risks. Make sure the information you're researching is up-to-date and accounts for modern advances in the surgery you want.

TLDR: If you're scared of having a botched surgery, communicate with your doctors and whoever will be helping you through your recovery period. Remember that most surgical problems can be handled with proper treatment, and even if things go horribly wrong, you are not doomed to a terrible life without any happiness or good spots in it. Keep your chin up! Coming from someone who cashed in bad luck on the risks of surgery, it'll be alright even if you do have a botched surgery. Don't let the horror stories* scare you out of improving your life.

* There's probably something to be said here about how my existence is reduced to just a horror story used by people fearmongering surgery, but I won't get into that today. If you need inspiration, just look at me for it! I'm doing just fine despite the continued problems from my botched surgery, even though I've had to adjust my life to account for them, and you can too.

[duhragonball]

The Punt Trick

I've been kind of inactive lately because I'm doing a writing project this month and I sort of fell behind on it. My morale was kind of low this past week, but I managed to turn things around this weekend by writing 5280 words, which is more than a quarter of the goal. Not too shabby, so I want to capture how I did it.

Historically, I've been able to write a lot more than 5k in a single day, but I can't do it consistently. It really depends on what I'm writing, and if it's something I already have laid out pretty well in my head, the words will flow. The problem I've been having in August 2023 is that my plot is well laid out, but I'm struggling to put down the words. I know what to do but I'm less clear on how to do it. So it's been slow going.

Basically, I made an hourly schedule for the rest of the month, detailing how many words I would write. I've tried stuff like that before, but the trick this time is that I made the wordcount assignments very small. I didn't think it would help very much, but it turned out to make a big difference.

For years, I would write numbers on a calendar, like "Oh, I'll write 2000 words on Tuesday, and then I'll do 2500 words on Thursday!" and then it'll be 11:48pm on Thursday and I'm 4000 words behind schedule for some reason.

I've tried making it more granular, but that would mean doing things like "At 6pm I'll write 1000 words, and then at 8pm I'll write another 1000 words! Easy!" But then it'll be 7:55pm and I won't have the first thousand done, which just demoralizes me further for the next thousand.

This time, I just decided "to hell with it" and assigned myself 500 words per hour. This turns out to be much more realistic. When I'm doing well, I can bang out 500 words in twenty minutes, but when I'm struggling (like this month), 500 words can take me... about an hour. Well, more like thirty minutes, which is great because if I procrasinate for half of the time alotted, I still have time to get the goal met.

And 500 is small enough that it's easy to overshoot. So chances are that I'll clear the goal with a little more than I needed, which makes the next hour easier to tackle, and so on.

And now that I've had this productive weekend, the schedule I've laid out for tomorrow will be even lighter. Monday I'm doing 250 words for each hour, which is probably too lax, but that just means I'll finish ahead of schedule. The important thing is that I'm not just vaguely declaring my intent to write 1500 words after I get home from work. Normally, I can do that pretty easily, but that confidence turns into procrastination, and I'll put it off until 10:30 at night, and then one thing leads to another and I blow it off completely. With this system, I have to start at 6pm, because it's not about getting 1500 by midnight, it's about getting 250 every hour for six hours.

This is something I really, really need to keep in mind for the future, because even when my writing goes well, I'll still run into spells where it doesn't, and this seems like an effective way to break the logjam. And it might also be handy for smaller projects, which I could break down into even smaller chunks, like 100 words, or even less.

I suppose what inspired me to try this was when I kept looking up at my word-counter and expecting to see some big numbers, and ending up with something dinky like "83" or "112". But with what I'm doing now, those are actually pretty good signs of progress. Chain a few of those together, and I can actually get somewhere.

I'm not sure if this would be helpful for others, but it definitely seems to be working for me, so if you're reading this and you find yourself stuck with your writing, give it a try.

[breesays]

Des-cap 2022

Is this blog also a kind of baby book? Yes. This is record-keeping. I have a very full-to-the-brim physical baby book, but I frequently refer back to digital musings for milestones and such. 

SO, tonight he is happy-raging because he can write an upper case "R". A marvel to me that he even knows the difference between upper case and lower case because I didn't teach one or the other first and this fascination with writing letters and numbers came about after picking up a dry erase lettering book at a mom's club toy and clothing swap.

We spent Christmas with The Dodges and I think maybe he finally knows Christmas is a day (a season?) a spirit, and not just a place in Mountain View. My brother in law asked me several times what I wanted to DO while I was there, and while I appreciated it, all my needs were being met. Someone else was deciding what to feed Des. Someone else was reading him the same book 6 times. Someone else was fielding his barrage of questions. That's it. That's all I wanted - a bit of the mom weight off so I could breathe. It was wonderful. We slept hard, ate hotel breakfast, approached festive inflatables with curiosity, jumped in massive puddles, had dance parties, painted, colored, told jokes, shared meals and even squeezed in a few christmas crafts. I long for the day that Sarah allows sequins in crafting, which she considers an insidious cousin of glitter.

He's three and a half, we co-sleep. I'm OK with it, I feel like I sleep better with his little body huffing next to me, as opposed to being attuned to yelps and whimpers from a room away. It often means I don't get any extra time to myself after he goes to bed, except to read on my Kindle, but that's OK too. If I keep the same schedule as he does, I can match his energy, his brightness. He works as a barrier, too, since Tim and I are emotionally but not physically separated. I (maybe weirdly) like it a lot when I wake up in the inky blue light and see both of them stretched out on their backs, arms stretched over their heads, sleep noises puffing out of their mouths. I like what we made.

We are not a minimalist household. Sometimes we can't even see Desmond's bedroom floor because it's covered with balloons. It always looks like it was just someone's birthday. He does get screen time - Little P is his favorite YouTuber and Bluey is pretty much a free for all on weekends and vacations. I like that what he's watching inspires him, though - doesn't just trap him into a zombie consuming state. He wants to replicate what he sees, what he hears, what they play. I've found both Bluey and Daniel Tiger helpful in tough situations, or when I want to illustrate something. "Tactical wee" is a solid from Bingo.

We are approaching some big changes when Tim moves out, but I don't think it has to be traumatic. I like that in stories and cartoons and ~overall~ more than a traditional nuclear family is presented. I didn't know how much it meant to see yourself in media until I realized I couldn't find myself for DECADES. And we aren't warring, like my parents were when they split. Sometimes its hard for me to even understand WHY we are separating, if most of the parts are still moving, but I also realize that I can't assume that my experience is the same as Tim's. I respect that he needs space to figure that out.

We went to my sister's without Tim this year, but it was apparent upon our return that Desmond had missed Dada time. Even when he is playing with me he wants to "make presents" for Dada, to show Dada something. He wants to badly to capture his attention. To earn it? IDK. He can write both "mama" and "dada" and damn if that isn't impressive.

He likes to have a limb or two touching one of us when he sleeps. He asks me what I'm reading as he dozes off. One night I told him the book I was reading and he said, "I thought you were reading It Girl? How did he remember a vague title of something I was reading a month previous? 

I recently read a book about someone who was addicted to motherhood and being pregnant and my mind was almost totally blown. I'm glad I experienced it but I don't want to do it again. I want to pour all my work, my love, my answers into Des. I hope he never asks for a sibling, because with his impeccable manners, he often eventually gets what he asks for.

I like that he quickly adopts our words: Actually, consideration, gamut.

I love to watch him dance. From his mambo moves in his preschool’s Winter Show to his special invented “99 Red Balloons” dance, it’s incredible to witness How a little person without self consciousness chooses to occupy the space, to express their joy. It kind of makes you wonder about that line, “dance like no one is watching” -- when did you realize anyone was watching?

[iwannaban0nym0us]

ahahaha fair warning the tone of this post is about to majorly change

So before school started I talked to a few of my friends who don’t usually have a free with us but did today since the schedule was weird and I asked them to wait like 5min before coming into the room to hang out so that I would have a chance to ask my crush out and they all agreed and were excited for me

So like during first block I hyped myself up and I was so ready to do it like so ready, and then I get there and there’s someone I like extremely vaguely know who’s there along with my crush and I’m not gonna ask them out with someone else in the room but I can’t kick that person out without being weird

So we just have a normal conversation and eventually friends join us and thank god none of them say anything about me and my crush (we were sitting right next to each other like usual)

Two interesting things happened during the conversation, one my crush was texting their friend and was like ‘please reply to me, I want to vent to you!’ and so I asked her what was up and they told me they’d tell me later when less people were around (we’ll get back to this later but also aaaaa they were willing to tell me over everyone else) the other thing is my friends were joking around about driver’s ed giving dating advice and then talking about people getting bitches and so one of my friends is like none of us get bitches except maybe me and I’m just what no not right here, I only say the what??? part out loud tho

Before long I have to run off because I had a tutoring session and nothing else interesting happens until lunch

At lunch I’m talking with my friends I tell the ones who I told to wait to come into the room that I wasn’t actually able to ask my crush out since someone else was there and they're like 'wait really, based on the way y'all were sitting i thought you did it already' and i'm just like nooo we're just like that help

Later in lunch I end up talking with my crush and at one point we're alone so i finally get a chance to ask what was up earlier and so they fill me in (you might wanna sit down, it's a ride)

Alright so, they are friends with my ex (but closer to me and know all the shit my ex did and hates that they did that) and a few months ago now, but like less than a month after we broke up, my ex asked out my crush, thankfully my crush said no since they had talked to me and realized how much of a bad idea it would be

Ok so, back to now, I know my crush has a crush on someone (they know I do too) and apparently a week or two ago our mutual friend who is going out with my ex (and has been since well before I broke up with my ex since my ex is polyam) took a guess about who my crush likes and got it right and my crush basically had to confirm it

So like yesterday my ex and their boyfriend were talking and my ex is like 'i want to ask out [my crush] again' and so their boyfriend deiced to tell them exactly who my crush likes despite my crush asking them not to tell anyone

All of this led to my ex messaging my crush asking to talk to them at some point about this, which ended up happening while I was in tutoring, in the conversation my ex tells my crush that they still like them a lot and my crush is like 'ok?? but you know I like someone else' and so my ex is like 'what do you want me to get rid of my crush' and my crush is like 'yes exactly' (all of this was said in much nicer better words tho)

So yeah me and my crush talked about it a bit and how fucked up it is and I realized how a lot of what my ex said to them is similar to what my ex said to me while/after we broke up like when they wanted me to stay or didn't get the hint that we weren't friends anymore

And now something that was supposed to be simple and cute and happy is a total mess and it's all because of my fucking ex

I'm so glad I didn't ask my crush out before hearing this whole story because like,,,, this week,,, is not the week to ask them out esp not today, if things feel like they've blown over hopefully I can ask them out on Monday

That wasn't the end of my day being a mess tho, nonono that was just the start, my next class is the one class I have with none other than my ex, on most days I can manage that but I was not in the fucking mood to even hear their voice after learning all of that, god rn I really wish I could punch my ex, but also i know next time I see them i'm gonna like oh look they're just a normal seemingly nice person

So after surviving that class (with the help of a bathroom break) I have Japanese with a few friends and my ex's boyfriend, so i'm noticeably off at this point (you know when you have so many thoughts that you end up with no thoughts just tired, yeah) and my friends I ask whats up and I quietly give an extremely vague answer (everything is a mess because of my ex + my crush) but we can't say too much since my ex's boyfriend is right next to one of my friends

At one point while we're doing a reading I see my crush walk by, headed to the empty classroom at the end of the hall by the gender neutral bathrooms, eventually I finish the reading and I need to do something so I pull out fidgets and stuff, but after a while my brain is still being stupid and we still haven't moved on since other people are working so I "go to the bathroom" just to get out of there

I end up joining my crush and we talk about our classes and how I need more sleep for a bit but then i have to go back to class so i'm not gone for too long, I end up not missing anything so it's fine

After school I'm still a fucking mess but I can't say anything since there's too many people around and it's not entirely mine to share

I hang out with my friends for a bit but end up going over to my crush and we talk and things seem normal and we end up going back to my friends together (and away from where they were which was near my ex, we both positioned ourselves so we couldn't see my ex when we were over there tho lol)

I have to leave sooner than I wanted to tho since my (total different) friend was running an inclusion space thing for robotics and called me to tell me to go to it and like there's a chance it could be good and we could like do shit idk, the meeting ended up only making things worse tho because it triggered stupid robotics gender feelings!

it was a lot of cis girls complaining about cis guys and as someone who often passes (as a guy) I didn't feel like I could share anything and also my brain was already half shut off so i didn't have the energy to be the trans voice in the room

After that I ends i go to robotics and get thrown into the other gender spiral as I start of by working with 2 cis guys and so now my brain as the crush/ex thing in the background and is like 'fuck fuck fuck not a girl not a guy where the fuck do we fit here' and ofc today my trans friend on the robotics team had a basketball game and so wasn't around

I end up stepping out at one point to call one of the friends from Japanese class and i tell them everything and it helps a bit, like at the very least they validated my feelings because I was kinda feeling like I shouldn't still be getting this fucked up over shit my ex does, but here we are

i- yeah i think that's everything, I might try and do some homework now we'll see if I can be productive at all

aaaa more crush things

so in QSU today we were watching heartstopper and a couple of things happened, first of all our mutual ace friend was thinking about how my crush acts like a cat and I act like a golden retriever and how nick and charlie are like that too and so they told me and my crush that we’re nick and charlie respectively and all of us just started laughing but internally I was screaming because I would lover it if our relationship was like nick and charlie’s, also my crush made i comment about how I even text like nick and idk how to take that,,,

also I think I’m gonna ask them to the dance tomorrow, I’ve started to drive my friends crazy with the fact that we aren’t together yet since all my friend think they like me back, and yeah, we have spent a looooooot of time together recently, anyway, i’m gonna ask them out with a hearstopper line

my general plan is that hopefully we’ll get an empty room to hang out in during our free tomorrow and when the conversation dies down my plan is as follows

Me: So you don't have a crush on anyone at the moment then? Them: [something, probably reminding me that they already told me they like someone] Me: What's she like then? Them: [idk, maybe a comment about how they're pan so they might not be a girl] Me: Are they, not a girl? Them: [probably starting to figure out what I'm doing so might not say anything here] Me: Would you go out with someone who isn't a girl? Them: [who knows hopefully says something] Me: Would you go to the dance with someone who isn't a girl? Them: [might comment on how I changed the line] Me: Would you go to the dance with me? Them: [hopefully says yes!]

So yeah, that's my plan I just have to hope everything works out!

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

Tim finished his pancakes and set an elbow on the table, resting his face on his fist. It was earlier than he liked to be awake, and he wasn’t really paying attention— the voices up and down the table sounded more like vague humming than actual conversations. 

Dick passed him a mug from across the table, and Tim took it, tuning in again with conscious effort. 

“—while I’m getting set up,” said Jason, “and figuring out what I need.”

“Therapy,” Damian suggested. 

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Bruce, come get your kid,” said Jason, glaring, “before I kick him through a window.”

Damian glared back. Tim scooted a little farther away, just in case Jason did decide to start a brawl over breakfast. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Bruce shook his head. “He might be right.”

“Says—” Jason looked around the kitchen, gesturing at the lot of them in a can-you-believe-this kind of way. “Says you?”

“I think that—”

“I think you’d better sign up yourself or get off my back. You know what? There’s an idea.” Jason held out an arm, smirking, to offer a handshake. “I’ll go to therapy if you go. What do you say?”

Bruce didn’t move. 

“I thought so,” said Jason smugly. “If you—”

Bruce reached over and shook Jason’s still-extended hand. “Deal.”

“What?”

“I’ll schedule for next month.”

“What?” Jason snatched back his arm, eyes wide, but Bruce had already turned towards Alfred instead.

“I assume you have a list of therapists?”

“Updated regularly, sir,” said Alfred, smiling, “although I do still suggest—”

“Not that one,” said Bruce immediately. 

“Which one?” Dick asked.

“His old one,” said Alfred.

Tim nearly spat his drink across the table. “His what one?”

Bruce had a therapist? Tim would never, in a million years, have seen that coming, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure he believed it now. 

Dick seemed to be on the same page. “You’ve… been to therapy?” he asked, like he couldn’t quite process what he had just heard.

Bruce only grimaced. 

“Did it… help?”

“Obviously it didn’t!” Jason cut in. He sounded truly panicked as he stood up from his seat and pointed at Bruce. “Back out!” he demanded. “I’ll— I’ll let you back out of this one.”

“No,” said Bruce.

“You’ve made your point, okay? I’ll work on the mental health thing, but I’m not going to—”

“You made the offer,” Bruce reminded him.

“I was bluffing! I didn’t actually think that you would—”

“Honestly, yeah,” said Dick. “I’m still having trouble with the idea of Bruce willingly going to therapy.”

“Twice,” Tim added, “assuming he follows through now.” 

Bruce sighed. 

“What?”

“I’m afraid,” Alfred interjected, “that the first time Master Bruce went to therapy, it was not by choice.”

“Court-ordered,” Bruce confirmed, sighing again.

“WHAT?” Tim yelled, so loudly that Damian, seated beside him, jumped slightly in his chair. “Sorry,” Tim told him. He turned back to Bruce and tried again, quieter this time. “What did you do?”

“Those records are sealed,” said Bruce. 

“Please,” Tim tried. “Alfred, I’m begging.”

Alfred smiled for a second time. “Master Bruce’s teenage exploits are his own to discuss,” he said. 

“Sealed,” Bruce repeated. 

“Quite. I will, however, elaborate on the therapy.”

“Thank god,” said Tim.

Alfred began stacking empty dishes at the end of the table. “There was a prominent psychiatrist in Gotham at the time that also offered talk therapy.”

“Oh,” said Tim. “Fancy.”

“It was, but we had the resources for it,” Alfred agreed, before turning back to Bruce. “I’m sure he would see you again.”

“I can’t,” said Bruce.

“Why?” Tim asked again. 

“I can’t.” 

“As I understand it, Master Bruce was a… difficult client,” said Alfred.

“Shocker,” murmured Damian, just loud enough for the rest of the table to hear. 

“Don’t start,” said Bruce. He pushed aside his plate and cup, and Alfred added them to the stack. 

“So?” Tim prompted. “What did you do?” 

Bruce seemed to think about it for a moment, fingers tapping on the bare table top in front of him. “I… took notes during sessions,” he said finally. 

“That doesn’t sound bad?”

“I took notes on the therapist. I would watch him the entire time and write down all the nonverbal cues I saw, and all the tactics I thought he was using.”

“Wait, what?”

“Master Bruce spent a considerable amount of time researching the man,” Alfred explained. “He compiled those notes—”

“—which included a fair amount of personal information I was able to find,” Bruce added ruefully. 

“—and then made it into a file. After his last session, he requested a copy of his own medical records and handed over that document in exchange.”

“To— to the therapist?” Tim asked, just to confirm.

“To the therapist,” groaned Bruce. He put his hands over his face, like he was trying to hide. “It was pretty much the same as a file I would keep now on rogues or allies.”

“Including the part where you write, like… your own psych assessment?” 

“Indeed,” Alfred supplied cheerfully. “If I’m remembering correctly, the doctor called it ‘reasonably accurate, if unnecessarily antagonistic.’”

For a half-second, the table went quiet. Tim made eye contact with Dick, both struggling to hold back smiles, while Jason sank back into his chair, blank-faced. 

“I respect it,” said Damian into the silence. 

It was too much for Tim— he burst out laughing. 

“Oh my god,” he choked out.

“I know,” said Bruce miserably. 

“I can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe I’m only hearing about this now,” said Dick, shaking his head. He grinned, shoulders moving in silent laughter.

“Perhaps,” said Alfred, “Master Bruce’s experience with therapy would have become relevant sooner if you any of you were in the habit of going yourself.”

“Oof,” said Tim.

“What possessed you to do all of that?” asked Dick, unfazed. 

“He was taking notes on me!” said Bruce.

“That’s his job!” said Tim. 

“I was a kid, and I didn’t want to be there, and I felt like he was playing mind games. He was playing mind games!”

“Again—” Tim repeated, “his job.” 

Bruce sank even further onto the tabletop, the picture of shameful regret. Amazing, Tim thought— he was enjoying himself immensely.

“Science should study you,” he told Bruce.

“Oh, it does,” Bruce sighed.

Alfred nodded. “The doctor published a paper about Master Bruce’s case shortly after their last session.”

“God,” muttered Jason.

“Is the doctor a supervillain now?” Dick asked. “This sounds an awful lot like a supervillain origin story.”

Bruce shook his head. “He teaches classes at UGotham Medical.”

“And uses Master Bruce’s case study as a lesson,” added Alfred. 

“Cool,” said Tim. “I will be auditing that.” He stared at Alfred for a few moments, thinking. 

“International Space Station,” he tried. “Uh, PTA? Clash tour 1989.”

“What?” Dick asked.

“Just trying random words,” Tim explained, “to see if I get any other amazing Bruce facts.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow in Bruce’s direction. 

“Don’t,” said Bruce. 

“Which one?” yelled Tim, as the table dissolved into chaos for a second time. 

------

Merry Christmas, my loves <3

[forget-you-morelike-fuck-you]

Sweet Child O' Mine- E.M. (Prequel)

Y/N and Eddie want to have a baby, but it's a lot harder than originally thought.

Masterlist

Pt. 1

TW- Cursing, fertility issues, mentions of bodily fluids, vague smut, medical talk

Pairing- Eddie x Reader

Word Count-2,539

(Gif not mine, credit to owner!)

It started as a casual conversation about six months after you and Eddie got married. You were laying on the couch watching tv, your head in his lap, and a diaper commercial came on the tv. As you watched the parents snuggling up their babies, your heart gave a little sting. “Eddie?” You asked, looking up at him. He hummed and looked down at you, a soft smile on his face.

“What, baby?” You bit the inside of your mouth lightly.

“You ever think about having kids?” You knew he eventually wanted them, but you didn’t exactly know when. His smile widened a bit, his eyebrows going up in surprise at your question.

“Well, yeah. I think I’d like to have a little you running around someday.” He chuckled at the thought. Your eyes flicked down, fiddling with your hands a bit.

“What about… now?” You asked sheepishly.

“You want a baby now?” You could hear the amusement in Eddie’s tone, and you looked back up at him. He was still smiling, which relieved you, but you were still unsure.

“Yeah… I’m ready. We’re doing really well on money right now since I got that raise last year, and I’m scheduled for another one in about six months or so. And you’ve been getting really good gigs with the band… I don’t know… I think it would be great if we have a baby.” You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of you holding your soft little baby, pressing small kisses to their little forehead, holding their tiny hand on one of your fingers…

 You could see the wheels turning in Eddie’s head as he thought it over and you waited with bated breath for his answer. Finally, Eddie reached over to the remote to the TV and turned it off. “Okay, baby. Get up.” He finally said. You smiled as you sat up.

“Why? What are we doing?” Eddie gave you a devilish smile as he extended his hand for you to take.

“You want a baby, so let’s go make one.” He pulled you up from the couch, making you giggle as he pulled you toward the bedroom.

As the months go by, you begin to wonder why you haven’t been able to get a positive pregnancy test yet. You go to the library, check out books on fertility, and study them whenever you have a spare moment. You learn about tracking your periods and ovulation cycles, taking vitamins and planning a fertility diet with lots of berries and fiber.

The newfound information gives you a boost of confidence in the bedroom. Maybe you’ve just been going about this all wrong. Maybe this month, you’ll finally get pregnant.

When your period starts a week later, you deflate. As you sit on the toilet, staring at the blood on the toilet paper, you feel little pinpricks of tears forming in your eyes and you let out a huff. You’re doing everything right. You’ve been doing the diets and the vitamins and the sticking your legs up after sex... Why aren’t you pregnant? Isn’t this supposed to be one of the easiest biological processes in the world?

You let yourself cry in frustration for a few minutes before getting up, flushing, and washing your hands. You splash some water on your face to help cool down the frustration, and you walk out the door. “Not this month, baby!” You call to wherever Eddie is. You walk toward the bedroom, flopping down on the bed.

“It’ll be okay, Y/N. We’ve just gotta keep trying. At least that part is fun, right?” He tries to reassure you as he shouts from where you assume is the kitchen. You sigh.

“Yeah, I guess.” The truth is, with the weight of wanting a baby so badly, it’s beginning to feel… clinical. There are certain positions that make for better… pathways to the egg, you’ve learned, so even doing a lot of kinky stuff you normally enjoy is out of the question. Eddie comes to the bedroom with a plate holding a sandwich and a few different kinds of berries, and he comes to sit next to you, putting the plate between the two of you.

“I got you some lunch.” He says sympathetically, his hand going to smooth some hair from your forehead. You sit up on your elbows, leaning to kiss him. He meets you halfway and you can’t help but feel that pang of sadness in your chest again.

“Thanks, love.” You look down and pick at the berries, popping a blueberry into your mouth. You hear Eddie sigh, knowing he sees the sadness on your face.

“Hey, Y/N, look at me.” Your eyes become cloudy with tears again as you look up. Eddie’s heart breaks as he sees them, one trickling down your cheek. “We’re gonna have a baby, okay? We just need to keep trying. It’ll happen, princess, I promise. You gotta keep the faith.” You chew your lip, wanting to protest in frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, nodding instead. Eddie presses a kiss to your forehead and gets up. “When you’re done with lunch, let’s go out. I think we need a change of scenery.”

“Okay.” You sigh. “I love you, Eddie.” You wipe a tear away on the back of your hand.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

After about seven months of trying, both of you decide to see a doctor. Maybe a professional can help you make sense of why you haven’t been able to get pregnant. The day is draining. Nurses draw blood and perform ultrasounds and vaginal exams, and you think about what Eddie’s doing. Probably jerking off right about now to give a sperm sample to the doctor. You roll your eyes at the thought. Why do men always have it easier?

When all is said and done, you and Eddie sit in chairs in the doctor’s office, his thumb brushing along your knuckles as you wait for the news. You both look up when the doctor comes in with two manila folders, and you breath catches in your throat.

“Well,” The doctor says, flicking open one of the files. “Mrs. Munson, all of your results have come back, and they all look good. The ultrasound is clear, bloodwork is good, and the cervical sample has come back normal. There’s absolutely nothing right now that we can see that’s wrong with you.” You let out a breath of relief, and Eddie gives you a reassuring look as he gently squeezes your hand.

“Now, Mr. Munson. Your bloodwork is good, but your sperm count leaves something to be desired. It’s not horrible by any means, but it’s not as optimal as we’d like it to be. This might be why you’ve been experiencing some problems. In your file it says that you smoke, and quitting, or at least decreasing your nicotine intake, could help raise your sperm count. There are a few other supplements and things you can incorporate into daily life that can help as well. I’ve written some suggestions out for you here.” She hands Eddie the paper and he reads it over, brows furrowed.

“And… what if this doesn’t help? What if his sperm count doesn’t improve?” You ask, one hand going to rest on Eddie’s knee in reassurance.

“Well… there’s a method being used called In Vitro Fertilization. Essentially, we would take your egg from your body, and his sperm, and fertilize the egg ourselves before planting the egg back in your uterus. It’s gotten some great success in recent years, but I will tell you, it is costly. I would view it as a last resort.” The doctor says, folding her hands on her desk. You nod and look over to Eddie, whose face is hard with worry.

“Well, thank you for your help today. We really appreciate it.” The doctor stands as you do, and shakes your hand, then Eddie’s.

“Of course, don’t hesitate to call the office if you have any questions.” You grab Eddie’s hand and squeeze.

“We will, thank you.” With that, you walk towards the door and out of the facility back to the van. As soon as the doors close, Eddie hits the steering wheel with his fist before rubbing his hands over his face.

“It’s my fault.” He mutters. You shake your head and put a hand on his shoulder.

“No, baby, don’t say that.” You try to calm him, but he looks up at you, tears leaking from his eyes.

“You heard what the doctor said, Y/N! You’re fine! I’m the one making the problem! I am the reason we don’t have a baby!” You let out a breath, letting your eyes fall.

“The doctor also said there are things that can be done to help…” You remind him.

“Yeah… Yeah…” He looks out the window, thinking.

“Hey, what are you always telling me, huh? Don’t lose faith, right?” You wait for a response, your hand rubbing circles on his shoulder. Eddie lets out a sigh, tentatively looking back at you.

“Yeah. You’re right.”

“No, Eddie. You’re right. Let’s just look through the list and see if we can do some of them.” Eddie nods and starts the car. As he drives home, you reach for his hand and hold it all the way there.

Your period is late. You check your calendar three times to make sure. It should’ve started last night. Your heart thumps in your chest as you make your way to the bathroom, and you rummage through the drawer to find a pregnancy test you bought when you started trying. You wait impatiently as you set it aside, tapping your foot against the cold tile floor as you wait. After you get up and wash your hands, you pick it up, fingers trembling as you hold it to your face.

One line. Not two. You let out a sad sigh and hide the test in the trash. You don’t want to bother Eddie with this. It would just upset him, especially after the visit to the doctor’s a couple months ago. He’s been working so hard on quitting smoking for the baby, and he’s been eating walnuts almost every day even though he hates them. You also ordered special vitamins for him from the doctor that are supposed to help, but maybe it takes a while for them to really work.

You walk out the door and back to bed, curling up next to Eddie as he softly snores beside you. Don’t lose faith. You’ll get pregnant. You’ll be a mom. Just… not this month.

By the time a year of trying rolls around, you almost want to give it a rest. Maybe try again in about six months or so. The stress and heartbreak of it all is almost too much. All you want to do is lay in bed and cry. Eddie finds you in one of these states when he comes home from work one day and stays silent as he kicks his shoes off and crawls into bed to hold you. He lets you cry into his chest, knowing how much strain it’s putting on you. Despite all of his efforts and your reassurance, Eddie still blames himself for the two of you not being parents. Sometimes he wakes up sad after dreaming of the two of you playing with a toddler with curly brown hair and your eyes. He knows you must dream the same dream, and he wishes more than anything to be able to give it to you. He presses sweet kisses to your head, pulling you close to him.

 Feeling desperate, you find your hands wandering under his shirt, scratching lightly at his skin. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He asks, brows furrowing. He can’t understand the muffled words in his chest, but when you press your hips into his, he gets the picture. You both know your ovulation cycle doesn’t start until next week, but you need this. You just need to be with him without thinking about anything else. You just need to put the sadness on the back burner for a little while.

Eddie needs it too, which is why his body responds to yours, hands guiding your mouth to his in the dark bedroom as your hands push past the waistband of his jeans, fingers gripping the skin. You’re still crying, but you don’t care. You just need him. “Are you sure, baby?” Eddie whispers as his lips move across your face. You look into his eyes, straining to see him in the dark.

“Yeah. Please, just… please?” Eddie’s hand moves under your shirt in response, and soon you’re moving together to remove both of your clothes.

It’s the best sex you’ve had in a long time, both not caring what the outcome of this is at the moment. You both just crave each other in that carnal way you always used to before everything became scheduled and calculated.

Both of your wanton noises echo through the room, skin pressed to skin, hands touching any and everywhere as you make love.

When you’ve both finished, you brush tears away from each other’s faces, your kisses tinged with salt and sweat. You lay together a long time after that, holding and whispering to each other how much you love one another. You fall asleep like that, naked limbs tangled together.

You don’t want to believe it. Not after the last time. Your period is late again. You don’t tell Eddie, like before, but you don’t test right away. You’ll just sit and wait to see if it starts over the next couple days. Your heart lifts a bit every morning you wake up to a clear pad. You start getting stomach aches and tums become your best friends, but still, you don’t want to test. You don’t want your heart to be broken again.

The next day, you vomit after lunch, and your resolve breaks. You need to test. This is the most hope you’ve had in over a year now. You can’t let it drag on if you’re not actually pregnant. You stop on the way home, heart beating in your throat as you walk out of the store with a test, shoving it into the bottom of your purse.

You act normal the rest of the night, like nothing is amiss, and it kills you. You just don’t want to get Eddie’s hopes up with yours in case it’s another false alarm. You tuck the pregnancy test into the bathroom closet behind some cleaners before bed. You’ll take the test in the morning. Just a few hours away. You pray silently as you lay in bed, your head tucked into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder. Please. Please. Please let this be it.

You stumble into the bathroom the next morning, eyes bleary from sleep, and you pull the test out of the closet, sucking in a deep breath as you pull your pants down to take it. You set it to the side once you’re done and wait with bated breath, and after the three agonizing minutes have passed, you lift the test to look into the window.

There’s a pink plus sign.

[extasiswings]

“I felt it shelter to speak to you.” for Buddie

This was...not supposed to be this long but all the recent promo content has been...inspiring. Anyway...on ao3 here.

The first attack happens on a Saturday afternoon.

There’s nothing special about the day, nothing strange. Christopher is at a friend’s birthday party, Buck is off somewhere with Taylor, and Eddie is grocery shopping before he’s meant to meet Ana for an early dinner.

His shoulder aches a little—that’s what he notices first—but that’s not too unusual. It happens sometimes. Even as physical therapy has helped him regain strength and mobility in his arm and shoulder, a high caliber sniper round ripping through his upper chest is no minor injury. Plus, while he’s hardly ancient, he’s not even as young as he was when he was shot the first time, and those bullets left behind their own patches of scar tissue and occasional twinges.

So. His shoulder aches. It’s fine. He ignores it and moves on. Goes through the store, checks out, put his bags in the backseat—

There’s a glare off a window in the apartment building across the street.

Eddie reaches for the handle of his door.

Suddenly, his fingers start tingling, uncomfortable pricks of icy numbness traveling up his hands like they’ve fallen asleep, but shaking them out doesn’t help. And then, without warning, pain lances through his chest, sharp and acute, and he can’t breathe properly, as if his torso has been trapped in a vise that’s slowly tightening more and more.

His vision swims. He sways on his feet, grasping at the door handle with clumsy, numb fingers to keep himself upright.

He feels like—he feels—

He feels like he’s dying. It strikes him with sudden clarity. He’s dying. Dying in a random parking lot—he always assumed he was too young to have a heart attack but the symptoms fit and he’s just—

He can’t. He can’t die. Not when he’s survived everything else. This can’t be—

“Sir?” There’s a woman with a station wagon parked in the space next to his truck and she’s looking at him with no small amount of concern. “Are you okay?”

Eddie’s mouth is so dry and his breathing so irregular that it takes him a moment to respond.

“I—I think I need to go to the hospital,” he grits out as another wave of dizziness threatens to send him to his knees.

She calls 911. Eddie spares a moment to be grateful that the paramedics who show up a few minutes later aren’t from the 118.

As it turns out, he’s not dying. And he didn’t have a heart attack.

“A panic attack?” Eddie’s voice is distant to his own ears as he stares at the ER doctor in disbelief, his stomach flipping with a new kind of dread. “Are you sure?”

“Your symptoms resolved on their own and your EKG is normal, Mr. Diaz,” she replies as she flicks through the screens of his chart on her tablet. “And nothing in your prior history or other recent tests indicates that there’s anything physically wrong with you—you were healthy before you were shot and your recovery has progressed smoothly up to this point.”

She pauses and looks back at him. “Have you...spoken to a therapist? I noticed that your treating physician made a referral for counseling when you were originally discharged, but…”

Eddie clears his throat roughly. “Yeah, no, I, uh...with the PT schedule and everything else going on, I never followed up with that. But I’ve been fine. It never seemed necessary.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Diaz,” the doctor says, “you’re in the emergency room because of an acute stress response in which your brain tricked your body into believing you were in danger to such an extent that you thought you were dying. I’m not sure you’re as fine as you think.”

There’s probably some truth to that. Eddie can admit that much. But that doesn’t mean he needs—he’s been shot before. He’s been in a warzone. He didn’t need therapy to move forward from it then and he shouldn’t now. He can—he can handle this. He can make himself get over it.

He’s already spent months leaning heavily on everyone around him. The thought of not being okay, of asking for more help when he’s finally easing back into working, when things are finally getting back to normal, when they all have their own issues to focus on—

God, it makes him want to throw up.

So...no. He’s okay. Because not being okay isn’t an option.

He’s fine. The panic attack was...a fluke.

“I appreciate the advice,” Eddie says finally. “I’ll think about it.”

He can tell the doctor doesn’t believe him when her lips thin.

“You know, more likely than not, the panic attacks will keep happening if you do nothing,” she points out. “Ignoring this won’t make it go away.”

“I understand,” Eddie replies. “If that’s all, does that mean I can get out of here?”

The doctor sighs. “Sure.”

Eddie’s phone rings while he’s in an Uber on the way back to his truck. It’s Ana.

He swears under his breath as he sees the time—he hadn’t called anyone, hadn’t wanted the hospital to call anyone either, but that means he’s now late for a date that he doesn’t really want to keep after everything and further doesn’t leave him with any good excuses for his absence except the truth which...he doesn’t really want to admit.

Before the shooting, Carla told him to make sure he was following his heart. And he’s been too exhausted and focused on his recovery to really think too hard about that. But now—

For a moment, Eddie considers it. Telling Ana the truth. Showing her some of the dark, messy, ugly pieces of himself. Being vulnerable.

The very idea makes him recoil. Not because he thinks she would run away necessarily, but because he just...can’t.

He can’t. Not with her.

And if he’s that uncomfortable with the idea of letting in someone he’s been dating for over half a year, if he can’t imagine himself ever actually being comfortable with that...then what the hell is he doing?

He calls her back when he gets to his truck.

“Hey—I’m so sorry, I had a little emergency—yeah, everything’s fine now, but I’m not sure I’m up for going out. Can I meet you at your place? ...okay, great. See you soon.”

He may know even less about ending a relationship than he does about dating in general, but he figures he at least owes it to her to end things in person.

*

Eddie goes to work on Monday feeling fine. Great, even. He sleeps well the night before, he gets Christopher off to school on time, traffic is light enough that he gets to the station early—

Everything is fine. By all accounts it should be a good day.

At least, that’s what he thinks right up until all of them get different emergency alerts sent to their phones and they find out the city’s systems have been hacked. From that point forward, everything is chaos. Damage control. Twenty-car pile-ups because stoplights are being messed with, an outbreak of animals from the zoo when the electric locks on their enclosures released—

Eddie’s fine though. He’s fine. It’s nothing he can’t handle—in fact, he’s usually great with chaos. He’s focused and sure and capable. Nothing else matters but the work, certainly not himself. When he’s busy, he has no time to think about anything else.

The gradually worsening tension in his shoulders can be ignored. The way he has to clench his hands into fists to keep them from shaking in a way he hasn’t had to do since his earliest days in Afghanistan can be brushed off. He doesn’t have time to think about anything but the jobs in front of him, which means he doesn’t have time to think about his own state.

Brush it off, pick yourself up, keep moving forward. That’s what he knows, that’s what he can do.

Except, then they end up at the hospital and—

A medevac helicopter falls off the roof. Bobby nearly joins it. Buck and Eddie barely manage to get him back.

A cold sweat breaks out on Eddie’s brow as Bobby leans heavily against the wall next to the roof access door to catch his breath. His stomach roils. He doesn’t feel fully connected to his own body, caught somehow between present and past, a rooftop in Los Angeles and a desert in Afghanistan.

He breathes in. He tamps down on the rising panic.

Bobby is fine. The helicopter pilots and their patient are fine.

He’s fine. He’s fine.

“Are you okay?”

Eddie jumps at the question, his head whipping around to find the source. Buck’s brow furrows as he holds up his hands.

“Sorry,” Buck says quietly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Eddie swallows hard and shakes his head. “You’re fine, don’t worry about it.”

He glances toward the door. “You know, I think I’m going to head back down,” he says, hoping Buck won’t notice the fact that he hasn’t answered the original question. “I want to make sure the pilots are holding up alright.”

“I can come—” Buck starts to offer, only for Eddie to cut him off.

“Someone should stay with Bobby,” he replies. He forces a smile as Buck’s eyes search his face. “I’ll be fine.”

Buck glances at Bobby, then back to Eddie before he finally nods.

“Okay,” he says. “But here, take the radio. If anything happens—”

“I’ll let you know.”

Eddie makes it down one flight of stairs before he decides to take the elevator the rest of the way down. The numbers on the top of the doors tick down, down, down—

And then, abruptly, the elevator lurches to a halt, throwing Eddie off balance and into the wall as the lights go out, plunging him into total darkness.

His ears ring from the impact.

He’s trapped. Trapped in a metal box in the dark. A box that could easily become a coffin if the emergency stop failed and sent it careening down to crash at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

Eddie’s breathing speeds up against his will. His chest starts to hurt.

Not again, he thinks vaguely. Not here, not now, not again.

But. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. Some distant part of his mind recognizes that what he’s feeling isn’t real, that he just needs to calm down, but he can’t—

He’s going to die. He’s going to—

The radio crackles in his belt.

“Eddie? Eddie! Can you hear me?”

Eddie’s mind latches onto the sound of Buck’s voice like a lifeline in an ocean of distress. It takes him a moment to make his trembling hands work through their numbness, to remind his fingers how to work the buttons, but eventually, he lifts the radio to his mouth.

“I’m here,” he says. His voice shakes. “I’m in the elevator. It’s—I don’t know which floor. Or if I’m between floors. I don’t—”

He shudders. His eyes close, not that it really matters given how dark the space is already.

“It’s okay,” Buck replies. “It’s okay, Eddie, we’ll find you. We’ll get you out, don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to die here.” It slips out of him before he can pull it back. Buck takes a sharp breath on the other end of the line.

“That’s not going to happen,” Buck says firmly, although his own voice seems less steady than usual. “I would never let that happen. I’ve got your back, remember? Always.”

A shudder rips down Eddie’s spine and he slides against the wall to sit on the floor. The walls still feel too restricting, like they’re closing in on him more each moment that he looks away.

The radio crackles again.

“Eddie. What can I do? What do you need?” Buck asks.

I don’t know. I don’t—I can’t—

“Eddie.” The fear and desperation in Buck’s voice cuts through the fog in Eddie’s mind.

He never wants Buck to sound like that.

“Keep talking?” Eddie replies. “I—just keep talking to me. Please?”

Don’t go, is what he really means. Stay with me.

He’s never allowed himself to say those things though. Not during the early days of the pandemic when they were sharing a bed in Buck’s loft. Not after he moved back home with Christopher and the other side of his bed felt too empty for sleep to come easily. And certainly not after he started dating Ana.

During his recovery, he never had to ask Buck for anything really. Buck was always just...there. Even though he was with Taylor, he was still there with Eddie and with Christopher whenever Eddie needed him. Like he knew somehow. Or maybe as if he needed to be there as much as Eddie needed him there.

Eddie hasn’t looked too closely at any of that. He’s not ready to. It’s too much, too complicated, too—too—

Dangerous.

“What do you want to talk about?”

Eddie swallows hard as his head rests against the wall. As he allows the sound of Buck’s voice to wrap around him like armor. Like home. Insulating him against the panic and isolation.

“Anything,” he says quietly. “Just keep talking.”

And Buck does. He talks about everything and nothing, random facts and stories from his past that Eddie hasn’t heard before, he talks and talks and talks until his voice grows hoarse in Eddie’s ear and the pressure on Eddie’s lungs eases.

Eddie exhales shakily and takes a few deep breaths as he continues to listen, as his body shifts from hyper-awareness and panic to wrung out exhaustion. When Buck finally cuts off, it’s because there’s an ugly screech of metal as the elevator doors are pried open, as light filters back in.

Eddie’s legs are unsteady as he gets to his feet. He trips on the edge of the elevator door when he exits—

Buck catches him before he can fall. Because of course he does.

“Thank you,” Eddie breathes into Buck’s shoulder as he finds his balance.

Buck shakes his head. “I promised we’d get you out, didn’t I? Besides, I—I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“I decided—”

“I shouldn’t have let you,” Buck repeats, low but insistent. His eyes meet Eddie’s and Eddie swallows hard.

“You weren’t okay. Were you?” Buck asks. And Eddie—

He wants to lie. Part of him does at least.

But he can’t lie to Buck.

Not to Buck.

“No,” he confesses. It’s half a whisper. “No, I wasn’t.”

Buck bites his lip and nods once.

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”

And somehow, Eddie believes him.

[huntertherapyeras]

all the things i don't talk about

anne voice: aster said it's my turn to have the breakdown.

but first, t4t4tsashannarcy's h/c tag club! (lmk if you want off the tag club, i'm mostly just tagging people who asked but also people i really want to see this!!! also feel free to ask to join the tag club also <3)

@mothicalspoken @useless-space-rock-lesbians @arcadiii @starryemeralds @oraclecoven @sweetstrangersearthquake @abyssalzones @insulationsun

title taken from "a pearl" by mitski!

Blurb: "Anne tosses and turns in bed that night. She can’t get comfortable. First, there are too many shadows in her room, so she plugs in her old night light. And then there’s the storm. Anne used to love the way rain sounded against her window, but ever since that first week in Amphibia, it’s only brought a sense of vague discomfort. Makes her feel like any moment she’ll be back in that cave, hiding from the predators outside alongside the worms.

And usually, she can ignore it. But tonight she feels raw, like the exposed nerves of a nail bitten to the quick. Like anything and everything can hurt her.

It’s a scary feeling."

AO3 Link

Word Count: 2,305 words

Content Warning: There is an explicit breakdown, implications of death, implications of harm to children, and an intense depiction of PTSD triggers!

It’s a normal night in the Boonchuy household. Or at least, as normal as a house hosting a family of extradimensional talking frogs can be. Anne is sitting on the couch, browsing through Tweeter, a Thai drama acting as background music to her scrolling. It’s Polly’s turn to use the TV, evidenced by the painstakingly organized schedule pinned to the wall next to it in plain view for the entire house to see – Anne had to write it out a couple of weeks into coming back home because the Plantars kept fighting over who got remote privileges. The quick murmur of Thai is a balm on Anne’s soul, soothing after months of not hearing the language at all.

That’s the thing about being home – Anne finds that things she used to take for granted are somehow more meaningful than before. As it turns out, absence does make the heart grow fonder.

“This is so boring!” complains Sprig. He wilts into the couch dramatically, sending a glare in Polly’s direction.

Polly gleefully ignores him, transfixed by her show. Anne is still surprised by how well she understands it – it took Anne herself years to get the level of fluency she has now. Which is to say, none whatsoever.

Anne’s neck prickles. She can feel Sprig’s eyes staring holes into her. She sighs.

“What’s up, dude?” Anne asks, giving him the side eye.

“I was wondering something…” he replies.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“So… are you going to tell your parents about Sasha and M–”

“No.” Anne interrupts before he can finish the thought.

“Why not? It seems like it’s bothering you a lot.” Sprig asks. Anne hates how his large eyes sparkle with concern. Even without looking at him, she knows the exact face he’s making right now.

“They don’t need to know. You saw how they reacted to finding out about the robots.”

“But isn’t it important? I mean, Marcy–”

The door opens with a bang. In strolls Anne’s mother, arms full of groceries.

“Anne,” she orders, “Go get the rest of the groceries from the car.”

After helping put the groceries away, Anne assists in preparing for dinner. She can’t help but smile fondly as her Mom sings a gushy love song under her breath while she chops the shallots. Tonight they are making ลาบ, or larb, which is one of her Dad’s favorite foods. Anne is excited to have it again – it’s the first time they’ve made it since she got back from Amphibia. She’d tried to make larb with maggots at Stumpy’s, but it just wasn’t the same as the real deal.

“Got it!” Anne says eagerly, hopping up off the couch. Now that Mom’s home, she can avoid talking about it for the remainder of the night. That’s good enough for now. With any luck, Sprig will forget about the conversation by tomorrow.

“Cut the spring onions, will you?” her Mom asks. Anne dutifully does so.

“Good girl. Now go ahead and sit down. You know I don’t like cooking with other people in the room, ที่รัก. (Dear.)”

Anne sits down on the couch with a sigh. Polly is still watching her show, but Sprig is nowhere to be found. That’s probably for the best anyway. She doesn’t particularly want to be questioned right now and Sprig is full of those.

And Anne isn’t sure why she feels this way, but it still puts her on edge.

“Look, Anne!!! สมชาย (Somchai) is about to ask มาลัย (Malai) to marry him!” Anne looks up from her phone to watch. Despite her lack of fluency in the language, she quickly gets sucked into the proposal.

All is well until the smell wafts in from the kitchen. And it’s kind of weird, because normally the scent of cooked pork would make her mouth water. But here, right now, it’s making her feel… uncomfortable. Grossed out. Anxious, even.

“Dinner’s ready,” Calls Mom a few minutes later. Consumed by her discomfort, the yell makes Anne startle and drop her phone. When she picks it up, she notices that her hands are shaking. Weird.

The tremors continue as she sets the table. Anne has to work hard to not place the plates down too hard. The cutlery rattles in her hands loudly, but she tries her best to quiet it. It’s fine, everything is fine. Anne doesn’t even know why she’s feeling this way. It’s like there’s a ticking bomb in her chest, set to explode at a hair trigger.

It doesn’t matter, though. All that matters right now is getting through dinner.

Anne tries her best to act as Normal As Possible as they all sit down to eat. She moves on autopilot, smiling whenever someone looks at her and making casual conversation. And she thinks she’s doing okay, until –

“Anne, are you going to eat your ลาบ (larb)? It’s usually your favorite…”

She decidedly ignores the call of her name that follows.

Anne forces a smile. It feels as fake as plastic, pulling against her tense jaw, “It’s good! But I’m actually not very hungry right now, haha. Must’ve eaten too many snacks this afternoon, you know me,” she lets out a nervous laugh, energy like electricity dancing up her back as she runs a hand through her tangled curls, “Actually, I think I’m gonna go get started on that unit five book report and go to bed early. Goodnight!”

Anne tosses and turns in bed that night. She can’t get comfortable. First, there are too many shadows in her room, so she plugs in her old night light. And then there’s the storm. Anne used to love the way rain pounded against her window, but ever since that first week in Amphibia it’s only brought a sense of vague discomfort. Makes her feel like any moment she’ll be back in that cave, hiding from the predators outside alongside the worms.

And usually, she can ignore it. But tonight she feels raw, like the exposed nerves of a nail bitten to the quick. Like anything and everything can hurt her.

It’s a scary feeling.

Eventually, though, she does doze off. But even then, her dreams are anything but peaceful.

It starts with her running through a forest. There is Something coming, something big, and it’s after her. She runs and runs. Her lungs feel like they are going to burst. Black dots spot her vision. She accidentally stumbles into quicksand. It takes a second for her to get her foot out. She continues running, barely noticing her lost shoe until she gets her sock wet crossing a rocky stream. She keeps going anyway, terror traveling through her veins like the blood keeping her alive. She’s got to go, got to go, got to go, got to get away –

She’s on top of toad tower, shoulder aching as she holds onto Sasha for dear life. Her hand is sweaty. She can feel Sasha slipping. Her recently crushed forearm is filled with a searing pain. But it doesn’t matter. Without Anne’s hand, Sasha will fall to her death.

“Hey, Anne? Maybe you’re better off without me.” Sasha says before she lets go–

They’re in the throne room. Anne feels a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. They’re so close, so close to home, they’re going to escape, all three of them, they’re going to be okay…

Before she can breathe out a sigh of relief, though, Marcy looks up at her, “I just need to–” she’s cut off mid sentence, a flaming sword through her gut.

Anne startles awake with a barely muffled shout. Her heart beats a heavy staccato against her chest. This isn’t the first time she’s had this dream. Normally, she’d get up. Pace around a bit like her cat does when she’s feeling boxed in. But right now, the fear is too great for her to even move. It’s like there’s something coming, like someone’s gonna fall, like there’s a sword against her back. But there isn’t. She’s at home, in bed. Domino stares at Anne curiously from the foot of her bed.

She needs to calm down, Anne knows she does. But her heart is beating like she’s running for her life and her head is spinning and it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room and she is so, so afraid. So instead she begins to cry.

And she tries to stay quiet, she does. But frogs have very good hearing. And the guest room shares a wall with her own.

“Anne?” says a tentative voice. Anne looks up. She didn’t even notice the door open, lost in her own mind as she was. Sprig is looking at her with his big, innocent eyes. He looks worried.

“Anne, are you okay?”

Beside herself, Anne simply lets out a keening cry, burying her face in her hands as though that will somehow make the tears go away. She hates it when people see her cry, hasn’t showed weakness like this in front of someone since she was six years old, and yet–

And yet.

“Now see here, what’s going on?” Comes Hop Pop’s stern grumble.

“Anne’s upset.” murmurs Sprig, sounding small and scared, “I don’t know what to do.”

Anne wraps her arms around her legs, burying her face in her knees. She doesn’t deserve their kindness, doesn’t deserve a lick of it–not when Sasha is stuck in a terrifying world full of talking amphibians, not when Marcy is–

“Anne? Do you need me to get your parents?” Hop Pop asks in a soft tone, putting his webbed hand on her knee. She flinches at his touch, then shakes her head desperately. Nonono, they can’t see this. Can’t see her break down. What will they think of her, if they know how scared she is? Will they even let her go back if they find out? She is strong, she is brave, she can handle this and anything the world throws at her.

If only she could just breathe.

But the thing is, the moment Anne tries to focus on her breathing, she becomes all too aware of the rest of her body–the beating of her too-fast heart, the way her hair feels like spiderwebs on her neck, the way her lungs burn from all the running–the way that she’s breathing. It’s a never-ending cycle of try to breathe, realize you can’t, get scared because you can’t breathe and everything is uncomfortable and scary and you can’t feel your hands and the rain is going to drown you like a tidal wave. Rinse and repeat.

And of course, concerned as they are at her obvious and embarrassing breakdown, the Plantars get her parents anyway.

“Anne? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

Anne curls up tighter. Even if she could begin to explain all the things wrong right now, she wouldn’t. There’s too much at stake. Maybe, in an ideal world, she would be a perfect person. Maybe, in an ideal world, Anne would be known as her parent’s responsible daughter. Maybe, in an ideal world, Marcy and Sasha would be home, and safe, and they would all be spending their days making mischief in the park and drinking their weight in boba.

But this isn’t an ideal world. And Anne is not an ideal person. Anne is not her parent’s responsible daughter.

She’s just a scared kid, and she is so tired.

“Oh, Annie,” Mom says softly, sitting down on Anne’s bed. She reaches out a smooth hand out, grabbing one of Anne’s callused ones and rubbing her fingers along the ridges soothingly. The action is so comforting, so familiar, that Anne has to bite back a wail. It’s like she’s three years old again and crying over a skinned knee. God, she would do anything for a small surface wound to be her biggest problem. Slowly, as though telegraphing her movements, Anne’s mom scoots in close to her daughter, enveloping her in a hug. Only then does Anne realize how cold she is, how her entire body feels like she’s soaked to the bone in ice water.

“Anne. Can you breathe for me?”

Anne tries again to breathe, but it just won’t come. She shakes her head.

“Mmm, let’s try something else,” Mom says, situating Anne so that her ear is placed directly against her heart, “Can you hear my heart beating?”

Anne nods. But she isn’t sure Mom can feel that, so she makes a little sound instead.

“Listen to my heartbeat, Annie. Do you hear it?”

Anne makes another sound to say yes.

“Good girl. Can you copy my breathing now? Listen.”

Anne tries. It takes a few minutes of concentration, but eventually her own heart begins to mimic the calmer thrum of Mom’s slow and steady one.

“Just like when you were a baby, hm? You used to love my hugs,” Mom says wistfully, “When did you grow up?”

Anne frowns, burying her face in her mother’s chest. As much as she tries to act like it nowadays, she feels as far from “grown up” as she can get. And she’s tired of trying, if she’s being honest.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Mom continues, “You work so hard to help the Plantars. But you have to work hard to help yourself, too.”

Anne deflates. Mom’s right. But it’s just so hard to take care of yourself when all you can think about is someone else. It’s a heavy burden, but one she has to bear. Maybe though, just maybe, she doesn’t have to bear it on her own.

“Mom?” she says. Her voice is hoarse. Her throat feels dry and scratchy like sandpaper.

“Yes, ที่รัก (dear)?”

“I need to talk to you about something. Dad too. But I’m… I’m not sure how to.”

“Take your time. We’ll be here when you are ready.”

“Promise?” Anne asks.

“I promise.”

[wri0thesley]

A Well Rounded Education (4): Equality Statement (Fem!Reader x Naoya Zenin, 7.5k)

series synopsis: you are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. gojo, unfortunately, does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: you make the mistake of crossing naoya zenin at a sports festival and are forced to apologise. but as you well know by now, nothing ever seems to go to plan where any of your student’s fathers are concerned. 

NSFW. MINORS DNI. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. misogyny, weird power dynamics, hate-sex, piv sex, blowjobs. naoya.  

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)   ♡  (jujutsu kaisen masterlist)

1.

The Saturday morning that your first ever undokai is scheduled for dawns bright and early, and you can’t help the little thrill that goes through you at the golden fingers of dawn lighting up your room. There’d been talk of the weekend bringing rain, and things needing to be rescheduled – but it’s perfect weather, as you put on a comfortable tank top and shorts instead of your neat pencil skirt and suit jacket combination.

This will be your first event of the kind, and you’re excited about it. The kids in the class have been practising all of their cheers and routines and the like constantly, whilst the ones involved in the competitive sports have been cheering one another on and snatching time when they can to race against one another in preparation. It’s been nice to see all of the camaraderie between them – even some of the quieter ones have seemed to come a little bit out of their shell, with so much team spirit in the air.

Well. Most of them have. You’ve noticed Junpei still hanging back, face sad, uncomfortable when other boys crowd him and tug him off to who knows where – probably to get him involved in their own practises or rehearsals.

It’s been long and hard preparing for it, but even Gojo has been focused on something for once.

“There’s just something about events like this!” Gojo chirped to you, once, as he’d held up a megaphone he did not really need and called his class back into formation in front of him. “You know! The joy of youth! I want them to have the best time possible! They deserve it.”

Seeing Gojo’s mischievous eyes sparkle with determination instead of humour had made you smile at him, and you’d felt a strange pull in your chest when he’d smiled back, needing to pull your gaze away to ask Yuuji to stop poking Megumi in the back to get him to look at a weird caterpillar he’d found on the ground.

As a junior high undokai, things are a little more competitive than they might be if this were an elementary school or even a middle school event, but there’s still a big emphasis on the teamwork and the cheering on portion of the day. You’ve watched and applauded what feels like a hundred practises for the cheering section, confiscating whistles when they’re sneakily blown whilst you’re trying to teach a mathematics lesson.

Still, you’re not surprised to see that Gojo’s class have been corralled into his classroom whilst your vivacious teacher and mentor gives them a rallying encouragement that seems to contain a lot of bigging up the fact that they are, in fact, his class.

“I thought the pep talk was for them,” you say, as heads turn to you when you walk into the room. It’s strange to see all of the faces dressed in their gym uniforms instead of their school uniforms – and it’s even stranger to be wearing an approximation of it yourself.

“You look nice!” Yuji pipes up, and you smile at him.

“It is for them,” Gojo brings a hand to his sunglasses to push them down a little, giving you a charming smile and the full force of the galaxies swirling in his eyes. “I’m just reminding them that as Satoru Gojo’s class, of course they’re going to do well! We’re going to be the strongest, and win!” He looks at all of them – bright shining faces turned to him, all lit up with the excitement of competition. There’s something in him that you rarely see right now – something encouraging and bright and compassionate. He genuinely seems to want them to do well. “I believe in all of you!”

The warmth spreading through your chest at Gojo’s words is a new experience. You’re far more used to exasperation and frustration where he’s concerned.

But now, you can’t help the infectious smiles of the children and the determination in their face to do well enough for everyone to be proud of. Maybe Gojo isn’t so bad after all, you think, as he bids the children in the class farewell and tells them to go and join everyone else outside in preparation for the day’s events.

“What d’you think?” He asks you, as Junpei leaves the room, still dragging his feet a little. You can’t blame him. He’s involved in the cheering section, as so many of the less athletic kids are, but the undokai is not optional and you think that Junpei is the kind of boy who hates being looked at. “Are we gonna win?”

“I don’t think that’s quite the point of the exercise,” you say, eventually. “We’re supposed to be fostering team spirit and co-operation--”

“Yeah,” Gojo wrinkles his nose and grins. “But we’re still gonna win, right?”

You sigh.

“With Yuji and Maki? Probably. But that’s not the point!”

Gojo stands up and stretches his arms out above him. He’s in a shirt that clings tight to a surprisingly muscled abdomen,  and dark grey sweatpants. He’s never been the ‘formal wear’ kind of teacher, but it’s still jarring to see him dressed so casually – and even more jarring to realise that he’s handsome, despite the fact you’ve spent most of the last few months rolling your eyes and sighing and cursing the world that you’ve ended up having to endure Satoru Gojo so much.

“I know, I know – but it’s nice to think about, right?” His grin is infectious. “Did you have time to have breakfast this morning? I know it’s an earlier start than usual, I’ve got a spare blueberry muffin in my bag – hope it didn’t get crushed too badly by my stretches--”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, already dreading the idea of him pressing a crumbled muffin into your hand. “I had a healthy, nutritious breakfast.”

“So did I!” He says, hotly. “The blueberry muffin had fruit in it, croissants are glazed with egg so that’s protein, and I had a slice of honey on toast too just because I felt like I’d have to keep my energy up today--”

You are constantly impressed by how he manages to consume all of this sugar without going into overdrive – then again, maybe that does explain a lot about him.

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing today,” you admit to him. “I mean, I know I’m here to cheer on the kids and stuff, but I don’t know what my role’s supposed to be--”

“Oh!” He comes around and begins to walk out of the classroom, beckoning you to follow him. “Didn’t I tell you? They told me ages ago--” He did not tell you. You don’t know why you find this a surprise. “You’re gonna be in charge of the refreshments table for the first half of the morning – Yuta, you know, the other teacher’s aid, he’ll relieve you for the second half so you can cheer us on and help me a bit. Not that I’ll need it! It’s not a hard job, just be polite to anyone who needs to use it, most of ‘em bring their own lunches and snacks but we find that it’s always good to have a table with some extras – especially when it’s so hot outside!”

“You didn’t,” you say, but you follow him anyway. You have learnt by now that the most you’ll get from Gojo is a shrug and an airy ‘sorry’. And you suppose, in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t so bad. It’s not like you needed to have time to stop and prepare yourself to give people a polite smile and ask them if they’d like you to pour them a glass of water.

The two of you spill out into the grounds of the school, which is already full of excited students and proud parents. You recognise a few of them – your face heats up as you see Nanami forcibly pressing a bottle of sunscreen into Yuji’s hands, and as the two of you walk past Geto who is tying back Mimiko and Nanako’s hair, ensuring the team hats that the students are all wearing sit neatly on their heads.

There’s a man stood with Maki and Mai who you assume is their father; a blond with a sneering face and a presence that makes you feel like you shouldn’t even be looking at him. Maki has her arms crossed, her chin jutting forward – the two of them are clearly involved in some kind of argument. Even as you watch, some other men are walking towards him with their heads bowed, like he’s something special.

You vaguely recall that you’ve heard some tell about the Zenins being a very rich, very old, very respected family. Judging from the way he carries himself and the way people keep looking at him, you think that must be it.

“Is that Maki and Mai’s dad?” You ask, curiously, as you’re pushed past him towards a collection of tables beneath a bright yellow awning. Gojo makes a noise that sounds like a sigh.

“Yep,” he says, sounding short. There’s some kind of history there, you think. “That’s Naoya Zenin. Better for you to avoid him, if you can – he’s not the kind of guy you want to cross, y’know?”

“But Maki’s--”

“Absolutely nothing like him,” Gojo deposits you in front of a table heaped with water jugs, ice cubes and plastic cups. “Really.”

You wrinkle your nose as you look around. At least everyone else seems happy – excited, buzzing with energy and the promise of an exciting day ahead. You can’t help but worry about Maki’s expression, though. She had looked like her and her father were having an argument that had been going on for months--

Gojo waves at you as he jogs across the field, moving surprisingly quickly for a man who ate nothing but sugar for his breakfast. You watch him go, unable to stop a smile forming on your face as he pauses by Maki and Mai. He slaps a hand onto Maki’s shoulder and says something with a bright grin that she seems to respond to with a smile, turning to follow him. Her father’s eyes narrow, as he spits something that even you can work out is venomous at the retreating backs of one of his daughters. He sighs as he says something else to Mai, a smile almost tugging at the corners of his mouth as his attention shifts back to her.

It’s clear who the golden child is there, then.

You try and shake your thoughts away from Naoya Zenin and his two girls and concentrate on the place that you’ve been given, reminding yourself that even if it doesn’t seem like a big role, you all have to work hard to make sure that today is a success. Your students have been practising and getting excited for this event for weeks, and you want all of the parents to be as proud of their students as you are.

You have a good view from the refreshments table of everything that’s going on. You watch a few of the races, a few cheering displays from the other classes to the beat of the drums – and when kids run up to you, sweaty and panting, you hand them a plastic cup full of cool water and they thank you as if you harvested it from a spring yourself instead of merely pouring it out.

Some parents ask you politely who you are, and you tell them with a smile and a bright look, hoping that you being friendly and polite will get back to other people. A few of them exchange looks when they hear that you’re attached to Gojo’s class; the man has a reputation that follows him everywhere. You give out oranges and other pieces of fruit to some of the students who need an extra sugar boost, or the ones who have a bandage wrapped around their knee or grazes from falls that have recently been cleaned. Shoko is busy today, and you often see her direct these injured children to you as a rest stop, and so their parents can find them easily.

You pause for a moment as the names are called for a relay race, and you hear Maki and Mai being summoned. This is the first race that they’re taking part in – if their team wins this one, they’ll qualify for the final this afternoon. You can see Gojo lifting his arms and hollering and hear his loud, excited voice even with all of the other people crowding into the school grounds to watch, and despite yourself you feel a smile spread over your face.

You’re still smiling when you hear a scoff.

You turn around to see what the fuss is – only to see Naoya Zenin, holding a plastic cup of water as if it’s offended him mortally. Seeing you looking at him, his lip curls.

“Is this tap water?” He asks you. He has a curious accent; slow, drawling, and clearly much superior to your own. It’s not an accent that Maki and Mai have inherited – and as he raises one eyebrow, the sun catching the rings in his ears, you find yourself glad of it. “Well?”

“I think so,” you say. You are on edge. He peers into it, and sighs.

“Don’t you have anything better? Cell-gen or Tennensui or even I LOHAS, at least?” He speaks to you slowly, like you’re a child, or as if he’s not sure whether a peasant like you would even know the names of any bottled water brands. You can’t stand being talked down to, and you curl your hand into a fist as you say, trying to keep yourself polite;

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s just this.”

“You’d think with the money pumped in-- fine.” He sighs, taking a sip of the water, his face scrunching in displeasure at – you don’t know. The disgusting taste of tap water, you suppose. You try not to look at the bob of his throat as he swallows. Everything about this man seems to be unpleasant except the way he looks.

You take your own cup of water, just to quell some of the dryness that has made itself known in your throat at interacting with him.

The cheering gets a little quieter, and you turn to see what’s happened. As it turns out, all that’s actually happened is Gojo has stopped putting forth his own shouts to the fray, his eyes focussed on you and Naoya, a look that you think is almost sympathy spread across his face. You see that the race is about to begin, and you don’t look at Naoya as you say;

“You’re Maki and Mai’s father, aren’t you? Their first race is about to start. Maki’s been training really hard, I think she’ll pip it for us—”

A dark presence at your shoulder, and a sneering, uppity drawl.

“I gather you’re the teaching aid I’ve been hearing so much about from everyone.” he says. It does not sound like a compliment. “Maki has really found you . . . encouraging.” He says it like it’s a dirty word.

You force yourself to remain cheerful, and not ask him what the fuck his problem is.

“Maki’s really talented,” you say. “Mai’s fast, too – they’re both really good representatives for the class--”

Naoya snorts.

“They should be on the sidelines,” he says, coolly. “Supporting the men. Not running. Not getting all sweaty and hot and messing up their hair and their pretty faces.” He shakes his head. “It’s unwomanly, and if Maki listened to a word I’d said, she wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Mai is doing it too,” you point out, hating yourself for getting involved in this. But you just can’t let him stand there and be such an asshole, spewing his narrow-minded ideas when there are impressionable girls around.

“Mai’s already agreed that if they win this race, she’ll ask one of the boys to switch in for her. I’ve sorted it with the principal. It’s not ladylike for her to do any more than she has to. She’s not going to get a husband in good standing based on her athletic prowess--”

Oh, this is too far. You’re seething, though you’re trying to keep your respectable face on. You’re at work, you’re at work, you’re at work--

“Perhaps there are some other things they consider more important than finding a husband, at the age of twelve?”

Naoya’s laugh is nasty, mocking – and you hate that there’s something in it that sends a curl of heat right through you, blooming between your thighs.

“The younger a girl learns her place,” he says, his voice very slow. “The better it is and easier it is for a man to be assured she’ll do her duties. I don’t see a ring on your finger, Miss – I’d hate for them to end up working some dead-end little job just because they don’t have anyone to cook and clean for--”

Nope.

You can’t take it any longer.

You turn and you throw the cup of ‘shitty tap water’ in your hand right over Naoya Zenin’s stupid, smug, asshole face.

2.

Gojo, for what you think must be one of the first time in his life, looks uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know you were going to throw water on him,” he tries to say, weakly. “Look, we all hate him, but . . . ugh. This is so frustrating! I hate all of this bureaucracy bullshit--”

It turns out that Naoya Zenin’s family – and Naoya Zenin himself – donate rather a lot of money to the school for such functions as the one you’re all currently attending. It turns out that nobody wants to piss off the bank-roll that’s keeping their gym maintained, their events fancy and expensive, the library well-stocked – and you get that! You really do! You know that school budgets are overstretched already, and that donors like the Zenin family are something to be gently courted and kept around for as long as humanly possible.

You just wish that the big donor for this school was anybody else.

“I didn’t know all of this,” you say, reasonably. “I know I shouldn’t have thrown a drink over him, but Mr. Gojo--”

“How many times? You can call me Satoru.”

“If you’d heard the way he was talking--”

“Oh, believe me,” Gojo’s full lips press into a thin line. “I know exactly what Naoya Zenin’s modus operandi is. Let me guess: he was all on at you about how Maki’s not a proper young lady, how the boys should be doing the hard work, how he’s trying to make sure his daughters get a proper start and a rich husband – ugh.” Gojo tugs at his shirt, clearly frustrated. “I’ve had it way too much.”

“Yeah,” you say. You find yourself sighing too.

“The Vice Principal’s in his back pocket,” Gojo says, taking a seat on top of the desk that you’re currently sat behind, cooling off some of your anger – Principal Masamichi had sent you inside to calm you down, and Naoya himself had been escorted into the building by Vice Principal Gakuganji to dry off, all the while saying placating things to calm down the school’s meal ticket. “They want you to apologise to him.”

“I suppose I should,” you say miserably. “But it’s gonna feel like swallowing gravel.”

“I certainly don’t blame you,” Gojo says, with a smile, trying to cheer you up. “Hell, I know some of the other staff members have been dying to do it--”

“Ugh,” you bury your face in your hands. “This is a horrible impression in front of the whole school.”

He pats you gently on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, “when this is all over, I’ll take you out for ice cream. I know the best places in the city, and they all know me too!”

You summon a smile for him. He’s not so bad, really – sure, he’s chaotic and thinks too highly of himself for his own good, but . . . at least he’s nothing like Naoya. You stand up and pull down your shorts, wriggling your tank top down to cover you as much as you possibly can. You feel a bit exposed, not in heels and stockings and a blouse.

“I should get this over with, then.”

Gojo has too much to do back on the field to escort you to Naoya himself, so he tells you that Naoya’s in the Vice Principal’s office and gives you another friendly squeeze on the shoulder.

“Good luck,” he tells you. “Remember: ice cream at the end of this!”

“Ice cream at the end of this,” you repeat, as you watch him jog out of the corridor. You’re almost tempted to tell him off for running in the halls – Gojo moves so fast that sometimes you lose track of him entirely – but you push back the urge. Gojo is being decent today. You’re thankful to him for sitting with you and helping you calm – and also, evidently, for being one of the things that keeps Maki’s fighting spirit inflamed.

You stand there for a moment, in front of the door to the office, balling up your courage tight and hot in your stomach. You do not want to have to apologise to Naoya, but you know it’s for the best. The sooner you can put this sorry incident behind you and try and avoid Naoya at every single function from herein, the better – so you tap hard on the door and wait until you hear his slow, drawling voice.

“You can come in.”

At first, you’re surprised to see that he’s alone in there – sitting in front of the desk in a comfortable chair, clearly at ease with everything. His arms are sprawled over the back of it, his legs wide apart. You chastise yourself for thinking it immediately – of course the vice principal is busy right now, of course he trusts someone as well-known to the school as Naoya to be alone in his office.

It’s hard not to think about every other time you’ve found yourself alone with the parents of your students, though. A heat crawls onto your face at the very thought of it. You find Naoya repellent, disgusting – but then again, he’s also (and you’re not being glib about it) handsome. You’d be lying if you’d said you sometimes hadn’t ignored a man’s personality for a night in favour of a face and a body that had drawn you in.

Not now.

You close the door behind you, clasping your hands together so you don’t clench your fists, and bow your head so that Naoya can’t tell that you’re grinding your teeth.

“I’m sorry for letting my emotions get the better of me, Sir,” you say, though it really does feel like you are gnashing ice to get the words out. “I should have been more polite. I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Mmm,” Naoya says, and you peek up at him through your lashes to see that he’s clearly enjoying having you at his mercy, his lips tilted into a smirk. His hair is still a little wet at the ends, but all that you throwing the water over him seems to have actually done is made his shirt cling tight to a surprisingly chiselled chest and stomach. Asshole. Fuck him. “Yes. I should hope not.”

You straighten yourself up, still a little stiff.

“I hope you can forgive me,” you say. “I . . . I am still learning my place in the establishment.”

He laughs, low and soft.

“Your place?” He asks, the words dangerously sweet on his tongue. “Yes. I can see you still need some help on that one.”

His eyes crawl over you slowly, dragging up and down the length of you, lingering over where your shorts cling to your hips and the tank top hugs your chest. You resist the urge to shift – you don’t want to let him know that he’s making you uncomfortable. You know, though, that he can sense that you have gone hot and prickly all over. He has that smug air; the one men who know what they do to people always seem to have cultivated. The knowledge that they are good-looking.

You suppose for Naoya, it’s the heady combination of knowing he is good-looking and powerful and rich, and you breathe through the force of all of his attention concentrated on you.

“Seeing as you’re still . . . new to all of this,” he says, bringing an arm forward to tap his long fingers on the desk. “And you did apologise prettily, I suppose I can forgive this transgression – just this once, darling.”

The pet name crawls up your spine like ice. He’s still staring at you, enjoying the view like you’re a piece of meat on a market stall he’s considering purchasing.

“Th-thank you, Sir,” you say, hating yourself a little bit but hating him all the more.

“You know,” he says. “You’re not exactly bad-looking.” He stands, rising to his full height, stretching out, frustratingly comfortable in this environment when you feel like a deer who’s about to turn tail and flee at any moment. “You’d be much better off at home raising children than here.” He wrinkles his nose. “Working for a living.” The way that he says the words makes it clear that he considers this a task far beneath the likes of him.

He’s moving towards you now, and your breath seems to get stuck in your throat as he’s suddenly in front of you, stalking elegantly. You want to snap back something about how you’d rather work for a living than have to rely on the whims of a man, much less a man like him – but as he grabs your chin to tilt it up to the light, you find that the words seem to die in your throat.

“Hmm,” he says. “Not bad at all.” He makes an approving noise that sends a flutter right through you, making you dully aware of a pounding ache between your thighs. He leans a little further in, until he’s so close that you can see the pale colours dancing in his eyes, the way the light hits his high cheekbones. “You’re trembling with rage, you know. It’s adorable.”

“You’re very easy to be angry at,” you half-breathe, half-hiss, and Naoya’s smirk is going to be burnt into your memory forever and ever.

“If you’re so angry,” he murmurs, “I can certainly think of a way I wouldn’t mind helping you work out your aggression.”

You shouldn’t do it. But your heart is beating a frantic rhythm against your ribcage and your breath is short, and part of you wants to wrestle him to the ground and dominate him so that he can have a taste of his own medicine. You grab a handful of his hair and drag him down into a bruising kiss.

3.

Oh, and he kisses back. His mouth is soft against yours, but the kiss itself is rough – both of your tongues fighting for dominance, both of you trying to nip at one another’s bottom lip and seize the victory. You’re practically shoved backwards so that your ass catches the edge of the Vice Principal’s desk, even as you tug hard on Naoya’s hair to tell him that you’re not going to be overpowered by him so easily. You feel the feral curve of his grin as he pulls back just enough to whisper;

“Oh? You really think you’re going to get the better of me? You’re cute--” and then you push his shoulders hard, and he stumbles and falls back onto the chair he started this whole escapade sat in. You reach down to tug off your shirt, dropping it onto the floor beside you – Naoya looks for a moment like he’s going to stand back up and resume trying to wrest back the situation into his favour, but as he sees the slight bounce of your breasts in your bra he seems to decide it would be more interesting and beneficial for him to stay exactly where he is and watch you disrobe.

So you do, wriggling your shorts down past your hips – he lets out a low groan at that, as you stand before him in nothing but your underwear with your fists clenched on your hips.

You feel surprisingly powerful like this. It definitely makes a difference from all of the other ways you’ve felt when you’ve been alone with somebody’s father--

“Take off your shirt,” you tell him, and you’re almost surprised at the imperious tone in your own voice. “It’s your turn--”

He raises an eyebrow at you, but he does as you ask. Long fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, taking his sweet time pulling it off his body – and yes, it’s a nice one. Nice, too, are his thighs as he undoes his trousers that probably cost more than you make in a year and pushes them down, sitting before you in nothing but his equally as expensive-looking underwear – an impressive looking bulge outline pressed against the fabric. Even as he looks at you, he takes hold of himself through it and squeezes it, his grin crooked.

Your body does a throb of need.

“Oh,” you say, feigning surprise. “I didn’t realise you were so needy already--”

“Like you’re not dripping,” he says sharply, his eyes zeroing in on the space between your thighs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I can see the damp patch from here.”

“Who’s to say that’s for you?” You walk towards him. You can’t help but feel powerful and in control at how his eyes follow you with rapt attention, how his tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip as he drinks in your form in front of him.

“Please,” he says. “As if there’s anyone here more deserving.”

He reaches forward and his hands settle on your hips, dragging you closer to him – hot fingertips brushing your waist, the bare skin beneath your bra before he’s unclipping that too and your breasts are bare. He breathes in deeply.

“Pity,” he says, though his voice is thick with his own arousal. “You’re such a cute little thing, if only you didn’t open your mouth--”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind me opening my mouth to do something else,” you breathe, and you reach down to ghost your fingers over his cock through the tent in his underwear. He hisses through his teeth, his eyes half-lidded.

“Don’t just say it, princess,” he says. “If you’re going to run your mouth, the least you could do is make it do something useful--”

“I’d rather die than get on my knees for you.” Your mouth is very close to his neck – to punctuate the statement, you give his earlobe a tug with your teeth, and he practically groans. You’re almost straddling him on the chair, and you do not miss, either, the twitch that his cock seems to give at the tug.

It seems like for somebody who really wants to be in control, and wants women to know their place so badly, Naoya actually is rather enjoying somebody giving him a taste of his own medicine.

He grabs your underwear and pulls it down, clicking his tongue as it bunches about your knees.

“Just give into what your body wants,” he says, all saccharine sweetness in that slow, deep voice. “You’ve made a mess.”

You know you have. You can feel slick when your thighs press too close together, hot and wet between your legs. You really are practically dripping. But it’s not just from Naoya, you don’t think – it’s from the sudden power you’re feeling, the rush of being an equal participant in everything, in feeling like you have the upper hand. And not a small part, you think, is because of the adrenaline that’s coursing through your veins at the thought of putting Naoya Zenin in his place. You tip your head to the side innocently.

“What about you?” You ask, with a mean shade to the pitch of your voice. “You’re so hard it’s a wonder you’re not in pain--”

He grabs a hank of your hair with one hand whilst spreading your legs further with the other, so strong that the breath’s knocked out of you. The tip of his finger skims the outer lips of your sex, gathering your slick arousal on the pad as he growls;

“I’m still a man, darling. I see a pretty cunt to fuck and a pair of nice tits and I want to bury myself into it until the bitch remembers her place--”

“Good luck,” you breathe. “I think you’ll be the one remembering his place, here.”

He laughs breathlessly.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re going to be singing a different song when you’re begging me to fuck you harder.”

You give him a smile with your teeth bared; the challenge is obvious. It’s a smile that says ‘we’ll see’, even as you both tug at his underwear to pull it down and reveal what he’s been hiding beneath it.

You don’t want to admit that he’s got a pretty cock, but he has. He’s not the biggest you’ve seen, but it’s still impressive; a slight curve giving it an elegant angle that you realise with a clench will hit you exactly in the right spot when you take it inside of you.

He’s slick with his own pre-come, bubbling from the reddened slit – and as you shift forward and trap it between your thighs, he groans aloud again.

“That’s right,” he grunts, as the tip catches on your entrance and you begin to sink down upon it. “This is what you were made for, princess--”

“What?” You pant. “That would be disappointing. You barely fill me up--”

He grabs you and pulls you into another kiss as you finish off sheathing his cock inside of you – perhaps to save his pride, perhaps to muffle the noise that comes out of him, transferred into your mouth instead of his own. Whichever it is, you hate that you were right about the angle of his cock – you can feel it pressing snugly against the spongy G-spot even now, threatening you with a better time than you’d like to have.

You break the kiss to pull yourself off of him and sink back down, forcibly taking the lead and setting your own pace. You know it’s fast, you know it’s greedy – but fuck, if you aren’t boiling over with need.

You splay your hands across his shoulders, nails digging into his skin with little care to how you might mark him. You need him for leverage, as you continue to bounce up and down on his cock. Naoya tips his head back and groans, enjoying the feeling, before he remembers that you two are engaged in a battle of wits and attempts to get the better of you once more.

“I-is that,” he groans, coming to cling onto your waist and force you down on him with even more strength, helping you along in the too-fast rhythm of your thrusts and bounces. “The best you’ve got?”

“Come on,” you say breathlessly, as his cock continues to stroke that spot. You can hear the sounds of him sliding in and out of you, shamefully loud – too, you can hear the sounds of your skin slapping against one another, echoing and mixing with the breathless pants and the attempts to trade barbed insults. “Y-you’re making me do all the work?”

“Fucking pity you’ve got such a nice cunt,” Naoya snarls, his hips flexing, somehow managing to hit you deeper even as you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet and straddling him on the chair. His words are starting to sound very far away. “You should be in my fucking bed, keeping it warm, better off than wasting away here--”

Both of you are running your mouths, overwhelmed by how close one another’s bodies are and the intense heat radiating from you. There’s a frisson of electricity in the air, showering sparks, as the two of you continue to snatch words in between moans and groans and pants and whimpers--

“You’re pathetic--”

“You’re so fucking tight, I shouldn’t be surprised when you’re such a bitch--”

“F-fuck, harder, c-can’t you even keep the momentum going? You’re weak--”

“Baby girl, you’re fucking shaking – you gonna come first? Women are so predictable--”

You can feel your release hovering on the edge of your vision, blurring it as your eyes squeeze shut and you feel tears threatening to roll down your cheeks. There’s a heat inside of you that’s close to overspilling – and as you come down on him particularly hard, the head of his cock rolls over your g-spot just right, and you feel a dam inside of you break as your nails dig hard enough into his shoulders to draw blood. You bury your face into his neck so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of hearing you cry out his name, teeth worrying into his neck to leave a love-bite reminder of exactly what transpired between you two in the Vice Principal’s office.

You feel yourself twitch and tighten around him as your orgasm rocks your body, heat running through you like veins of marble. You can’t breathe – all you can do is bite, your hips chasing the final aftershocks.

Naoya is still hard inside of you as you lift yourself off him, letting his cock slip out of you as easily as butter. His own hands clench around your hips.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He asks, his voice rough and hungry. Despite that, though, you can hear the thread of some other emotion sewn in to them – and with a shiver of delight, you realise it’s neediness. He’s been left wanting, and you’ve been handed all of the cards. “I haven’t finished.”

“And you won’t finish inside me,” you snap at him, enjoying the longing in his voice. “Ask me very nicely and I’ll finish you off with my hand.”

“Mouth,” he demands – and he grabs your cheeks, squishing them, pulling you down and reminding you of all of the power that he has even though it’s your body that’s got the advantage of the high ground. “You don’t really think I’m going to be satisfied with your hand, princess--”

“You don’t deserve it,” you spit at him, but you sink to your knees anyway.

You’re not entirely lacking in manners. You suppose you did get to come. It would be rude to just leave him like this. Especially when the whole reason you’d ended up in this office in the first place was to apologise to him politely.

“This is the perfect position for you,” he sneers, as you open your mouth and envelope the head of his cock within it. You can taste yourself on his shaft. “Fuck, that’s right – put your mouth to good use for once--”

You give him a mean, slow lick along the slit of his cock head that makes him groan in the back of his throat. He wraps his hand around the back of your neck, fingers digging into the nape so he can control you at least a little bit, pushing you a touch too far so you almost choke. You pull off it, drooling.

“Choke me again and I’ll bite,” you snarl, and he pats your cheek like you’re an obedient dog.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he says – and you narrow your eyes at him in a way that says ‘try me’ before you return to sucking at him, hollowing your cheeks. You want to do a good job. A part of you wants to make him come so hard that he regrets being an asshole to you, even though you know that’s ridiculous and not going to happen.

Still. You’re not going to back down from a challenge, so you use your tongue to play along as much of his cock as you can.

“Fuck,” Naoya breathes. “Good . . . good fuckin’ girl—”

You’ve been hearing that low, polite drawl swear and curse for what seems like hours, but that one sends another pulse of heat through you – at your heart, you can’t argue that you love being praised. You whimper against his cock, glad that the fast pace you’ve managed to establish and the wet noises of your mouth around him muffle the noise so Naoya can’t dangle it over your head.

The hand on the nape of your neck jerks, so that you’re forced to look up at him and meet his eyes proper. His hips are slamming to meet your bobs now, the noise of him fucking your mouth filling the room. His teeth dig into his bottom lip and you feel him twitch, his voice pitching--

Salt coats your tongue as he fills your mouth.

But he doesn’t let himself finish there.

He pulls out, and he pumps his cock himself two, three times – coaxing out the other ropes of come, that hit your neck and chest and breasts hot and white and glistening. You’re too surprised by it to do anything – you’d expected him to keep your mouth on him, make you swallow down everything he gave you. He seems the kind of guy who gets off on that sort of thing--

But instead, he’s sighing, relaxing back into the chair as he looks at you with lazy eyes.

“You look cute like that,” he says, his voice low and sated. “I should take a picture.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, getting off your knees. You are so fucking thankful for the box of tissues on the Vice Principal’s desk, as you reach across and grab some to dab at yourself so you’re not sticky and disgusting for any longer than necessary.

If you leave them in his pedal waste-bin, you hope that the cleaning crew will dispose of them before the Vice Principal is even aware that they’re there. Your lip curls as you wipe your mouth. You wish you had a mint – or at least a glass of water. Even tap water would do.

For what it’s worth, Naoya seems a little agitated as he puts himself to rights too. Evidently he was not expecting you to fight back so much – he places a finger on his shoulders and scowls when he sees that you made him bleed.

“I should sue you for assault,” he says. You tap your own body, at the curve of your hips and waist.

“I’m going to bruise,” you tell him. “So I guess it would be self-defence.”

“You’re too smart for your own good,” he tells you, with narrowed eyes – and you give him another smile, one that is clearly fake, as you pull your tank top and shorts back on and re-tie your shoes.

You’re surprised as you go to leave the room and he sets a hand on the small of your back in a mocking echo of polite manners. As the two of you walk down the corridor towards the exit, he does not remove it. To the assembled crowds, you hope it will look entirely innocent – like the two of you have merely had a little chat and come to an agreement instead of heatedly fucking one another’s brains out.

You blink as you emerge out into the light, your eyes taking a moment to adjust. You see Principal Masamichi give you a sympathetic smile – and there’s Gojo, immediately charging towards you like an overprotective bear. He slows down as he sees the way that Naoya is still touching you.

“I hope everything’s alright,” he says, sounding stiffer and more formal than you usually hear. Naoya’s smile towards him is cold.

“Everything’s fine,” he says, “Perfect. You apologised beautifully, didn’t you, Miss?” Naoya looks down his nose at you, a conceited smile on his mouth. “I’ve decided to overlook this little transgression.” He leaves a pause, and you swallow as you realise what he’s waiting for.

“Thank you so much, Mr Zenin, Sir,” you say. Again, it feels like you have to force the words out through a mouthful of marbles – but they make it out of your mouth.

“Oh, don’t be so formal, Miss,” he smirks. “You can call me Naoya. I look forward to seeing you again – soon, I hope.”

“You’re just in time,” Gojo says coldly. “Maki just won the final race of the day for our team.”

Naoya’s gaze is sharp as he looks at him. His lip curls. You can tell that both of them want to do something – maybe have an out-and-out fist fight on the field. But Naoya manages to get a grip (you’re glad about it; you’re not entirely sure whether Gojo would have been able to hold back) and turns on his heel to stalk away.

He does give your ass one last squeeze, though, that you desperately hope that Gojo doesn’t notice.

Gojo’s shoulders stay set, his chin thrust proudly forward, until Naoya has been swallowed up by the crowd at large – and then, he turns to you. For the first time, you see his normally humorous eyebrows draw in with worry.

“You look upset,” he says. “Sweaty. You smell terrible. Do you need a minute?”

Your shoulders fall. Gojo gives you a sympathetic pat on the back.

“It’s a rite of passage to deal with someone from the Zenin family,” he says. “You’re just unlucky it happened to actually be Naoya today. He usually sends an underling or an uncle or someone to pretend to care about the girls.”

Wow. You sure hope the rite of passage has gone differently for everyone else.

“Why d’you think he came here today, then?” You ask Gojo. He looks at you strangely, a spark of something you can’t quite read in his eyes.

“Well,” he says, “he’s related to the Fushiguros, you know. I heard he and Megumi’s father have met up recently for drinks – it ended in a fight, of course, it always does. But maybe he expected Megumi’s dad to be here too?” He shrugs. “He can never resist an opportunity to relish over someone in his family winning, even if he doesn’t want Maki doing anything unladylike. Megumi’s dad isn’t here, though, so looks like that backfired on him--”

Your face feels like it’s on fire as you think about Megumi’s father fucking you on Gojo’s desk – and the lingering way that Naoya had said that he’d heard so much about you from everyone.