#and of course no one else moves the way he does

[bitebitekxll]

Do they purr - genshin non-humans

៚ Zhongli ✧ Xiao ✧ Wanderer ✧ Albedo ✧ Venti

Notes: Holy hell how do I have 50 followers??? THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR SUPPORTING MY SILLY MUSINGS. This literally was just my way to learn how to write smut and post self-indulgent head canons but I’m glad people are enjoying this with me :DDDD

𝐙𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈 ᥫ᭡

Yes, 100%. He will deny it every time but lay on this man’s chest, maybe press a kiss to his jaw, and his chest is going like a fucking engine. He will insist that it’s not a purr, it’s simply a content growl— or perhaps a rumble, at most. He isn’t some measly cat, after all, he is a mighty dragon, the Prime Adeptus—

It’s definitely a purr.

Get him a cat ear hairband. He will give you the most long-suffering, unamused look while he wears them, but he will wear them. Anything for his beloved ♡~

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 ᥫ᭡

No, unfortunately. You have found no evidence that your stone-faced Yaksha is capable of emitting a purr, or purr-like sound (though certainly not for lacking of trying).

However… there is the matter of whether he is able to trill or coo like a bird, given that is his true nature.

He gets annoyed when you ask him, adamant that is not something he can do, and how dare you even entertain such a notion. Have you no respect for the adepti? Hmph.

…but you swear you’ve heard him chirp when you catch him off guard: kissing him without warning or praising him unabashedly.

It seems this will require further investigation.

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 ᥫ᭡

Not purring, but whirring!! Got this idea from @seabirdtxt ‘s Glitch in Irminsul fic (it’s SAGAU focused on the diff vers of scara existing at the same time, go read it it’s great) and it just makes so much sense to me.

As a mechanical puppet, and an advanced one at that, Scara has tons of machinery going on inside of him. Though it usually can’t be heard, if you get especially close to his chest— a privilege only reserved for you and maybe Nahida during hugs —you can hear the whirring and clicking of his moving parts inside. It doesn’t sound the same as a purr, not exactly, but it’s pretty damn close.

Most of the time it’s pretty faint, but sometimes Scara might just make it louder— it’s got nothing to do with the way your face lights up or how you smile when you hear it, don’t be stupid.

Of course, the only way he can make the noise louder is by overworking his system, making the parts inside move faster than they’re supposed to. If he does it too much or for too long, well…

You’ll know it’s time to lecture him on taking better care of himself when he starts burning up. Overheating is the first sign he’s about to overload his system and shut down (or from everyone else’s perspective: pass out).

You’re the only one who can make him stupid enough to be willing to break his own mechanisms just to see that adorable ridiculous expression on your face. (He might come back to his senses in a petulant huff if you start calling him a cat, tho)

𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐎 ᥫ᭡

Sadly, purring is not a feature homunculi come with. But this is Albedo we’re talking about, he can definitely figure it out.

He won’t tell you just what idea you’ve sparked with your question— you always worry when he starts self-experimenting —but it’ll be fine! He takes all the necessary precautions, limits any risk, because there’s always some risk in life, and downs a concoction or two in his quest to see if he can change the makeup of his own body. As an artificial life form, he’s less delicate than an organic one, so he doesn’t need to worry about pesky issues like rearranging his (non-existent) organs in a fatal manner.

And it works! Well, sort of. You come back home to a boyfriend that is fully capable of purring!! And also!! Has, uh, cat ears…

Albedo would consider it a success— he accomplished his goal, even if there were a few side effects. And you get a pretty catboy equipped with the cute, twitching ears and a fuzzy blonde tail; everybody wins! ♡

Of course, there’s always the chance his experiment just turns him into a cat entirely… but it wears off after a day or so, so it’s not the worst thing Albedo’s done to himself.

Either way, congratulations, he can now purr for the next 24 hours. And regardless of his cat-to-boy ratio, he will be expecting pets. Get to it~

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 ᥫ᭡

He has bird vocalisations! Except he’s worse at hiding it then Xiao may or may not be. It’s not outright chirping, but it is a cooing trill in the back of his throat, too vibrational to be a regular hum.

It’s the sound he makes when he’s perfectly content, laying in a warm patch of sun on the soft grass, sat atop a roof with alcohol warming his veins, and curled up in your arms, round cheek smushed against your chest. He takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with your scent, and then releasing it in a sigh, accompanied by the musical tones of his little trill.

He makes shorter ones when he’s pleasantly surprised; when you unexpectedly toss him an apple or pat his head. He’ll grin or lean into the touch and make that sound in his throat. Too quiet to be heard by the people around you over the din of the town, but you’ll hear it. It’s a sound just for you ♡

[chrissturnsfav]

i’ve been summoned ☝️ ok hear me out here, fuckgirl!reader is flirting with him like always and then he gets a boner… up to u if she notices or not !!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 loser!matt gets a little excited around fuckgirl!reader

you’re sitting in matt’s beat-up old car, legs crossed on the passenger seat, leaning back with a joint dangling between your fingers.

the windows are fogged up, a hazy cocoon of smoke and the faint smell of cigarettes and cologne—matt’s signature scent, clinging to everything he touches. he doesn’t like to smoke weed, never has, but you got him to take a hit tonight. one hit. big deal. baby steps.

he's in the driver’s seat, slouched like he’s got nowhere better to be, one arm draped lazily over the wheel, the other flicking ash out his window.

his lips curl slightly when he catches you staring. not a full smile, but enough to make you grind your teeth. this smug dick knows exactly what he’s doing.

"what?" he asks, voice low, smooth, teasing.

you blow smoke in his direction, grinning. "nothing. just thinking how you keep pretending you don’t wanna fuck me."

his eyes flick over to you, dark and steady, but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t rise to your taunt, never does. that’s the thing about matt—calm, cool, untouchable. a challenge. you love it, even though it's incredibly frustrating.

"cute," he says flatly, like it’s not.

you shift, letting your skirt ride up just enough to get a reaction. he notices—of course he does—but he stays cool, that unreadable expression driving you absolutely crazy.

"come onnn," you coo, leaning closer, voice dripping with fake sweetness as you pout at him, stubbing the blunt into an ashtray in his cup holder. "you can’t keep playing hard to get forever."

"who said i’m playing?" he shoots back, eyes flickering down to his crotch just a second too long.

gotcha.

you lean in further, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, your lips dangerously close to his ear as you snicker tauntingly. "your dick says different, matt."

his jaw tenses. you see a crack in that infuriatingly calm exterior.

he shifts slightly, like he’s trying to hide something, but you’re not stupid. you know exactly what’s happening, and it lights a fire inside you.

"oh," you whisper, biting your lip through a cocky smirk. "looks like i’m finally getting to you."

he exhales slowly, a mix of frustration and something else you can’t quite name. but he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t stop you.

"careful," he warns softly, voice rougher than usual. "you sure you wanna play this game?"

you grin wickedly, loving every second of this rare victory. "oh, baby, i'm already winning this game. don't get it twisted. started winning when you kissed me a few weeks ago."

his eyes narrow, and for a second you wonder if you’ve finally pushed him too far. not that you'd regret it. matt’s the type who thrives on control, always one step ahead. but tonight that grip is slipping, and you can feel it. it's the same exact tension you felt a few weeks ago at that party.

he shifts in his seat, leaning back like he's trying to remind himself who’s in charge.

you know that move. seen it before. but it’s different now. there’s heat bubbling beneath his cool exterior, something that wasn’t there before.

"yeah?" he asks, voice low, smooth.

you nod, biting your lip. "mhmm."

he hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s remembering that party a couple of weeks ago when he kissed you and shattered his whole untouchable vibe.

of course that motherfucker blamed that night on the alcohol. but you're not backing down so easily, and you knew that was all a lie.

besides, you love a good challenge.

you see the flicker of that night in his eyes now, the way he looks at your plush lips like he’s weighing his options.

"you're thinking about it, aren’t you?" you taunt, snickering cheekily, leaning closer until your knee brushes his thigh. "how good my lips tasted."

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head with a dry laugh. "cocky."

"mm-mm, confident," you correct, grinning. "there’s a difference, baby."

his tongue darts over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and you swear it takes every ounce of self-control inside you not to climb into his lap right then, wanting nothing but to feel his hard tip pressing against your clit through your clothes.

"aw, what’s wrong?" you taunt softly, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "scared you're gonna give in again?"

his jaw tightens, and he huffs out a low laugh through his nose, like he knows what game you’re playing but refuses to let you win outright.

"damn, you're really pushin’ it tonight," he mutters, voice rough, like gravel rolling through his chest.

"am i?" you purr, inching closer until you're practically in his space. your knee brushes his thigh, deliberate this time, and the flicker of tension in his eyes nearly makes you dizzy.

his breath hitches—subtle but not subtle enough to miss.

"yeah," he says low, almost a warning. "you are."

but he doesn't move away. doesn't stop you. and that's when you know you've got him once again.

you tilt your head, biting back a grin. "hmm...what’re you gonna do about it, matt?"

his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second—one fleeting, dangerous second—before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

"thought you liked keeping me on my toes," you tease, voice soft but challenging. "what happened to that whole stupid unbothered vibe?"

"still here," he says, though it sounds more like a lie the longer he holds your gaze.

your grin widens. "doesn't look like it."

you see the exact moment he stops fighting himself—that sharp flicker of decision in his eyes before he moves. suddenly his hand is on your thigh, firm but not rough, heat radiating through your skin like wildfire.

you've got him right where you want him now.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: do not worry, i REPEAT there will be a part two of this where they will be getting freaky, i just want to edge everyone a lil bit hehe

thank you for reading!! <3

tags 🏷️: @sturnobsessedwh0re , @idrk2292 , @mattsbrat , @ribbonlovergirl , @matthewsroses , @mattsdemi , @emely9274 , @frankoceanfanpage , @ifwdominicfike , @marrykisskilled , @strnilolover , @cayleeuhithinknott , @forgottxen , @sophand4n4 , @sturnsrecord , @purpledragon222 , @faiyaz555 , @jocelyncsblog , @freakiolos , @slut4chris888 , @chriss-slutt , @ilovedanielcaesar , @annsx03 , @snoopychris , @chrissweetheart , @slutformatt17 , @mattsturnii , @dominicfikeenthusiast , @mattsbratt333 , @ivysturnss , @tessasturns , @coquettechris , @courta13

@chrissturnsfav ™

[hrrtshape]

coriolanus snow in my dr : a case study (???)

౨ৎ  i know coryo now!!!!! not good for everyone else. like, biblically adjacent. i have stared into the abyss of his collarbones and nearly blacked out from sheer spiritual overload during lunch ! i had to physically restrain myself, clawed at my own wrist, bit my tongue, to stop myself from stamping thirteen hickeys across his aristocratic little throat like a feral creature marking its territory when i first him.

he is so real. more than real. beyond suzanne collins' ink, beyond the tragic orchestration of his future atrocities in other...universes. here, in the very exclusive, very avant-garde dimensional hotspot that is my better cr dr, he is not just coriolanus snow....future ceo heir. he is coryo. my coryo!!!!! and sometimes he slouches ⋆

　　　　　　　　　　  ⊹　 ︶︶　 ୨୧　 ︶︶　 ⊹

❛ backstory : his parents are old money, the kind that moves in silence because it has nothing to prove. no desperate new-rich ostentation, just power so entrenched in the social fabric that it seeps into his every gesture, his every breath. his mother, a socialite with a steel-trap memory and a tongue sharper than a guillotine, collects secrets like they’re baccarat crystal. his father...okay. actually. terrifying. the kind of man who bets entire fortunes like they’re poker chips, who calculates risk with a gambler’s intuition and a warlord’s ruthlessness. tigris wasn’t lying when she said his father held hate in his eyes. coryo learned young that money isn’t the prize. it’s the battlefield. also, his grandma’am owns an unfathomably chic flower boutique, the kind of place where orchids cost more than your rent.

　　　unconventional investigative journalism ! . . . ୨୧

◞ signature scent : bdk parfums’ gris charnel, the kind of fragrance that clings to cashmere like a well-kept secret. ink stains on silk shirts, warm cardamom, a whisper of bergamot before it settles into sandalwood and smoked tea. expensive, but not ostentatious. it lingers, it haunts. smells like the kind of man who leaves an open book on the nightstand, spine cracked just so.

◞ phone model (important!!!) : iphone purist, but it’s always the second-to-latest model. not out of financial constraint (please), but because he simply does not care about such pedestrian flexes. midnight black iphone 15, no case, the edges kissed by a few strategic scratches from careless, absentminded tosses onto marble countertops.

◞ handwriting : so precise it could be a forged renaissance manuscript. slanted, deliberate, almost ecclesiastical in its elegance. when rushed, it collapses into a series of esoteric glyphs that only he and his exhausted professors can decipher.

◞ academic (from a person who's definitely not biased) : always at the top, but never in a way that suggests effort. knowledge just seeps into his bones. writes entire essays in his head and transcribes them last minute. annotations in the margins oscillate between philosophical musings and sardonic commentary. highlighters are strictly monochrome, because colour-coding is for the weak.

◞ basketball quirks : moves like he’s solving an equation in real time. effortless shots, a preternatural understanding of angles and velocity. runs a hand through his hair before free throws, because of course he does. plays like it’s not even a game, but an elegant and calculated dismantling of his opponent.

◞ food (yes i stalked him...basically) : not a sugar fiend, but catches himself reaching for dark chocolate when he thinks no one’s watching. black coffee as a baseline, but if you hand him something absurdly sweet, he’ll wrinkle his nose and then consume it with the begrudging efficiency of a man fulfilling a contract. this is known. this is proven.

◞ musical taste : classical, but only the kind that sounds like a man going through it in a candlelit room. bach (the kind with an organ), tchaikovsky (the kind with a death wish). 2000s indie sleaze. interpol, the strokes, arctic monkeys. jazz. hans zimmer when he’s feeling grandiose. kanye, travis scott, 90s rap when he needs to remind himself he is, in fact, a menace.

◞ can solve a rubik’s cube in under two minutes but insists it’s a useless skill.

◞ always has a pen on him. you’ve stolen at least three.

◞ stands at a slight angle when talking, like he’s perpetually calculating the optimal way to exist in space.

◞ (before my shift so this is from a memory i got there) gave me his jacket in an offhanded way, like it was nothing. later, i caught him watching me wear it with something unreadable in his expression.

◞ knows how to play poker, and you will not beat him at it.

◞ never brags, but when he does something impressive, he looks at me like he’s waiting for me to say something. i just raise an eyebrow.

◞ drives a black aston martin vantage (i know this...because he drove me once. one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror like he’s tracking something unseen. moan.)

◞ taps his pen against his lips when he’s thinking.

◞ looks obscenely good in knitwear. wool coats that make him look like a damn film protagonist.

◞ he doesn’t do hobbies; he does obsessions. he also does chess, poker, fencing. anything that requires strategy and the slow, tantalising art of victory. he's also in model UN. obviously.

◞ wears glasses sometimes. looks as hot as it sounds.

　　　physicality (moan!!!!) . . . ୨୧

◞ 6'3. an affront to reason, a structural hazard, a measurement that demands architectural consideration. the kind of height that turns even the tallest into something delicate by comparison.

◞ athletic, but not in an 'i woke up like this' way. this is intentional. muscle sculpted through discipline, through an almost monastic devotion to control. broad shoulders that make sweaters drape like they were sketched onto him. strong forearms, obviously. his back... indecently, needlessly, artfully carved.

◞ his hands...sigh...perpetually in his pockets, except when he leans in to murmur something just a fraction too close, fully aware of the effect. arms crossed when listening, jaw tightening when irritated (devastatingly attractive, i wanted to immortalise it).

◞ shoe size !!!!! likely 45 (us 12), possibly 46 (us 13). yes, i looked. for science.

◞ rolls up his sleeves with surgical precision, just enough to expose forearms that should require a warning label, yet feigns indifference.

◞ his hands are a problem. strong, elegant, unjust. fingers slightly calloused from basketball, fencing, lifting. YES, I TOOK NOTES.

　　　red flags that i'm way too prepared for . . . ୨୧

◞ pathological overachiever syndrome, but the toxic kind. the “i will seethe in silence if i score a 99 instead of 100” kind. the “i wrote a whole new essay because i found my first one merely excellent instead of transcendent” kind. the “if you beat me at chess i will lose sleep over it for weeks but mask it under a detached smirk” kind.

◞ emotional repression so severe it could be classified as a gothic affliction. you will never know what he’s actually thinking unless you study him like a victorian poet studies phrenology. his version of vulnerability is allowing you to witness a fraction of his turmoil through the clench of his jaw or the way he lingers just a little too long before walking away.

◞ never says “i’m sorry,” just reappears with a grand gesture like he’s starring in a cinematic reconciliation arc. (he is.) will quote poetry or latin at you instead of apologising. will scoff at grand romantic ideals but embodies one against his will.

◞ ego so finely constructed it could be displayed in the louvre. never gaudy, never loud, just a quiet, unshakable belief in his own superiority. not in a way that begs for external validation. no, he already knows. he doesn’t need you to tell him he’s exceptional, but oh, he does like it when you try to prove him wrong.

◞ has a god complex (freak matches freak), but a sexy one. not the loud, abrasive kind. no, his is an old-money god complex, the kind that sits in the corner of a candlelit room, flipping the pages of some antique tome, exuding the silent certainty that the world will always orbit him, whether you realise it or not.

◞ control issues so severe they could be submitted for psychological study. must be the one driving, must be the one deciding, must be the one orchestrating. lets you have your way when it amuses him, but only then. will convince you it was your choice all along.

　　　i , the cold war . . . ୨୧

lily-rose called it first: the cold war. and she was right. me, french-russian (yes, i’ve returned from shifting with improved french!!!) with an arsenal of toothy grins. him, american, arrogance lacquered over his intellect like a second skin. we’re both rich, both brilliant, both locked in a knowing, unbearable awareness of each other. the air crackles.

but it’s not just rivalry. never was. never could be.

when me and coryo stand too close, no one can tell if we’re about to argue or kiss. our verbal sparring sounds suspiciously like flirtation... because it is. because beneath the ego clashes and competitive theatrics, we are, devastatingly, undeniably, more allies than adversaries. we always sit together at lunch, insisting it’s because all our other friends do. but let’s be serious.

before all this, though, we were just kids. 10, maybe 9, maybe 8, whatever. he lived near me. i annoyed him on principle. it was schroeder and lucy, textbook. then i moved to paris. when i came back at 14, things weren’t the same. something brittle in the air. something unsaid.

　　　ii , the dynamic . . . ୨୧

smart vs. smart : we’re both intelligent. that’s a given. but he’s the type of smart that’s ice-cold, precise, a grandmaster orchestrating a hundred simultaneous chess games. and....... my intelligence is chaos and charm, the kind people underestimate right up until i win. he respects it. i weaponise it. it’s mathematics versus poetry. it’s yang and yin. it’s whatever we are, and it works. so well !!!!

arrogance vs. playfulness : he’s arrogance incarnate, but god, he can back it up. me? i’m unserious. i’m babyfaced. i laugh my way through everything, until suddenly i don’t. and then i win. which unravels him. which makes him question the foundations of reality. which is hilarious. (and no, he doesn’t let me win. i think.)

proximity that means too much : we always sit next to each other. always. in every class we share. no one believes it’s incidental. when we argue, it’s close-range, like neither of us is willing to cede even a millimetre of ground.

　　　iii , things that happened during my shift . . . ୨୧

◞ day one, i gave him a nosebleed. a necessary act of narrative tension.

◞ walking to class, his arm slung over my shoulder. unsanctioned contact. if i were a weaker woman, i would have perished on the spot.

◞ watched him play basketball. died immediately.

◞ accidental hand touch. suffered cardiac arrest.

◞ someone told us to get a room. we ignored it. violently.

　　　iv , what everyone sees vs. what's actually happening . . . ୨୧

what they see : two rivals, locked in constant combat, neither willing to surrender, neither willing to blink.

what’s actually happening : two idiots thinking about each other too much. best friends pretending not to be. two inevitable something-or-others, blind to the fact that they are careening towards each other like a greek tragedy.

ok goodbye i'm going back to my better cr now or else i'll die

[clowntiggles]

I'M BACK AND I COME BEARING HEADCANONS

DOEY MY MAN DOEY THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU

He is a tickle monster first and foremost. He's giant and a shapeshifter, it's practically hardwired into him.

And he's a caretaker, as if he needed any more coding.

Games of tickle monster are very common in the Safe Haven, and he's honed his beastly performance to a fine art. Even the older toys run in (fake) fear. He takes any chance he gets to play monster, it's as much a distraction for him as it is for them (and he likes being little devious).

SO teasy, terrifyingly teasy. When he's not playing monster, he's baby talking you into an early grave or playing innocent, like he's never even HEARD of tickling before and he has NO IDEA why you're laughing so much and he simply MUST investigate this.

Sprinkles puns in there for good measure. What do you mean they're bad -- you're laughing, clearly you find them hilarious!

Of course, even the mightiest beasts have their own weaknesses.

Since he's a shapeshifter who can bend metal beams with ease, it's safe to say tickling him is a challenge. But no matter how many arms he gives himself, he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, and he can be caught off guard and overwhelmed as much as anyone else.

Ticklish basically everywhere, mostly because his torso is 90% of his body. He doesn't really react much to light touches, but kneading and other such things have him cackling in no time.

It only takes a few rounds of tickle monster for the others in Safe Haven to develop a taste for vengeance. At the end of the day, it doesn't take much planning or coordination to go "everyone get his ass".

It's one of the few situations where his strength is actively detrimental. He can't risk hurting the 30-odd kids and teens viciously attacking him, so he has to stay as still as possible while being tickled half to death.

His immediate reaction is to curl up like a pill bug and tuck all his limbs in, both to protect himself (it doesn't work) and to protect whoever's tickling him from potentially dangerous flailing (this part works, fortunately). However, if he doesn't get his nervous energy out somehow he'll simply explode, so all of it goes to his legs, disrupting his protection ball. His habit of kicking and stomping can betray his ticklishness before something even tickles enough to make him laugh.

His laugh is the silliest collection of sounds ever. It changes cadence wildly the way his regular voice does, oscillating from loopy giggles to belly laughs to rough barks, and unlike his voice he has no control where it chooses to go.

DOES NOT SHUT UP; any time he can talk though his laughter he will be talking, even if all he can get out are muddled words and scraps of sentences. Yet oddly enough he never tells whoever tickles him to stop huh that's so weird I wonder why that is.

Whenever someone tickles him he kind of HAS to let them do it for their own safety, but aside from that little concern he genuinely enjoys it. Protecting the Safe Haven (and being basically the only adult figure in the area) is a stressful, exhausting job. Seeing the kids happy lets him know that his efforts are worth it, and being able to laugh so freely takes his mind off of things, even if only for a few moments.

Final note, does stuff going through his body tickle? Yes and no. It mostly doesn't. Both inside and outside have pretty much the same level of tactile perception because it's all the same material, so when something goes through him he can feel it like he were touching it "normally", and it's generally not a ticklish feeling the way most things you tough aren't ticklish. But because it's the same amount of feeling, it CAN be ticklish.

Stuff inside his body can't move very freely due to the pressure of being surrounded by several hundred pounds of playdough, so it generally isn't enough to make him laugh, but it can be enough to make him squirm and kick and his voice wobble.

The scenario I'm imagining is that the player tries to grab him with he grabpack, only for him to grab it right back by letting the hand sink into his torso. He intends to hold onto it while giving them a scolding about how we do NOT use our grabpack on others, but the player constantly tugging on the cord and making the hand move quickly begins to take the bite out of his voice, much to his chagrin.

[crsssie]

valentine's - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

"You guys got any—"

"We'll be off!" You squeak, waving bye to Morgan as you drag Spencer with. "Happy Valentine's Derek! Have fun later, and do NOT send me details!"

"Send me yours!"

"We will NOT be doing that!" Spencer gets a word in before stumbling into the elevator.

"So?"

"Listen, the new cafe that opened next to our apartment? Doing valentine's night. I went ahead and made reservations because they were apparently films from the 70s, and I remembered you mentioning Le Cercle Rouge and it just so happened to be on the setlist." You pause. "Setlist?"

"Setlist is for soundtrack. It'd be filmography." He hums. "Thank you. I'm glad."

"It's a little over two hours, so if you wanted to just relax for the rest of the evening, there's time to do that too." You pause, rummaging through your bag. "and, well, there's no cost of cancelling if we do it an hour in advance... which we have, by the way, so if you just wanted to watch the movie at home, I have it on DVD."

Spencer's features soften when you pull out the disc, and he hums. "That's lovely, but I did make plans too."

"Oh." You pause. "With someone else?"

"No, honey. We have two hours before mine. They're hosting a small event near home where you get to eat the dishes shown in the film as you watch." He hums. "Thought you might want to watch Lady and the Tramp."

Your eyes glimmer, bottom lip jutting out as he laughs.

"Who told you about it?"

"Read the newspaper."

"No way you'd think to do that, though..." You pause. "No, you probably just remembered that I had told you how my other friend had gone and done that a month back with her boyfriend."

"Yes." Spencer hums. "Thought you'd like to try it once."

"But the spaghetti scene? You don't like sharing food." You tilt your head. "I'm fine with self-serving."

"Just this once won't hurt me."

"Oh, but you shouldn't have to accomodate for that." You pause to think. "I don't mind doing another movie or changing the date. Unless you really do—"

"You know, in a month or so, it'll be white day. Traditionally, white day in japanese culture—"

"Is for the male to reciprocate for the female. Can you move your reservation?"

"I'll move it to the 14th next month." Spencer nods.

"I'll just ask Hotch for the day off. We can spend the whole day next time." You squeeze his arm.

"He's not going to let you do that."

"Oh, one can dream." You hum, tilting your head at him. "Dinner?"

"Hey." Spencer's voice softens, eyes meeting yours. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"You know, dinners for Valentine's day was popularized in America in the 60s, and then by the 70s it was candlelit dinners and wine, and then in the late 70s to 80s it was specialized for lovers only." He rambles, hands moving as you hold onto his arm.

"Mhm?"

"The first association of the Saint Valentine and romance was by—"

"English poet Geoffrey Chaucer in his Parlement of Foules in 1382." You beam. "You told me about how you solved a case with his writing once."

"Yes, a long time ago." He hums. "I'm surprised you remembered."

"It pays off to remember, does it not?"

"Of course."

"To be loved is to be known, after all."

"Hey, that was from a book released late last year." Spencer raises a brow. "To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved… Tim Keller."

"Yes." You close your eyes, squeezing his arm. "Metro?"

"Metro." He hums. "Shall we?"

"Let's."

[dross-the-fish]

Love Never Dies- Thoughts and Reactions

This might end up being split into multiple parts but I am not finished talking about Love Never Dies. I did give it a rewatch to refresh myself and...oof. This play needs to be taken out back and shot because that is what it did to every single character in it. NO ONE looks good. Not even Christine. Let's start there. Let's talk about what this show does with Christine because we have completely reduced this character to nothing but her voice. What does Erik miss about Christine after ten years of pining? Her voice. He just wants her to sing for him one more time. The only thing he ever really mentions about Christine is her voice. Though I can't really fault him because if we're being serious about Christine's character...

What does she have outside of her voice? Nothing. Somehow LND Christine has even less personality than she did in the OG musical. She is a cardboard angel that other people pine over, try to control, or envy. She has almost no agency. I said before, I suspect that Andrew Lloyd Webber hates women and Christine does not come out of that unscathed. She spends pretty much all of the musical being bullied by Raoul, mothering Gustave, or being threatened by Erik when he and she aren't reminiscing about that one time they banged 10 years ago. Seriously what even the fuck was "Beneath a Moonless Sky?" For a song about how two characters couldn't resist each other neither of them seem particularly filled with desire. Christine is recoiling in horror and disbelief and Erik looks like a 15 year old who thinks sniffing his crush's hair is peak sensuality.

Mmmm....sexy. But whatever. Christine says at the end of the song she woke up to swear her love and was ready to dump Raoul but Erik had skedaddled so she ran back to Raoul. You read that right. Christine was going to pick Erik after they banged it out and he left and that is the only reason Christine is with Raoul. Seriously Andy? You're going to make her regret picking Raoul over Erik when she didn't even actually DO that? Erik made the choice for her?

*internal screaming* Erik, seriously, how are you going to be upset that she's moved on with Raoul if YOU left HER? Do you really think you have the right to coerce her to sing for you one more time when you were the one who broke it off? The hell is wrong with you? Of course when Christine resists he immediately goes to threatening her child.

When I say Erik is the WORST I mean it. He is reprehensible in this.

But this is about Christine. We'll get to Erik later. LND Erik deserves his own post.

There's honestly not much more to write about Christine. She spends a lot of time cowering from or trying to appease Raoul. She worries about her son and her death is honestly so unwarranted. When I say ALW's work has an undercurrent of meanspiritedness I mean shit like this. Christine hasn't really done anything wrong. I guess she cheated on Raoul 10 years ago? But well she was going to leave him and only stayed because her first option bailed on her? She didn't do anything to Meg. She's been living 10 years in an abusive marriage and her crazy ex who kidnapped her came back to threaten her kid and coerce her to sing his music one more time. Then she just...gets shot. She dies. It adds nothing to the story that she dies. It doesn't feel earned or justified in anyway. It just feels miserable for misery's sake. It's almost unceremonious the way they ax her off because it's not even intentional. Meg misfires the gun because Erik fucks up in trying to talk her down. Christine's death isn't even about Christine herself. It's about Meg and Erik. It's such a useless and stupid death to give this character. How old even is she? Supposedly she's around 18-20 in the original musical (we're ignoring the 2004 movie that puts her at 16) and this is 10 years later? She's barely 30 but she ends up a casualty to everyone else's vanity, jealousy, and selfishness. I feel like we're supposed to find it tragic but it doesn't hit. It's a meaningless and undignified end to a character that was given no agency over her own life or her death.

[vinylfoxbooks]

February 4 - Skirt | @into-the-jeggyverse | wc: 758

It’s a no-brainer really. When the girls come into the Gryffindor common room talking about how Slughorn got on their asses about wearing pants, over the weekend and in their free time to wear as they please, there’s nothing else to do. 

It’s how they ended up here, standing around in the dorm room figuring out what skirt should be worn by who. Currently, Remus has on a mid-length brown plaid skirt that Lily pulled out for him, Sirius with a leather miniskirt that Marlene gave him directly, Pete has on a long black skirt, and James is wearing a pleated red skirt they grabbed while Marlene was presenting her options for them. 

James swirls the fabric around, smiling down at the motion of it. Sirius does the same not far away from them. 

“Ready boys?” Remus asks, pushing himself up with his cane. The group agrees and they head up and out of the dorm where the girls are waiting in the common room. 

Marlene starts cackling upon seeing them, throwing her head back, “Oh my Merlin, you guys actually did it!” 

James does a little twirl, “Of fucking course we did. Any excuse to say fuck you to authority.” They reach out their hand to help her stand up. She takes their hand and moves to stand, nodding approvingly at them and Sirius. Lily and Mary stand up as well, complimenting the guys.

Sirius claps his hands, “Well lads and ladies, where shall we go?” 

“I for one,” Marlene smiles, “Think that we should go find Regulus and Dorcas and show them the glorious scene before me.” 

“You’re getting way too much amusement in this.” Remus shakes his head.  

She shoots him a look, “You can’t fucking tell me that you’re not happy seeing Sirius in that skirt.” Remus doesn’t say anything, and she crosses her arms triumphantly like she knows that she one -- everyone does. Then he grins, walks up to James and Pete and intertwines her elbows in theirs, “Let’s go girls.” And with that, she marches out of the Gryffindor common room, Remus and Sirius following behind them hand in hand with Lily talking to Remus and Mary bringing up the rear. 

They all have different reactions to the looks, James grins at everyone who dares shoot them a disgusted look, laughing when the odd person wolf whistles at them or compliments them. They walk like that in their little entourage of women wearing pants and men wearing skirts. 

They figure that Regulus and Dorcas are in the library, so the group heads that way, not after dropping by Slughorn’s classroom -- and conveniently Snape on the way -- and getting him to see their attires. Lily runs into the library to grab the two of them while the rest of the group lingers around the hallway near it. She surfaces a couple minutes later with the whole Slytherin group in tow. 

The cackle that Barty lets out upon registering what the fuck he’s looking at is nearly immediate, joined quickly by Evan. Pandora makes their way over to Lily and Mary, asking about what is going on while Dorcas makes her way to Marlene, pressing a kiss to her cheek while Regulus ventures to James, looking him up and down rather salaciously. 

Mary grins, “Slughorn was being an asshole about us wearing pants because Merlin-forbid a woman wanting to wear something that’s not a skirt for once and so the guys all agreed to take our skirts out for a ride.”

Sirius hums, giving her a triumphant grin, “I think we rock it if I do say so myself.” 

Marlene hums, “You look better in my skirt than I do.” 

“What do you think?” James asks, smiling as he wraps his arm around their waist. They bring their arms to rest on his shoulders, holding their own hands behind his head. 

Regulus hums, looking them up and down, saying lowly, “I rather not say what I’m thinking about it, my brother is here.” James grins at him, leaning down and rubbing their nose against his. 

“Oi, you two.” Marlene calls to them, “Get a fucking room, and you’re not doing anything in my skirt.” 

James pulls away from him, pulling him around so they’re side to side and James has an arm draped around his shoulder, “I mean… it is easier with clothes off.” Regulus rolls his eyes but reaches up with his free hand to grab at the one they have dangling over his shoulder. 

“My brother!” Sirius shouts, making the group laugh.

[maxdibert]

I really can’t take the “mudblood” insult that seriously. I see people in the fandom comparing it to racial slurs, but Wizard “blood status” isn’t the same as race, it’s a aristocratic class hierarchy. So calling someone a “mudblood” just sounds like a mean way of calling someone peasant or pleb.

In my country, Spain, many regions have their own languages and cultures, and there is a variety of nationalist movements regarding this. Some are more peaceful, while others have had armed terrorist groups that carried out attacks against civilians, and others simply opt for institutional approaches with the government.

Both of my parents are left-wing catalan nationalists because it was common among young people from families that spoke the language during the 1970s, at the end of the dictatorship (which heavily oppressed languages other than Spanish and promoted absolute centralism and repression of other internal cultures) and during the transition to democracy. My parents are quite different in terms of character and life perspectives, but they strongly agree on this point: our language and culture must be preserved above all else, and they see Spanish as a "threat."

My parents are leftist, very progressive, and people who, in their time, were way ahead of their era. They taught me from a young age to normalize many social issues that were considered rare at the time. But still, every time I’ve mentioned a guy I’m dating or have met, the questions are always the same: Does his family speak the language? Does he speak it at home? Do his parents speak it? And beyond that, they’ve even asked if the surnames are of Catalan origin. Because this is very common among families that prioritize the preservation of language and regional culture: knowing whether a surname is regional or not.

My father wouldn’t mind if his grandchildren had a Galician or Basque surname if it couldn’t be Catalan, but a Spanish surname? I know he wouldn’t oppose it, but he wouldn’t be thrilled about it. My mother wouldn’t oppose it either, of course, but I know that if I end up with a long-term partner whose family is not bilingual and doesn’t have our traditions, but instead comes from a "Castilianized" family, she wouldn’t be entirely happy. Because that’s how nationalist thinking works in a minority that wants to preserve its customs and way of life—even if there’s no conscious prejudice or discrimination, there’s a desire for one’s children to marry people with surnames from their culture, to speak their language, and to have families of the same background. Or, if not exactly from their language, at least from other regions with minority cultures, because that way, the culture is perpetuated, and it also feels like a way to push back against the dominant culture that tries to absorb the others.

What I mean by this is that the issue of blood purity in the HP universe has always felt very similar to the nationalist mindset I’m talking about: a social minority with its own customs and traditions that feels threatened by the increasing dominance of people who don’t belong to that same culture and who, moreover, pose a risk to their customs. These are very closed communities that want to preserve a certain "purity" in their descendants—not at a racial level but for an intrinsically cultural reason.

We’re not talking about a structure of economic and political oppression in which these communities have systematically oppressed others. There has been no plundering of their lands, no trafficking of people, no dehumanization that led to slavery. There has been no entire social, economic, and cultural framework that relegated Muggle-borns to being treated as less than animals. Muggle-borns have had rights from the very beginning: they could move freely in the magical world, enter the same shops, go to the same banks, and eat in the same places as pure-bloods. They could marry pure-bloods without issue. There have been no laws granting pure-bloods political authority over Muggle-borns. They have been equals under the law and have had the same rights. They have been able to study at the same school, share the same common room, dormitories, and dining hall. They have been able to access jobs, become professors, or work at the Ministry.

There is absolutely no racist-based country where, before civil rights movements, racialized people were on the same level as white people as political subjects. Therefore, comparing blood purity to racism is completely inaccurate. Doing so is simplistic, ignorant, and disrespectful. Blood purity has much more in common with European nationalist movements like the ones I’ve mentioned—those with an independence-based background in their own countries.

My mother and father probably have nothing in common with Lucius and Narcissa in terms of their worldview since the Malfoys are conservative aristocrats, but they do share one key trait: they clearly have their preferences. My mother would rather see me with a right-wing person from a Catalan-Valencian, Basque, or Galician family than with a "castizo" Spaniard—just as the Malfoys would likely prefer their son to be with Ginny Weasley rather than a Muggle-born.

This is why many people compare the Death Eaters to the IRA in the 90s. To me, they resemble the nationalist terrorist group ETA here in Spain far more.

I’m sorry, but no, they are not the KKK. That’s an entirely Americanized view that has nothing to do with the social and cultural context of 90s Britain or Europe in general. Americans who don’t understand the social and political dynamics of late-20th-century Europe should just keep their mouths shut—because not everything revolves around their sociocultural context. Libraries are free, and opening a history book doesn’t cost money.

[jamiedc-they-them]

Mushy: Part I (Platonic)

Summary: Reflecting on how everything went wrong, the middle adopted child of two sisters reflects on their past as they try to make a better future.

Note: This one isn't as long as my other pieces as it's more of a prologue type thing setting up Y/N and their dynamics with Jinx and Vi before the other parts (if people want them, of course!) will go more in-depth to episodes and build on them like my writing normally does.

Hope you enjoy :)

Seeing that blue flare light up the night...it couldn't be. It just...it just couldn't be.

Vi put a hand on your shoulder, shaking it. She could see it too. She could. She shook your shoulder again.

Caitlin looked at you both, "who is that?" she asked, voice soft.

"Powder," you both said, before taking off. Caitlin hurrying after you.

You had found your way into Vi and Powder's life when you were very young. Barely any memories. Just fire, screaming and death.

Trauma, was what Vander told you it was. He said that it was only natural, for anyone in a scenario like that to be traumatised. He seemed to know all too well about trauma, but you never got the chance to ask him about it.

"Something like that doesn't leave you," Vander told you, one evening, "let yourself feel what you need to about it, but try, try not to let it cloud any judgement. There's always another battle, Y/N, another fight - be it big or small. You have to keep your eyes on the bigger picture, else you get lost forever in the details."

You never knew what he meant by that. Still, didn't matter, at least not then.

Then, you had a family. Sure, you did not sound like the rest of them at all, though whoever said you sounded like you were from Piltover, they would be put down by Vi.

You never even thought about your voice, just took it as was and moved on.

Now, making your way towards that flare, you were realising just how much weight Vander's words had.

Vi taught you a lot, you picked up on it all quick. You were the middle child out of her and Powder. You weren't as good as a fighter as Vi, but you weren't the worst either.

"Distracted," is what Vi would say whenever you lost.

You were pretty sure she let you win sometimes.

Powder's hair was blue, as were the crystals she found. You tried to call it a coincidence.

You hated that you put those two together, you hated it so much. You hated how it made you, subconsciously view your sister when it all went so wrong.

You'd fix that, you vowed as you climbed up with Vi's help to reach the flare.

An explosion you barely escaped brought some heat (ha) for you all, but you made it out, scrape and all to get home.

"You alright, bluey?" you asked Powder, sitting on her bed.

She nodded, "I - I'm sorry about today," she said.

"Shit happens," you said, "try to get some rest, ok?"

She nodded, but didn't make any moves to try to go to sleep. She looked to the door instead, "what about Mylo and Claggor?"

You sighed, "they'll come around. We're family," you assured, "sure Vi and I can speed up the process, though. Anyway, we all make mistakes. Small steps, that's what counts."

Powder giggled, "thanks, mushy."

You never understood the nickname. Maybe it was the soft voice you had, one that wasn't the most intimidating.

"Anytime. Now," you said, getting up and getting a blanket for your sister, "get some rest, ok?"

"Ok. Love you."

"Love you too."

Love was a power thing. Love was a dangerous thing. Love could be all you needed to get through the day. Love could be the thing that made you not wake up the next.

Love was what made misguided decisions to occur.

It led to Vi knocking you out to try and give herself up.

Love was what led Vander to take the fall instead.

Love led to Mylo and Claggor waking you up and reuniting you with Vi to try go and save Vander.

It led to a fight, one you and Vi very nearly lost. You managed to push through, together. Just about making it.

Then, the explosion occured.

You fell and Vi was unable to reach you.

As far as she knew, you were lost to the flames. She screamed. She screamed as loudly as she could.

You coughed...you coughed again.

You weren't you right now, you were the child who was on a bridge on fire, surrounded by ash, bodies and the sound of screams, of crackling.

The smell, god the smell. Strong. Overriding all else.

The flesh burning. The smoke entering your lungs.

Too many details, not enough time.

You slipped, but Vi caught you.

"Don't look down!" she told you, helping you up.

"I'm not letting you down again," she vowed.

You never quite knew how you got out of the building. You looked at it, fire being reflected in your eyes.

You let a sob out, the lone survivor that you believed you were.

You then ran, as far as your legs could carry you. You didn't care about your lungs burning more than they already were or the scrapes on your arms and legs when you tripped from exhaustion, you just had to get away.

The constant flashes in your minds eye.

The family you gained. The family you lost.

You reached it. The flare was still going. There was still time to fix this.

You looked at Vi, the pair of you nodding at each other. You weren't running away this time.

[kkink]

same headcanon from the party spinoff with haku, this time it's mc confessing to jin and getting the coldest rejection in real-time.

---------------------------------------------------------------

there is a moment before things change. a moment before the unraveling. jin kamurai’s office door loomed over you like a gate to something irrevocable, your heart beating a frantic rhythm beneath the soft sweater you'd chosen that morning. it felt absurd, almost laughable, that you dressed with such care for this moment— the moment before you offer your heart like an unguarded throat.

“obviously.”

his voice is flat, a stone skipping over the surface of still water. he's not even looking up from the reports, as if he was expecting this. honestly he already knew what you were going to say. he has seen it before, felt it before, countless times, his whole life. the lingering glances, the stolen moments of hesitation, the way people like you always seemed to hover at the edge of his world, never quite brave enough to step inside but never willing to walk away either.

“i really like you,” you had said, voice small and quivering. “i just wanted to tell you.”

"of course you do", he sighs. "it was bound to happen eventually. i have the good looks, the noble name, and i’m captain of frostheim.” he says, like he’s offering an explanation.

“you should focus on your work instead of wasting my time on stupid things like this,”

he continues, disinterested, like he’s already moving on.

“it’s pathetic.”

he gingerly exhales. dragging a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair like this is an inconvenience.

your fingers tighten in the fabric. “oh,” your mouth is dry. you swallow, shifting on your feet hesitantly.

your heart beats too fast, too loud, and you hate it. you hate that you're here, hates that you're doing this, but it’s too late to take it back.

"just.. that’s not why. i didn’t fall for you because of those things", you almost whimper, the humiliation seeping into your bones. "i like you because of that mission last year. the one at the old border site. when we broke the artifact and were left weaponless against all those things at the rubbles. the way you just jumped in bare handed and fought alone, you didn’t hesitate to put yourself in danger for the rest of us. you didn’t make a big deal out of it, you just—"

you exhale, sharp, almost frustrated, like you can’t find the right words.

"—you were cool."

cool.

of course.

"cool?"

his mouth curves, and he lets out a tired chuckle. "like a movie character?" he muses, shaking his head and pressing the palm of his hand to his face. "heroic? charming?"

you blink, startled by his tone, the edge to it, the way it presses too close, too sharp.

"no, that’s not—"

"that’s all it is, isn’t it?" he cuts in, "you admired me. you liked the way i looked, the way i acted, the way i led. and now, you think that means something."

your breath stumbles.

"you think you’re different from the others," he continues, voice measured, cutting, leaving no room for doubt, no room for softness. "but in the end, you’re all the same. just a bunch of idiots thinking i'd care about however my existence makes you feel."

"i—"

"you don’t know me."

the words are final. absolute.

"you only know what you see. and what you see is exactly what i want people to see."

"but i—" the words hang between you, thick and suffocating. you nod once.

"i know i don’t know you." your voice is quieter now, but not weaker, not pleading. just—honest. "but i want to."

"what?"

you don't step forward, don't try to close the space he had put between you, don't reach for something that was already slipping through your fingers. but there is something else in your gaze, something raw and steady and painfully sincere, and it settles deep in his chest, where he does not want it.

"i already saw it—your cold, insensitive side," you continue, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't stop you. "i saw the way you order people around, the way you discard things you don’t need as if they never mattered. i know that about you. and i still want to know you more."

he watches as you breathe through it, as you straighten your spine despite the quiet tremor in your fingers, as you lift your chin despite the fact that your voice might break if you speak too quickly. but you are not unaffected—he can see that. the pain is there, sitting in your eyes, in the tension in your shoulders. you exhale once, slow, measured, your fingers flexing as if you want to curl them into fists but won’t. and then—you smile.

not soft. not warm. not bright.

but small. faint. distant.

"yeah," you murmur, and your voice is light. "you were cool."

he says nothing, only watches as you take another step back, as if physically pulling yourself out of his orbit.

"cool as in that was a kind of moment that made my heart skip a beat," you continue, a slight tremor under your voice, and this time, there is something almost wistful in the way you say it, something that is already turning into memory, already being put away. "the kind of moment that made me want to see more sides of you, that made me want to support you. but even if you’ve heard this a thousand times before, don’t think you can dismiss my feelings so easily. you don’t know me either."

he stills.

just for a second. just long enough for you to see it. he almost hated you for it. for not breaking the way you should have, for still standing there even when he had given you every reason to leave.

and so, he gave you what you were waiting for.

"then you’ve wasted your breath."

you exhale, shoulders finally relaxing, like you had just set something away in your mind for good.

"thank you for listening," you say, "i won’t let this affect my work anymore."

and then, just like that, it is over.

you turn without hesitation, without looking back. your steps are careful, controlled, your pace steady, not rushed, not fleeing. and he stands there, silent, hands still tucked into his pockets, watching as he broke you.

and he tells himself he feels nothing.

______________________________________________________

i wanted to dive more into jin's inner turmoils, like some kind of character study written with a believable plotline w some unrequited crush angst, VERY slow burn, hurt/comfort vibes, but i started falling for haku after developing more of his character arc (he's supposed to be a catalyst only) but now i have 14k sitting on my head with just haku as the main lead @_@ eek. this is a drabble i had in my phone notes

[honey-dewwrites]

On the note of cat hybrid Satoru.

Imagine Satoru and Suguru met when they were kids. It’s very unusual for a hybrid and a human to forge such a strong bond and yet they did.

Satoru with his sensitive sense of smell and who gets easily overwhelmed by strong scents with Suguru who is always very mindful of this and makes sure not to overwhelm him.

Satoru with his even more sensitive eyes…

It was Suguru who had come up with the idea of tinted glasses/shades for him to wear since he couldn't bear to see Satoru distressed or in pain due to overstimulation, gifting them to him one day.

Satoru who takes that a sign of courting and immediately moves to reciprocate.

Suguru who feels so honored when Satoru asks him to scent him for the first time.

Satoru is a flustered mess as he asks him, avoiding all eye contact with a blush creeping down from his ears all the way to his neck…

And all Suguru can think is-’ He’s so cute.’ a fond smile on his face all the while.

He’s human so of course they have to work around it a little bit but they make it work.

Suguru whose the only person that Satoru allows to groom his tail, let alone touch it.

Suguru, who due to him being human and all completely misses that Satoru is courting him. And like Satoru gives him so many hints.

He becomes much more clingy and is more prone to purring and just being overall very docile compared to how he usually is.

With Suguru at least. To everyone else he’s a menace to society.

And then fast forward and Satoru is just-stealing all of Suguru’s clothes. He figures that if he can’t hint towards his interest he’ll just have to seduce him. ( Nevermind that Satoru is stealing them so he can make a nest out of the bits of clothing)

I mean there is not a single piece of clothing that is not a least slightly covered with white hair due to Satoru’s shedding.

And then begins Suguru decent into madness because, even though Satoru is tall-(he’s taller than Suguru for crying out loud-)he still somehow manages to look small in his clothes.

Now, Suguru knows rationally that it’s probably due to Suguru just having a much broader build compared to Satoru. Like he does hit the gym and has bulked up in the past couple of years but still.

Suguru quite literally malfunctions whenever he sees him.

And the worse part?

Satoru tends to wear Suguru’s shirts and only his shirts.

All that can be seen is legs for days. Miles upon miles of pale skin that seems like they’re are just begging Suguru to come and mark them up.

He just knows that Satoru bruises easily, he’s seen it….

And wait a minute, where did that come from? And Suguru spirals as he realizes that he’s in love with his best friend who just so happens to be a hybrid and Oh my god, society won’t approve of their relationship. Even though the world has come very far in terms of mindset and treatment of hybrids they are still a ways off.

And add to it Satoru is a public figure who is already, supposedly being courted by many other people, namely hybrids that his family has already signed off on and approved of.

And then there’s Shoko who is stuck between the both of them and sadly has to listen to Suguru spiral even thought Satoru don’t give a fuck about any of that shit and has openly defied his parents and scared off multiple suitors.

God help my girl Shoko, overworked and underpaid. 😔

[hockeyluvrr]

friends to lovers with seth jarvis for your requests 🫶🏻

of course! finally seth my baby!! hope you like it, sorry it took so long 😭😭

MASTERLIST

Better Late Than Never || sj24

word count: 907

gif not mine!!

You have known Seth for as long as you can remember. The first time you met was when you had first moved to the neighbourhood. Since that day he had been the kid who knocked on your door every weekend, convincing you to come outside and play street hockey with him. Throughout years of school, late-night chats, high school drama, messy breakups, late-night road trips to nowhere in particular, and countless summer nights, he became one of the constants in your life. He was just Seth, the guy who knew every embarrassing story about you and knew you better than anyone else.

At least until you moved away for college. Life, as it usually does, caused you to lose touch with Seth as you immersed yourself in college life. But now, you had graduated college and ended up landing a job in Raleigh, North Carolina. Coincidentally, the same place Seth plays hockey.

Eventually you both caught up one night over drinks, and you immediately seemed to pick up where you left off. From that night on, Seth became a regular part of your life again. Game nights, movie nights, and the occasional coffee run when he found himself in your part of town. You easily settled back into your old roles of best friends, partners in crime, and the go-to when either of you needed to unwind.

Until the unexpected happened. You had tried to ignore it, but something more always lingered in the background. You had tried to chalk it up to the fact that Seth was so easy to be around, that he had a knack for making everyone feel like they were the only person in the room. But he was your best friend, and you were determined to keep it that way. Why risk ruining a good thing?

Still, there were these small moments that hinted at something deeper. Moments that made you itch to confess your feelings. The way he would put his hand on the small of your back in crowded places, or how he always insists on taking you home after a night out with his teammates, even though it was a mile in the opposite direction to his apartment.

One Friday night, you find yourself hanging out at his apartment again, having a movie night and eating your favourite takeout. You were having a great time, but there was this tension in the air that you can’t seem to shake. It’s in the way his eyes linger on your face just a second too long when you laugh, the way his hand brushes yours when he hands you the remote, and the way his eyes are watching your every move.

It wasn’t until the night grew quiet that you both paused from chatting and laughing. You were both curled up on opposite ends of the couch, his arm draped over the back of the couch just behind you. Somehow, with the silence, the air felt heavier.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then suddenly, he clears his throat, looking almost nervous. Seth Jarvis, nervous?

“So…there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he starts, shifting in his spot a little.

You feel your heart automatically skip a beat. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding…I don’t know…stupid?” He continues, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“What’s up? You know you can tell me anything,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual even though your heart was racing.

He takes a deep breath before his eyes meet yours, a serious intensity in them that makes your breath catch slightly. “I don’t want to ruin anything between us, but…I don’t think I can keep pretending I don’t feel this way anymore.”

“Feel…what way?” You ask softly, your pulse racing.

He lets out a soft laugh. “I think you know what I mean,” he says, keeping his gaze steady. “I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was always there, and I just didn’t see it. But now I can’t look at you without thinking about how much I want…more than this.”

It’s like time slows down in that moment as you process what he’s saying. This is Seth—the same Seth who had spent hours comforting you after breakups, who had been by your side for almost your whole life. And know he’s looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars because he wants to be more than friends.

“I was hoping you’d say something,” you say with a small smile, the words coming out before you could stop them.

A grin spreads across his face as his face lights up. “Really?”

You nod, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Yeah. I mean, it's you, Seth. I think maybe it’s always been you.”

“You could’ve said something sooner, you know. I’ve been dying over here.” He says with a grin.

Without another word, he leans in, his hand gently resting on the side of your face. He presses his lips to yours as he kisses you—soft, sweet, everything you never knew you needed, and yet it was so Seth. When you finally pull away, both of you are smiling, butterflies swirling around in your stomachs.

“So, think we’ll be able to go back to just ‘friends’ after that?” He asks, his voice teasing.

You laugh, pulling him into another kiss. “Not a chance.”

[mak-be-ghouled]

Can’t Help Falling in Love ~ SwissTom

It’s officially valentines season and swisstom has not left my mind so enjoy 800ish words of just toothrotting fluff under the cut <3

There’s never really a time where Phantom isn’t moving in some way, be it tapping his fingers, bouncing his leg, chewing on something, or in times like these, dancing around the kitchen to whatever song it is he has playing through his headphones.

Swiss stops to lean in the doorway of the kitchen, to just, watch. As he goes to take a sip of his coffee he can’t help but chuckle to himself, his breath blowing warm steam back into his face as it hits the hot coffee inside.

Phantom appears to be in his own world, dancing without a care in the world as he waits for the toaster to finish. When it does, he jumps, he swears one day he’ll get used to how it practicatty throws his toast back out when it’s done, today however, does not seem to be that day.

And as much as Swiss would love to dedicate himself to standing here all day watching Phantom go about his own, he just can’t resist the urge to wrap his hands around his bug.

As Phantom begins spreading jelly onto his toast, Swiss stalks up behind him, wrapping his arms around Phantom’s waist, hooking his chin over Phantom’s shoulder.

“Mornin buggy” Swiss whispers, voice still soft and hoarse from sleep.

Phantom replies with a rumbly purr and an attempt to turn himself around so he can bury his face in Swiss’ bare chest.

Chuckling, Swiss moves to take Phantom’s headphones off and pulls out his own phone with a significantly slower song beginnning to play.

“Dance with me baby?” Swiss asks, a smile painting his face.

And of course Phantom is already nodding, how could he say no?

But Phantom doesn’t really know how to dance, not this kind of dance at least. Sure he’s seen Mountain and Cumulus slow dancing in the kitchen late at night, but that’s different. He’s never done this before, though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little jelous everytime he saw Swiss and Aurora dancing together.

He doesn’t realize it but Phantom must be letting out a whine because all of a sudden Swiss is asking “Hey what’s wrong sweetheart, hm?” and pulling away just enough to look into Phantom’s eyes.

“Just…don’ know how” Phantom says, dodging Swiss’ eyes as best he can, a little embarrassed with himself.

“Aw don’t worry about that baby, lucky for you i’m a great teacher” Swiss smiles with a wink.

And to his credit, Swiss is a great teacher, Phantom is just…clumsy and well, a bit comparable to a baby deer if Swiss thinks about it too much.

Its cute really, endearing in a way Swiss can’t really explain and he’s obsessed with it to say the very least.

Phantom on the other hand is very much not, he’s mad at his dumb legs for not moving to their dumb place on the dumb beat of the music and all of this is just dumb ok! why can he just do it?? everyone else always makes it look so easy and the way Swiss even says it makes it sound easy!

“Hey, hey, why don’t we take a break sweetheart, feel bad about takin you away from your breakfast” Swiss says, trying to guide Phantom back over to the counter where his forgotten toast lays…soggy

“No! I just want to get it! Why can i do it?? Please Swiss, what am I doing wrong, you won’t hurt my feelings just tell me” Phantom practically begs, he really does just want to get it right.

But to be quite honest, Swiss doesn’t even know what it is that Phantom is doing wrong, just knows it’s obviously not working.

“Here I’ve got an idea bug, stand on my feet” Swiss says pulling Phantom closer.

“What? why, I dont wanna hurt you” Phantom says, confusion painting his face”

“You’re not gonna hurt me baby, cmon just do it” Swiss replies.

And so Phantom does, as gently as he can he steps onto Swiss’ feet and wraps his arms around Swiss’ neck like he had before.

Swiss laces his arms back around Phantom’s waist and begins moving to the music.

And just like that, they’re dancing together.

Phantom begins giggling into Swiss’ shoulder, thinking about the absurdity of this all, two demons from hell dancing to some cliche love song early on a sunday morning, and yet neither of them could be happier than in this very moment.

Swiss goes to ask Phantom what it is that’s so funny but, before he can, Phantom pulls him into a kiss, and just like that the rest of the world melts out of existence, the only thing still there being them, both of them silently willing this moment to never end.

[forabeatofadrum]

Bagagedrager

Summary: Kurt is biking around the city, but to his annoyance, a tourist is obstructing his way. Luckily, this pesky interaction leads to something else.

Notes: Sometimes, an annoying moment takes place in your day and the best way to deal with it is to think "How can I blorbo-fy this?" and that has led to this fic.

Thank you @cerriddwenluna for helping me brainstorm!

Title is from Gers Pardoel's number Bagagedrager, which I actually don't even like that much, but it's iconic. A bagagedrager is the rack on the back of your bike that's used to store your bags, or people can use it as an uncomfortable backseat.

Enjoy.

AO3 | S&C

--

Spring maar achter op bij mij, achter op me fiets

En ik weet nog niet waar we naartoe gaan samen, maar dat boeit me ook helemaal niets.

--

Kurt loves cycling. It makes living in the Netherlands way more enjoyable than America. He would like to think he's assimilated enough to get the cycling rules. Sure, he's fucked up once by not extending his hand when he braked in order to turn left, and he almost created a chain collision, but that was weeks ago! He's gotten better!

And because he's gotten better, he now knows what's rude and what's not. And what is happening in front of him now, is rude.

There’s a man standing in the middle of Kurt’s path, and he’s holding up a phone to make a photo of a beautiful building.

Tourists.

Kurt cannot blame him. He remembers when he first moved to Groningen and he also spent a lot of time taking in the sights. But he can blame him for the fact that this asshole is obstructing his path. He waits for this man to finish taking his photo, but then to Kurt’s dismay, the man doesn’t move when he’s done and instead takes his sweet time to post it online, or whatever.

Seriously?

It's a narrow road, so it's not like Kurt can go past him, unless he decides to bike on the pavement.

Kurt rings the bell.

The man startles and looks at Kurt with wide eyes. Kurt gestures towards the path, and the man realises what he's doing.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, sounding apologetic, but he's still not moving from his spot.

"Sam, come on," they hear. And then another man appears to gracefully whisk away his friend from his spot on the road.

"Thanks," Kurt says, and turns towards his saviour.

And he almost falls of his bike.

This guy is very cute!

"Oh. Uh. Thanks," Kurt stutters out, "Again."

"No biggie. Sorry for my friend," the guy says.

"Dude. Damn, I was so caught up in this," the first guy says, "Let me make it up to you!"

"That's not-" Kurt starts. He'd rather just go on with his day.

"Please, let me!" he sounds maybe a bit too desperate.

"Sam-" the hot one cuts in.

"Trust me, bro, trust me," the first guy, Sam, says to his bro.

"Uh," is all that Kurt can muster.

"Okay?"

Sam takes out a note and a pen and quickly scribbles something down.

"Here. My number. I'll pay a coffee or whatever. Maybe a muffin."

"That's not need-"

Sam shoves the note in Kurt's hand.

"Send me a message."

"Are you... hitting on me?" Kurt asks to be sure. How else can he explain Sam's utter glee at asking Kurt out?

Sam laughs.

"No, I have a girlfriend."

"Okay?"

This is getting weirder and weirder.

"Sam, I think he just wants to continue his trip," the hot one says and he gives Kurt an apologetic look.

"Yes. I would like that," Kurt says with a pointed tone in his voice.

Sam apologises again, but then finally, he lets Kurt go on with his day. Kurt gives an awkward nod as a farewell and bikes on.

What just happened?

--

A couple of hours later, he texts Sam. He almost didn't plan to do it, but he's craving a coffee, and maybe a muffin, and if the offer stands, it stands. Kurt's not going to pass up free coffee. And Kurt wants to know if Sam is serious.

It seems so, because Sam is once again apologetic and asks Kurt to meet up at Toet, a café that specialises in desserts.

Kurt has nothing better to do, so he goes. He bikes towards Toet, because of course he does, this is the Netherlands, and waits for Sam inside.

But to Kurt's surprise, Sam isn't the one who arrives.

It's the hot one.

"Hi," he says.

"Uh. Hello?" Kurt says back.

"I hope you weren't too hopeful about seeing Sam, cause he sent me!"

"Hello," Kurt says again. Truly, this entire ordeal did not go as planned.

But he also doesn't mind. He only came here for the free coffee and muffin, so he has to admit that he's not too bothered about Sam not showing up.

"My name is Blaine," the hot guy introduces himself.

"Kurt," Kurt says back. He had sent his name to Sam in his message, but he doesn't know if Sam told Blaine. "So, uh, what exactly is going on here?"

Blaine turns a bit red.

Or maybe it is just the cosy lightning.

"Sam, uhm... Okay, I will be upfront. I think you're cute and Sam is setting us up."

Kurt's eyes widen.

"I mean, if you're- That's- If it makes you uncomfortable- Argh, sorry! Let me just buy you the coffee and muffin and I'll go," Blaine stutters out and turns around to see if he can order.

"Wait," Kurt leaps out of his seat and grabs Blaine's arm.

Blaine looks over his shoulder.

"I don't mind!" Kurt says quickly, "Truly. I'd rather have you here than Sam. No offense to him."

"None taken," Blaine says.

"Kurt lets go of Blaine, so that Blaine can finally, properly, take a seat."Kurt lets go of Blaine, so that Blaine can finally, properly, take a seat.

"I admit I think you're hot too," Kurt says. It is true, but he's also glad to have gotten the option to get to know Blaine.

Damn, was this all one big elaborate scheme from Sam?

"Sam is truly sorry, though," Blaine says, "He didn't think. He was too busy sending a nice photo to his girlfriend, that he didn't notice he was blocking your way."

Okay, still an honest mistake, with a nice consequence.

It would be a bit creepy if Sam knew him before today and deliberately looked up Kurt's route just to play wingman.

Blaine tells Kurt that he's been living in Groningen for as long as him, and that Sam's visiting him. Kurt also tells Blaine more about his life and how he ended up here.

It's nice. They're hitting it off.

They order two coffees and a piece of cake to share.

"Sam's buying," Blaine says gleefully, and Kurt is grateful for Sam's convoluted plan.

After two hours and another piece of cake, it's time for them to part. It was an unexpected, but succesful, first date.

"Can I get your number?" Kurt asks once they're outside. He'd rather have Blaine's number up front, instead of having Sam be a messenger.

"Sure, of course," Blaine looks happy.

"I'd like to see you again," Kurt adds.

"Same," Blaine says with a smile.

They quickly exchange numbers.

"See you," Blaine says with a wave.

"Yes. Definitely," Kurt says back.

He watches Blaine unlock a bike and then bike away. Kurt smiles. He also unlocks his bike to go home. During his way home, he passes the building that Sam was photographing.

"Thanks!" he yells towards the building, which leads to some confused bystanders, but Kurt doesn't care. He bikes on, happily humming a tune. He can't wait to text Blaine.

--

En spring maar achterop bij mij, dan gaan we samen weg,

En ik weet nog niet waar naar toe, maar dat maakt niet uit want ik weet wel de weg.

--

End notes: Shhhh don't think too much about why Kurt and Blaine are living in Groningen. I chose that city because I recently visited it for the first time and I liked it. Also, since I've only been to Groningen once, I have no clue where their initial meeting is taking place, or if a place like that even exists. I actually didn't go to Toet, although it was recommended to me. I preferred to go to the cat café, but Toet felt like a fitting place for them to have their first date.

Hope you enjoyed.

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 63: A Poor Predicament

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/739551758747090944/american-woman-thomas-shelby-x-american-oc?source=share

*Warning: mention of menstrual blood

Watery Lane is still as comfortable as before. I sleep decently, considering that I just saw my past love after five years. Today brings more clouds and a nippy wind that taunts winter’s approach. 

Ow. Today also brings another familiar ache inside of me. The time of the month. I slink out of the cozy covers and make my way to the kitchen’s warm fire. The house itself seems to be still empty.

Does anyone else know I’m back? I knew not to expect an enormous welcome nor did I want one. But it would be nice to know where everyone is now. I was hoping Bonnie might be around for a visit-

Thud.

There’s the front door. Who’s-? Uh-oh. Not him.

No. No. Oh no. That spotted red isn’t the fabric of my skirt- 

“Blood? What the Hell happened?”

Of course Thomas is the one to pop in! And of course it has to be when my cycle begins.

“Verena, what happened?!” Thomas exclaims and lurches forward to inspect my skirt.

“Thomas, calm down! It’s not an injury-”

“Then how the Hell is there blood all over you?!”

“Thomas!” I step back and hold up a hand to calm him. “It’s my menstruation. I can’t help it. I didn’t catch it in time so it stained the fabric. Do not blame me for my anatomy.”

An ‘a-ha’ look takes over Thomas as he processes my words. He glances down at the blood and back at me.

“Your menstruation…” He repeats slowly. “You’re not on birth control?”

“Why would I be? In America, women need permission from their husbands to have it. And I do not approve of tampering with God’s gift He has given me.” I change to a softer tone. “I’m not injured.”

Believe me, I have felt greater pain than this.

Thomas’ panic is easing off but now he’s looking at me in a new light. Like I’m a prized horse. Or a fragile vase that’s easily broken. So being a virgin off of birth control makes me weak now? So help me I’m about to slap his arrogant face-!

“Do you know what Finn’s been thinking?” Thomas changes the subject, toying with a cigarette. “I talked with him today, like you asked. He was thinking of marriage. Do you know who he once thought of marrying?” He tilts his head at me. “You.”

So he picks up on this now? All this time with all the talk of marriage and pregnancies, he now realizes that I am a worthy bachelorette and will be sought out?

“Yes, we discussed it before on occasion,” I respond evenly. “We think it best to stay friends because it feels natural.” I move over to the sink so I can look away when I ask: “Are you jealous?”

A pause. “How can I be?”

“Because your own broer had the guts to do what you can’t.” Shot fired. “Finn didn’t used to be like the rest of you. He could be compassionate without trying to be tough. I’d say don’t ruin his chance for a good life but that ship has sailed.”

Another long pause. “He… says he wants to marry this new girl. Says she likes the life we’ve got.”

Perfect. Another woman chatting about, ousting me just because my last name is not Shelby. 

I take a breath and face Thomas with rebellious determination. “Then that is where God will take him. As you’ve said before, he’s a grown man now. Speaking of grown men, has Michael arrived yet? I assumed he’d be here by now.”

Thomas takes another drag of his cigarette, letting smoke to hover over his face. “You’re right. He took a boat through Belfast. He’s arriving today, and that’s why I’m here.” He points to me. “To tell you that I want you to be at the Garrison for a family meeting.”

Yes, a meeting. I should have expected this. I can’t just skip off to Germany. Lord, everyone’s going to be so on edge. And it means I have to spend more time in the proximity of Thomas. Unfortunately he seems to pick up on my hesitation.

“You’re still employed by Shelby Company Limited, and as your boss I’m ordering you to be there.”

There is no room to argue.

“Fine.” I purse my lips and my eyes narrow. “Is Michael the one to blame for our predicament, then?”

Thomas gives a short grunt. “Yes. Thanks to him, right now we’re losing money. And his attempt at arranging my death won’t go unnoticed either.” He gives me a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry, we will handle him.”

In a fleeting moment of courage I can’t stop myself from speaking. “Having much causes conflict. Maybe this is a hidden message telling you that Shelby Company Limited has grown enough.” I walk past Thomas and give him a quick pat on the shoulder. “My advice? Let God be enough. Not that you still listen to me anyway.”

But even that won’t be good enough for you, will it Thomas? As I leave him to stew on that I head to my room and begin to gather my coat and purse. I also quickly change into a fresh skirt. Damn this menstrual timing. Maybe once this meeting is over then I can take a boat to Amsterdam and begin my way to Oldenburg. Lord knows how Abel’s doing with this. In all the rush of things I still haven’t called him-

“You’re still trying to get me to believe I’m worth something, eh?” Thomas speaks up from down the hall.

I finish buttoning my fox coat and step forward. “It is never too late to walk in faith, Thomas. Faith grows strongest during times of trial. And I can tell that we are going to need all the faith we can muster for this upcoming trial.”

Still being the gentleman he is, Thomas opens the front door and we both head out into the crisp November air. I graciously let the cold wind numb the conflicting emotions clawing at me. Another gleaming Bentley awaits, and when we start driving down the dusty roads Thomas clears his throat.

“Um, happy belated birthday. 27, eh?”

“Yes.”

What else can I say? ‘Yes, Thomas. I’m growing even more older and still haven’t settled.’ ‘Yes, Thomas. I’m practically igniting the rule book of society by staying single.’ No. He does not need any elaboration. He can keep guessing for all I care.

Not much has changed over the years. Same dusty roads, same wanderers looking distantly lost. Right now my mind wants to feel just the same but I cannot let it. We approach the Garrison and I make a silent objective to avoid reattaching myself to this place. There is no use clinging onto old memories and wishing that things have not changed.

“Here we are.”

Thomas parks the Bentley and gets out, starting to round the car. I open my door and step out before he can reach me.

“I am capable, Mr. Shelby.”

Each decline to abide by his first name is another discrete shot. Ones that Thomas tries to ignore but I know better. 

“Steenstra!” A familiar voice shouts from behind.

I turn around and my bland face brightens at the sight of the eldest Shelby broer, who’s wearing a very spiffy suit and bowtie.

“Hello, Arthur!” I reply as he grips my shoulder in greeting.

“Tommy!” He gently punches his broer’s shoulder. “You didn’t tell us she’d be coming!”

“She didn’t either,” Thomas mutters, walking on towards the Garrison. 

“Unfortunately I have not brought any whiskey,” I inform Arthur, both of us ignoring Thomas’ distant behavior.

“Ah, no problem. We’ve got more than enough. Besides, Polly’s going to be happy to see you.”

The pub’s doors open and I follow behind as the two broers confidently stride in. I turn the corner and am greeted by who else? Polly. 

“Verena, dear!” Her face lights up and she rushes over for a hug. “Ada didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“Well, it was quite last-minute. Obviously due to recent events I had to come back.”

A look of understanding crosses over Polly’s eyes and I see her glance shift to Thomas. She knows without elaboration that I am not here for pleasure. I trust she will do well not to prod at my personal barriers as Ada has tried.

“You armed?” Polly asks the broers, holding up a smoking cigarette.

“Yeah.”

“Please consider putting your guns behind the bar in case feelings start to run high.”

“Behind the bar, eh?” Arthur exclaims with wild eyes and dramatically pulls out his pistol. He empties the bullets onto the floor and plops the gun onto a table. “I prefer it there.”

Polly looks at Thomas and he grudgingly complies as well. Thomas starts to say something but cuts himself off over the rustling of my clothes. Everyone looks at me as I pull out two Smith and Wesson pistols from under my skirts, setting them down as well. Despite my welcoming appearance, this American came well prepared.

“Anyway… Had a dream about a black cat last night, Pol,” Thomas declares. “It means there’s a traitor close by, you taught me that.”

Polly takes this news modestly. “A black cat can mean lots of things. It can mean you’re hurting yourself. You're seeing things, Thomas?”

“Yes. Yes I am. Very clearly,” he answers and lights a cigarette. “Coming from every fucking direction.”

Arthur and I exchange glances. A traitor. We’re all thinking it but no one is bold enough to say. And it seems God has sent him this way. Through the window I see a car stop outside and Michael steps out, along with a tall blonde girl in a floral dress with shifty eyes.

“He’s here,” I mutter.

Polly gets an uncertain look. “Should Verena be here, Thomas?”

Thomas doesn’t hesitate. “She’s the foreign representative. Michael’s done his work in America and she needs to hear it. Besides, he has another American for us to interrogate.” He holds up a calming hand to me. “Not directed at you, love.”

No. He’s right. As much as I want to keep stone cold Thomas is right. This new woman is a stranger and we have all learned how unpredictable strangers can be, myself included. Not that I don’t want to offer friendship to whoever she is but I’m not as open as I used to be. Thomas doesn’t need to worry about offending our original encounter.

“I know,” I claim and give him a nod. “I’m on your side.”

The door opens and the couple walks in. Michael tries to keep a laid-back face but his partner looks otherwise. She scans us up and down and when her dark eyes focus on me her gaze all but latches onto me. I don’t let my own eyes soften and take the time to inspect her as well. Business must have been good to them in Detroit before the crash.

“Thomas, I’d like to introduce you to my wife.” 

Michael gestures to the woman, who’s now eying Thomas like he’s a piece of meat. Wife. Oh, I’m sure she loves Michael…’s money. She reminds me of the girls I’d see walking through Williamsburg back home. 

Thomas ignores his request. “Sit down, Michael.”

Michael keeps talking. “I betrayed you, but only in my heart. There was a time in America when there was a lot of money in that bank. I wondered if I could… leave, go to California.”

Oh, you klootzak. He thinks he can just walk away with our money? Granted I haven’t been around either but I know for a fact that I’d never be able to escape the Peaky Blinders if I tried.

“Invest in Hollywood. But Gina stopped me. She said-”

“I told you to sit down, Michael,” Thomas orders, waiting until his neef complies. “Now tell me what happened, on that ship, in Belfast Harbor.”

Belfast. Familiar territory. If Michael won’t spill his guts I’ll make sure Uncle Colon will make him.

Michael looks between Polly and Gina. “On the journey back from New York we needed a witness. He was from Belfast.”

Thomas’ face doesn’t change. “What happened when the ship docked?”

“This person had friends who ran a whiskey distillery in County Tyrone. They wanted a way of getting their stuff into America. So I invited them onboard.”

At the mention of whiskey Thomas’ eyes find mine and I shake my head. No, this is not my uncle’s work. Thank God he must believe me because Thomas looks away.

“When they came in I realized they were Scottish from Glasgow. They didn’t make whiskey. I asked Gina to leave and then they started talking about you, Tom. They said Tommy Shelby was a spent force. That politics had gotten to ‘im. Now was a time to move in, and if I wanted to move in with them. Then men from the IRA came aboard.”

With every word that comes out of Michael’s mouth, we all continue to stare at him as he explains, similar to how a young child might when telling why he did something bad. Laced with fear. For the entire time he keeps an apologetic, almost innocent look of trying to convince us that this is not entirely his fault. 

Thomas waits for a moment. “And the men from Glasgow?”

“The IRA commander said they were called Billy Boys.”

“Fucking Billy Boys,” Arthur grunts. “They run every coal mine on every shipyard east of Glasgow. Protestant razor gang. They also dabble in politics.”

Enemies of Uncle Colon, no doubt. That’s probably why I’ve never heard of these men.

“But you did no deal, Michael,” Polly states. Is she trying to answer for him?

“We were too busy being excited to give you the good news.” Michael smiles and Gina takes the moment to lean in closer to him. “The reason we got married is because Gina is pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”

Another man who couldn’t keep it in his pants. At least they had the decency to wed. Although I’m not too optimistic about these two being considerable parents. But if God has blessed them then I should not judge too harshly. All that’s left is for Thomas to declare his thought on the matter as we all look to him.

“Okay, Michael. I believe you. Welcome home, congratulations. Just remember. Your unborn child has witnessed what you said, and they-”

“Thomas,” Polly warns with wide eyes.

“And it will be born accordingly,” Thomas finishes.

Michael’s eyes flash and he jumps from his seat. “The fuck-?!”

“Where the fuck you going, eh?” Arthur growls and blocks him from Thomas. “You are free to fucking leave, Michael.”

Michael wants to strike so badly. His eyes burn with murderous desire. You wretched bloke. After everything we’ve all gone through I’d hope he would know to treasure the value of family. 

“Fucking bastard!” He hisses.

Thomas doesn’t flinch. “You’re not really free, Michael. You lost this company a lot of money. I told you to sell, but you held on. Now I want you to pay me back what you owe me.”

Ah, sweet karma. It’s such a passive insult but it’s an insult nonetheless. I hope to never be on this family’s list of enemies. If only Gina’s scheming face wasn’t slinking closer.

“Michael, honey. Look at your cousin. He’s in trouble. He needs you.” She gives Thomas a final glance before pulling Michael away. “Come on, baby. Let’s go.”

I can’t help myself. “Good to see you’re keeping up the stereotype that Americans like to party.”

Gina stops in her tracks and looks down at me. “Oh, Michael’s told me all about you.”

My lips press into a line. “Then you do not truly know me.”

Michael scoffs and points at me. “What about her, eh? Steenstra was there too! Slacking off in Grand Rapids while I-!”

Thomas abruptly steps forward and Michael stops yelling. “Verena was still working, Michael. In other places. Grand Rapids, Chicago, Georgia. She was with her family. She understands family, right?”

In the corner of my eyes I see him looking at me. I don’t look away from Michael when I give my cold answer.

“Yes.”

“That is why she owes us nothing,” Arthur clarifies, stroking his gun on the table.

I shake my head with pity. “You have no idea what you just walked into, Michael. You of all people know not to fuck with Thomas Shelby.”

Gina leads Michael out, each looking very cross. Polly escorts them and Arthur shuts the door before I can utter even more harsh words. I can tell Michael’s news has left a mark on Thomas. He keeps staring ahead with the same blank expression. The look that says he’s thinking too deep.

“Ignore them, Thomas. You are not a spent force.” I give him a sturdy pat on the shoulder. “You are a strong and stubborn force that’s going to outlast them all.”

Thomas stays quiet. Arthur, on the other hand, keeps chuckling and looking at where the others just walked out.

“Fucking cheek of her, eh?”

Thomas snaps out of his trance and picks up his gun. “Verena, please make a call for me. I’d like to speak with your uncle.”

I don’t hesitate. “It will be done.”

“Thank you, love.” He looks up with eyes that dare to show me how much fear he has riding on these recent events. “I know I can trust you.”

If only I could say the same.

@meadows5

[soleminisanction]

So a while back I ran the numbers to confirm a suspicion that fandom trends towards a trans Tim Drake, and there's a lot of bits and pieces around his canon material that I think contributes to that interest. But there's a particular, subtle one that's been poking at my mind a lot because I think it might actually be a pretty significant factor that nobody really notices:

His costumes.

The original Robin costume, the one Dick and Jason wore, is childish but exposing. It's innocent enough when they're being drawn as spunky children, but during the period when Dick's still wearing it into his late teens and early 20s, it's practically as revealing as a lot of the women's costumes (and, in retrospect, almost certainly laid some of the groundwork for him sometimes being sexualized by the art and writing the way female characters normally are -- George Pérez, at least, absolutely put him on display every bit as much as he did Starfire and Donna).

Damian's costumes, meanwhile, lean more into archaic/fantasy armor designs and are thus largely genderless outside some vague allusions to the codename's Robin Hood roots. And Steph's is, well, a minidress, and one designed to show off her figure, drawing explicit attention to her femininity.

But then you have Tim's most iconic costume, his original one, which is not only fully covering in a way the original look isn't, it also, by virtue of being designed in the 90s, sports a very specific feature: molded body armor shaped to look like pectoral and abdominal muscles. In other words -- an idealized male body.

Not every artist always included that detail, but it was an explicit part of the design that you don't see as much these days, at least not for teen heroes. Which means it's inadvertently the perfect costume for a trans masculine Boy Wonder. It's got built-in body shaping. The cape and tunic layers even help to make his shoulders look wider.

Tim's second costume, the OYL later suit, doesn't explicitly have this body shaping element, but some artists still hint at it in the same way that Dick's Nightwing suits do (ie, we assume they're not showing off their real muscles with skintight suits for safety reasons, but who knows). Plus it comes with the bonus gay longing of changing the colors to mourn the dead crush he's too deep in the closet to recognize.

And then you've got his modern Robin look which has the same kind of shaping going on in a sleaker, more subtle way, though it can vary from artist to artist how much the red part of his suit is drawn as a breast plate vs. a part of the bodysuit.

As a bonus, the design also has a tendency to make him look lean and lithe, in an interesting contrast to Damian who, despite being physically smaller than Tim, tends to have a presence that makes him come across as stockier and more solid, possibly because he's more heavily armored.

You even see this with some of Tim'snon-Robin looks. I've mentioned this elsewhere but, the original Red Robin look making him look older when the cowl was up honestly makes a lot of sense. That suit was originally designed for a Dick Grayson who was pushing 60 to conceal the extent of his age while still communicating his maturity and development. It makes sense that it'd work the other way, to make 17 year old Tim look like he's in his late 20s/early 30s.

It's tunic over a body suit design is also just aesthetically pleasing in terms of forming an elegant male body type, the same way a well-cut suit can be. Again, it does especially nice things for the shoulders, which is why I personally prefer it to the fully bodysuit redesign they give him in the latter part of the series. Although as we can see from the details in Marcus To's art, even that body suit has seams strategically placed to suggest muscles.

And then of course there's the 2016 Rebirth era Red Robin costume, which is just a more heavily-armored version of his classic Robin look that's trying really hard to make him look masculine and mature, which means... exaggerated muscles.

And the thing is, it's not that this doesn't happen with other characters' costumes. But for various reasons it specifically didn't happen with the other Robin costumes, like I described at the start.

Which is not something I think people consciously notice. But I do know that, when I was writing my transmasc Tim fanfic a few years before realizing that I myself was also transmasc, one of the images that solidified the story for me was how good it would've felt the first time a transmasc Tim put on his new Robin costume and saw the Boy Wonder looking back at him. And I remember specifically thinking about how nice the shaped armor would be for that sort of thing.

It's kinda funny how an obvious attempt to enforce gender norms wound up, for lack of a better term, backfiring, at least in my opinion. There's just something about exaggerating the masculinity of Robin, a role designed to contrast and foil the already exaggerated masculine ideal of Batman, that makes it feel like a performance.