#both are good and have their merits of course

[squarebracket-trickster]

Voting "nuance" because I don't know whether a high school elective called "Creative Writing 12" that was taught by the same teacher who taught AP English (and who was an amazing teacher - if ridiculously hard marker - who I still have a lot of respect for). In this course, we basically spent the whole semester workshopping each other's short stories and poems (with a few weeks before that of basic instruction on story structure).

To be honest, I didn't learn anything I hadn't already learned on my own time about story structure from the lecture portion of the class, but I think it really was just meant to be a "get the basics out of the way so we can get to the real reason we are here" situation.

The workshopping, on the other hand, was extremely informative.

First of all, I was exposed through my peers to a lot of different stylistic traditions, genres, and story/poem structures that I never would have sought out on my own time (or didn't even know existed), and I think it really expanded my idea of what you could do with the written word - how to use words and structure for effect, what kind of emotions you can invoke, what you can even use stories to say etc...

It also taught me a lot about critique, both the etiquette and what makes good critique. Our teacher really emphasized the "two good things and a suggestion" method, which was fantastic for getting us to appreciate pieces we wouldn't normally like and see them for their own merits, how they measured up to what *they* were trying to achieve... rather than just critiquing a piece because it did something *we* didn't like or personally wouldn't read. It also resulted in our suggestions being more tailored to helping the piece become *its best self* rather than what each of us would like based on our personal prefences. I really thought at the time that all this was just standard practice and a no-brainer, but having been in writing groups since, it really is surprising how often critique focuses on the personal preferences of the critiquer rather than engaging with what the author was trying to do. Also, writing groups that don't make an effort to point out the positives often don't last long because it's just not enjoyable to pour your heart into something only to have it torn to shreds without remorse at 2:30pm on a Monday afternoon single every month.

Going into that class I thought it was going to be a lot harder to come up with two good things to say than it would be to come up with suggestions, but it turned out to be the other way around. It's so much easier to find things to compliment, even in a piece of very beginner writing, than it is to come up with actually insightful and helpful critique. Critiquing spelling, grammar, and even minor details isn't insightful; these are actually so far down on the list of priorities when it comes to making a compelling story (and yet, these seem to be what a lot of inexperienced critique groups zero in on). Better critique (imo) focuses on how a story makes use of things like time/chronology (in medeas res, linear story telling, backstory, time skips, telling a story "backwards" or out of order, prologues/epilogues/interlogues, parallel plots etc), set-up and pay-off, thematic questions and whether the resolution actually fully addresses the dilemma set up, as well as narrative voice, atmosphere/tone/mood, subtext/showing vs telling (and all the devices to achieve this like setting, character descriptions, dialogue, symbolism etc), and, of course, pacing and point of view.

There was one story that I will always remember as the one that got away because I sat at my desk for a solid 45 minutes until the bell rang, with two compliments written down on the paper in front of me, and I never was able to think of a single suggestion for it. It just made such perfect use of every tool at its disposal. (Funny enough, years later, I was talking with the guy that wrote it about that class, and apparently one of my stories had been living rent free in his head all these years too, so we're even haha). I often wonder, with how much I've grown as a writer, if I read that story now, would I have the skill to give him feedback that I didn't back then?

Learning how to *properly* offer critique and feedback was probably one of the best exercises I did in growing my own skill. It's not even just about learning how to spot and address problems in other's writing so you can tackle them better on your own; it's also in a way like learning how to work with visual art in a new medium. You are forced to learn how genres and styles you don't normally work in work so that you can apply those rules, and it gives you a wealth of new tools to play with when you sit down to write yourself.

I don't think I noticed at the time just how much the course was building and strengthening new writing "muscles" - I was actually bored in that class a lot - but, looking back, I saw a serious spike in my abilities around that time, and I think it was due to a combination of that class, AP English/Literature (the "learn to write a coherent argument FAST on the spot" class + learning about literary, rhetorical, and poetic devices), and graduating from reading exclusively YA/MG to finally enjoying some classics and adult fantasy.

The class has also made me really picky about the kind of critique groups I will join.

Feel free to leave further explanation below!

[twothpaste]

wonder why mother 3 lets you sequence break in chapter 7. it's definitely not an oversight - there's adjustments to dialogue & staging depending on which party members you have (ie. tanetane without kuma/duster, chimera lab with duster, etc). in theory, it's neat that the game offers the player the freedom to do the big island-wide adventure segments in any order they like. but it also works very hard to guiderail you to the "correct" areas. and there's obviously no level scaling. and the story plays out much more smoothly in the intended order. doria's needle is more narratively cohesive with just kumatora. tanetane without the full party misses half the point. etc. fetching duster early to keep him on-level with the rest of the gang is a cool trick, but then again, i've never actually had any issues whatsoever with an underlevelled duster.

when the game's not balanced around sequence-breaking, and the story's only barely written around it, it makes me question why the player's given the option at all. esp since it's kinda possible for first-time players to miss cues and go off in the "wrong" direction, earning them an experience that's worse in most respects.

[drchucktingle]

BIG thing i get teased about over the years (in playful ways, it is fine buckaroos, but a light tease none the less) is the DIRECTNESS of my titles. many who stumble upon my books will immediately comment 'the title is so long it just says what happens'. here are some of my thoughts on that...

as with a lot of things in the tingleverse, my unusual artistic choices end up being a sort of TROJAN HORSE, called unserious and mocked by many, but hopefully over the years revealing something to buckaroos who are not tied to the separation of ‘low brow’ or ‘high brow’ art

i feel understood by most, but for some who JUST NOW encounter the tingleverse there is an automatic apprehension, from outright to subliminal. things like scoffing ’im not going to try and find meaning in a chuck tingle book’ (real quote) or 'skeptical of the horror, ive seen his OTHER books'

i have written a LOT about how much of this, whether buds know it or not, is not just about the dinosaurs and the living objects. it is about a culture that is built to see queerness and neurodivergence and (drumroll) SEXUALITY as fundamentally unworthy of ‘real’ artistic merit. this trot runs deep

theres SOMETHING ELSE i dont talk on much however, which is directness of my writing style, both in titles and on page. why i do it is this: AS AN ARTIST it is never my intention to impress you. my books are not the 'ME show' theyre the 'US show’ so i simply want my sentences to express what happens

i wont dance circles around you, leading you through the story saying LOOK AT ME LOOK HOW GOOD I AM IM SO COOL. i want to walk BESIDE you. of course, writing to impress is also great and valid art too, just not MY preference. this is ARTISTIC choice, but i want to talk for a moment on politics of it

i tend to see buckaroos holding a sort of STRICT interpretation of what makes ‘good’ art. it is a training that has been pounded into their heads declaring ‘real art cannot just come out and say what it means.' a good example would be if someone was being critical by just saying 'its heavy handed'

the thing is, there is a huge difference between saying ‘it was blunt.’ and ‘it was TOO BLUNT for what it was trying to accomplish.’ TIME AND TIME AGAIN however, you will see folks simply deciding ‘this art just said what it meant on the surface’ and leaving it there, as if that is INHERENTLY WRONG.

and the question i am forced to ask myself is ‘WHY is this wrong?’ in the vast, infinite pantheon of WHAT ART CAN BE why are we so obsessed with hiding ourselves? obscuring our thoughts? removing our politics? there is certainly a time for subtly, but it seems there is NEVER a time for being blunt

some say this is because arts more DIFFICULT to craft when it is subliminal, but folks do not REACT that way. art that is both direct AND subliminal and layered will STILL get torn down for leaving things on the surface, even when technically speaking it is probably most impressive to juggle both

there is plenty for you to research on this regarding the CIA secretly funding abstract expressionist art during the cold war. it is still HOTLY DEBATED, but i will mention it here for anyone reading my thread who is interested in a deep dive. HERE, however, i will talk about it on a personal level

i think that culturally we are CONSTANTLY told to not take up space, especially in marginalized groups. there is decades and decades of programming telling us ‘you can express yourself, but in a CIVILIZED WAY, not too loud, not too direct. CERTAINLY not too political.' i flatly reject this

of all the places to do what you want and say what you want to say, ART IS THE PERFECT ARENA. your writing, your songs, your music can absolutely be as subtle as you want, but especially during times like this, dont let anyone tell you that youre too dang loud. lets trot buckaroos.

and since i spent all morning writing this is am going to leave a link for my new book LUCK DAY, which is LOUD AS HECK. now is a time to make art, and it is also a time to support the artists you love. give a preorder if you can. LOVE IS REAL

[fairlyabookie]

the things you do that got them head over heels (part 4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | feat. third years ! more in coming :>

Malleus - Ice cream date

There was nothing about going out on an afternoon outing after class for an ice cream venture, Malleus thought to himself. The thought of having one was alluring after a tiresome day of classes and homework. He could picture the preserved sweetness, the creamy goodness. Oh, he would love to spend a pretty penny to consume one right now.

Of course, he had to take you into his little adventure of getting ice cream. Malleus certainly wanted the company to ensure he wasn’t the only one getting the delectable; why not share the wonderful goodness that was ice cream together? You couldn’t refuse, go along with your companion for a bowl of ice cream goodness.

Matter of fact, he was glad he had you he couldn't ask for this merry moment - the others would deem Malleus intimidating to go with, Sebek and SIlver was already busy with club activities and training, and Lilia.. Lilia would coax the younger to ask a friend out - besides, didn’t Malleus already make a friend? He definitely implicated you for Malleus.

“Whoa, Malleus, you’re seriously craving ice cream THAT much?!” Your eyes pop out of your head when you witness a grand portion of ice cream from Malleus’ clutches. Amusement graces the fae’s lips, “I did tell you that I’m craving it today; besides, we can share, can we?” You can picture a large draconic tail wagging back and forth.

Vil- window shopping/ trying out new clothes

Vil always experimented with style and, as always, looked good doing it. He’d set trends, and upcycle vintage for a new, refreshing one. Such transformations would send waves upon waves of adoration from his fanbase and onlookers alike, nothing short of Vil’s prowess in impeccable style and attention to detail.

You, on the other hand, try to hold yourself back from buying too many clothes; your closet was practically bursting from your last bulk purchase of new attire. The urge to deep clean and reorganize everything was strong; yet your tendency to seek fashion was stronger. You were dying for a little window shopping trip - just to see the latest fashion trends, the prices of said attire, and the clearance racks.

Vil was more than happy to accompany you, often offering his card to just see you fluster and refuse the card, even though he personally thought the attire the both of you were peering at definitely suited your style. He genuinely loved spending time with you, walking around the mall, and browsing through clothes for a moment or two. He’d even encourage you to purchase it, showering you with compliment,s and even promises to help clean up your closet when the time was ripe.

“Oh, please, [Reader]. That top would absolutely compliment the bottoms you have!” He shows you the aforementioned attire. Your eyes light up, taking a mental picture of the top with an outfit you already had at home. “Oh my gosh, Vil. That’s perfect!” Before you can get your hopes up, you had to peer at the price tag. “Uh uh, don’t even think about the price. I’ll pay for it, [Reader]. My treat.”

Idia - insane gacha luck

The both of you were gamers through and through, spending time in Idia’s room grinding the day away to get the amount of resources required for a certain character you obtained. Sometimes, this would merit occasional check ins with Ortho to ensure the both of you were eating properly.

Whether his room would be filled with silence or the next hit from his favorite idol group, your grumblings, jubilations and musing would cause a clamor. You’d show Idia the results of your labor, showcasing the new stats for the character you were grinding on.

If you two played the same game, he’d one-up you with the same character he had but with the bigger stats, sending you into a competitive streak. No way you can let Idia beat you on YOUR game- you feel the flames of war ignite in your spirit - it’s so on.

“There is no way you can beat ME, the KING of GAMING! I’ve already ascended him, not once, twice but THREE TIMES! Oh yeah, baby, I can CRUSH you if we go 1v1!” Your jaw drops to the ground as soon as Idia's phone comes to your line of vision. You cannot believe this man before you, his build on such character dwarfing yours. Could it be whaling or just getting very lucky with the grind? “Dude, dude, I get it; you definitely whaled.” Idia gasps, a horror-stricken expression befalling his pale complexion. “LE GASP I did NOT!”

Rook - sharing your passions

Rook goes absolutely heart eyes the minute you talk about your passions, your loves and your crushes. He is all ears, watching you with nothing but love in his body language. In the case you ever falter, he’d encourage you to keep going. Holding back isn’t an option.

If there are any events related to your interests, he’d be the one accompanying you, helping you carry your things and help you with pictures for your plushies if you bring them along. He’d even invest in bringing matching merch with you, even surprising you.

In addition to you sharing your passions, he’d even share his - the both of you sharing a space together where you can express yourselves and your hobbies and passions. In the time that you ever feel flustered about saying too much, Rook is your enabler. Whether it be an impulsive purchase you’ve made for your favorite character or a must-buy from a recommendation, Rook is 100% enabling everything so you can feel happier and closer to your idol.

“Oh la la, my dear! I see you’ve brought your little plushies! How should we go about with the pictures? With the lightsticks or not?” You couldn’t seem to wipe off the silly grin on your face when your classmate pets the plushies you’ve brought along to the event. He also brings his pair of plushies, all perfectly encaged in a cute bag.

[theobservatory]

｡⁠☆Loser Boyfriend｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠ 

☆Cw: one use of "her", Mina calls you girl once, embarrassment, fluff, humor, rookie!prohero!deku

"Izuku, dude, no offense, but how did you land that?"

Izuku turns to Denki, looking just as lost as he does. There's a little flush on his cheeks and a wide eyed expression on his face. The boy looks like a confused baby dear, which truly only adds to Denki's confusion.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Teach me your ways." Denki says, comically whipping out a notepad from his pants pocket. "Did you grovel? Cry? Feed her a love potion but disguise it as juice so that she would drink it, but have no clue what it was?"

"N-No of course not!... And I'm pretty sure that would be illegal anyway..."

Denki shrugs, "Hey I don't know your life. You could be into some weird shit on the down low, you seem the type!"

Izuku responds with an eye roll. If anyone 'seems the type' it's Mineta and Denki himself. They turn back towards you instead of continuing the conversation. You're still in the same position you were in before; fully leaned over the back of the couch, legs closed with one slightly hanging in the air, while the rest of you is inside Mina's personal space giggling at something she's showing you on her phone.

You're in some cute little outfit that Izuku helped you pick out, a rare case, since Izuku still wears almost exclusively punny t-shirts and sweats. The only reason he helped is because it's your first time meeting his friends and former classmates, you just wanted to make sure the outfit wasn't too little or too much. This is not to say he was much help.

Izuku feels almost entranced by you, and you're not even looking at him. You haven't glanced his way since Mina took your attention, actually. Izuku could start pouting if he wasn't too busy ogling your backside. He's so busy he misses the picture Denki snaps at the enraptured look on his face.

"C'mon man, let's go raid the snacks before Kaachan forces us to leave the kitchen."

Denki's arm around Izuku's shoulder shakes him out of his stupor and he nods in agreement, not really having heard what he said at all. He allows Denki to lead him to the kitchen with only minimal glancing behind his back, just to get a little more time to soak in your image.

But he doesn't expect your eyes to catch. He has no time to prepare for the heat in his pink cheeks to spread to his ears, no time to prepare for your smile to make his heart thump in his chest. It makes him lightly stumble in his steps and turn to face forward again, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

"Oh, Izu! Can you come back for just a sec?"

Izuku breaks out of Denki's hold with not a single lick of hesitation, embarrassment be damned. His world shortens and zooms in when you talk, the feeling of embarrassment, as well as Denki's voice, becomes muffled in the face of it. None of that matters if you're the one who needs him.

"Look at this picture Mina has of you!"

It's the picture All Might took of him before he bulked up. The one where he's dirty and sweating and crying after trying to haul a fridge across a beach. Izuku thinks he might die. Where did she even get that picture?

His face must say a lot, because both you and Mina burst out laughing. You're trying to reassure him, but you're laughing so hard you're struggling to gain a breath to string words together. If the floor swallowed Izuku whole right now, he would be grateful. It was a terrible idea to bring you to meet his classmates, especially a gossip like Mina.

"Oh, baby no, don't look like that!" You gasp, placing a hand on his shoulder. It's not nearly as comforting as you're trying to make it be.

"Izuku you look like a total loser, good thing you gained some muscle there, pipsqueak!" Mina chortles.

"Oh stop it! He doesn't look like a... Loser... I think it's cute!"

"Keep telling yourself that!"

Izuku has never considered the merits of getting hit by a bus before, now is a better time than ever to start.

Your arms wrap around him, and he instinctually hugs you back. You press your still smiling face into his chest, and turn towards Mina, still a little breathless.

"It's okay Izuku, I'll protect you from Mina's mean words." You giggle.

Mina is quick to start booing you, but Izuku doesn't miss the picture of him being sent to an unsaved number in her phone. Oh she's going to get it next time they spare together, and he will make absolutely sure it is soon. She doesn't get to run away from the enemy she has created today.

"Whose side are you even on, girl?" Mina huffs playfully, turning back to her phone and sitting back down on the couch.

The party goes smoothly after that, mostly because Izuku doesn't leave your side for the rest of the night. He refuses to let any of his other classmates show you blackmail. Even when you go to the bathroom he stands right outside the door, waiting for you to come back. At one point during the night Katsuki told him he looks like a stray puppy, and before he could deny it, you responded, "it's cute, part of his charm". He elected to ignore the way it made his chest puff out.

He likes to believe you think of him less as a puppy and more of a guard dog. He will not be confirming or denying this with you.

Before long, the party is over. Despite the little mishap with Mina earlier, he's satisfied. You were both fed well, and you very clearly had a good time with his friends, so he considers the night a success. He knew that you'd been nervous about the whole thing, his reassurances hadn't done much to sway you, but you had a great time. Just like he said you would.

As he's pulling the car out of the driveway, you turn to him, a mischievous smile spread across your face. Izuku hopes you don't notice how heavily he swallows when you look at him, your expression is making him nervous.

"Mina sent me that picture of you."

The car lurches as he slams on the brakes. "She gave you her phone number?! Noo she's gonna show you how much of a loser I am!" He whines, putting his head into the steering wheel.

"Izu, my love, you are a bonafide prohero who's about to hit the top 30 barely two years out of highschool, you are not a loser."

Izuku turns to you with a wobbly smile, forehead still lying on the steering wheel. "U-Uhm no, I totally am. Hero work aside."

You giggle, his heart stutters again.

"Well you're my loser then."

"Yours?" Izuku flushes.

"Mine."

And well, being a loser isn't so bad if it means he gets to be yours. Your boyfriend. Your guard dog. Your puppy. Your loser. Your anything. He can be anything, as long as he's yours.

Love men who are losers and very smitten for their sweethearts, what can I say

｡⁠☆Requests open

[nerdygirlramblings]

Ren's adventures continue

a/n: the family pack is back!

previous

"How's training going, honey? They're not pushing you too hard?" Mum asks.

Before you can answer, Mama cuts in. "Of course they're training her hard. This is an elite group of soldiers. Only the best of the best to serve Queen and country." She looks at you with a gleam in her eyes. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Dad rolls his eyes at their antics. It's clear they're all crammed into the nest where Dad's been since the doctor seconded your moms' idea for him to be on bed rest. Seeing them together, knowing Dad's due in a few weeks, it makes you miss them all so much more. Just as Mum and Mama start debating the merits of your service, again, Dad says, "You look good, sweetheart. Happy."

They see your unconscious smile. You haven't spoken to them much since you joined the task force, too tired most nights for anything more than a few texts, but you had a light day and wanted to check on how Dad was doing with the litter. Now you have a captive audience and weeks of stories to share.

You mention how well you fight hand-to-hand, joking how an old schoolyard bully "wouldn't be able to lay a finger on me now." To prove it, you send them a quick video Gaz took of you getting Ghost on his back a few days ago. "That's my Leftenant. He's an 18 stone alpha!" They watch the video, and you track their reactions: Mum's saucer-wide eyes, hand over her mouth; Dad wincing at the thwump of Ghost's back hitting the mat; Mama's nearly-manic grin.

You leave out how quickly he flipped you and got the upper hand.

The video is followed by pictures Soap took on the shooting range, several weapons artfully arrayed around targets with groupings so tight there are fist-sized holes in some. "They're training me on some of the sniper rifles, Mum, so I'd be watching their backs instead of breeching the building." You see the slightest drop of her shoulders as she exhales and know she'll hold tight to that kernel of hope for your safety.

You're most excited to tell them about the records you've set. "And Captain Price was the one who put my name forward. Kept me an' my secondary gender out of it entirely, jus' my call sign-"

"Your call sign?" Mum says. "What's that?"

"It's like a nickname. 'S what th' other soldiers call ya. Mostly based on the dumb shit-"

"Language, young lady," Mum says sharply.

"Sorry, Mum," you mumble, heat flaring along your neck at being scolded.

"Leave the girl be," Mama says. "She's an adult and can use whatever language she wants. Let her finish her story."

You smile gratefully and mouth thank you when Mum glances away towards some sound in the house. "So call signs are usually something you have to learn to deal with because it's a constant reminder of how you screwed up. But not always. An' the guys call me Ren because I'm good at lots of things."

"A modern Renaissance Man, er Woman, huh," Dad comments.

"That's what Captain Price said." You look at your dad and blurt out, "I think you'd like the Captain, Dad. He reminds me a lot of you and Mama."

"So about those records?" Mama asks, redirecting your focus again.

You glance at your parents then dart your gaze briefly down, bashful about bragging. "It seems I set a few base records on the shooting range and with my speed. An', like I said, they're up with my call sign, so no one really knows their mine, but that's not the point."

Dad takes the bait you don't realize you left. "Then what is the point, sweetheart?" he asks quietly.

There's no mistaking the pride in your voice and the joy in your eyes when you tell him, "They make me feel like I belong."

He smiles indulgently, and a loaded glance passes between your moms. The conversation continues a few more minutes, and you get the feeling your parents want to tell you something but don't. As you say your goodnights, you tell them you'll speak to Price about getting a few days of leave when the new litter comes. The call leaves you feeling both lighter and sadder, though you can't articulate the reasons for the second.

After the call to your parents, you start spending more time in the 141 barracks. The call home made you miss being part of something, and when you spend your down time with your team, the ache inside feels less raw, the hurt less sharp.

The easy camaraderie of the gym and mess becomes an uncomplicated cohabitation of video games and movies and parallel quiet time. One night you find yourself reading on one end of the couch in the barracks' rec room while Soap sketches. A tremor runs through you; the team keeps these rooms far colder than you're comfortable with, and you don't have an extra jumper today. Soap catches you rubbing your hands together and gets off the couch, heading to a small footlocker in the corner. You track his movements as he lifts the lid and pulls out a standard issue olive green jersey. He doesn't pull it on as you expect but drops it in your lap as he returns to his seat. "Nae point in bein' cold, Ren," he says with a smile.

You return the smile gratefully. "Thank you," you reply, pulling the jersey overhead. As you sink into its warmth, you take a deep inhale, breathing in the scent of sunshine and fresh cotton. You appreciate the smell of clean laundry. It's far more pleasant than the mothballs you were expecting.

You glance at Soap, surprised to see unbridled joy on his face. "Everything okay?"

He nods quickly. "Yeah, Ren. I'm aces."

You continue sitting in shared silence until the others come in from whatever they were doing. All three men pull up short at the sight of you and Soap on the couch. Looking between them, you worry you did something wrong despite having spent the last few nights with them until heading to bed in your barracks. "Er, what's wrong?"

Price quickly shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs. "Nothin's wrong, Ren. Just a little surprised is all. Didn't think you-"

"The lass was cold, Cap'n," Soap blurted suddenly. "Figured if the jersey wasnae 'nuf tae warm 'er, Ah'd show 'er where the blankets are."

Price nods absently. "Right. The blankets." He takes one more long look at you, gaze assessing. "Well, glad you aren't cold, then."

The solitude you and Soap shared sits uneasily now with the others around. Something's shifted. You can smell it, like a bite of cold air preceding a storm. You try brushing off the unease, but you can't ignore it. It becomes nearly oppressive by the time you head to your barracks, waving goodnight to the team.

Once the door shuts behind you, Price gapes at Soap. "What were you thinking, giving her Gaz's jersey without telling her?" His tone is angry, but it's betrayed by the concern in his eyes as he looks at the beta.

"She was cold," Soap says simply.

"Yeah, but, one of my jerseys when you could have grabbed the blanket?" Gaz wasn't angry about you walking out with the jersey. He seemed nervous.

Price points at Gaz. "Yes, that!" He runs a hand down his face. "Giving Ren Gaz's jersey when we haven't broached courting 'er could backfire spectacularly."

"Ye were nae here, Cap. Took a big 'ole lungful a' 'is scent and held it. Wouldn't be surprised if she wears it tomorrow night." He looked from Price to Gaz and finally to Ghost, who met his pleading look with a hard reproach.

"It was a bold move, pup. Don't do it again without us all talking first." He voices everyone's shared desire. "We want 'er as pack, as ours. But she's smart, and she's wary, even of us when it comes to being our omega."

Price picks up the thought and says, "If we want this, and want to do it right, we need a plan."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevale @boogeysmoth

[splishfish]

Toys (NSFW)

Tomura Shigaraki x AFAB Reader

Tags: PiV, Use of Vibrator, Overstimulation, Squirting, Unprotected Sex, Pre-Established Relationship, Slight Dacryphilia

WC: 1.5k

"C’mon…don’t cry…let’s do it again…”

Sex with Tomura is amazing. Truly, it really is! Although he can be very rough in bed, he’ll always make sure your comfortable and enjoying yourself. If you ask him to change positions, he’ll always shuffle around just for you, even if he’s grumbling under his breath about how needy you are.

He’s an amazing partner in bed. Really…it’s just that…

More than half the time, he can never make you cum during sex.

That doesn’t mean the sex isn't good! No, of course not! It’s amazing! His cock curves so sweetly into your hot cunny, rubbing up into that squishy spot just a few inches deep inside you. And he loves to pound into you like his life depends on it, his heavy balls slapping against your ass / clit depending on your position, and his fingers so tenderly rub against your aching clit, causing your sweet little pussy to clench around him…

But it’s never enough

In the end, once he finishes, he’d have to use his long slender fingers to plunge inside you, desperately finger fucking you into oblivion until you cum. He doesn’t care if you cry and sob against his fingers, begging ‘Please! No more! ‘s too much!’  with your sweet little voice, he’s determined to make you cum.

Whenever you fail to cum during sex, he always seems so grumpy. So mad and upset at himself for failing you. It’s gotten so bad that he’d even end up scratching at his poor neck until it bleeds, beating himself up for disappointing you. All of this makes your heart ache, and eventually, you bring up the prospect of using toys during the bedroom.

When you first bring this up, he stays silent during the conversation, his mind whirring with different thoughts.

Were you seriously thinking of replacing him for some silicone dick? Was he not enough? Were you that unhappy with your sex lives? Would you break up with him? How fucking dare you try and replace him?! He was going to fucking kill-

Before his thoughts delved deeper into hatred and despair you quickly explained to him that no, this wasn’t a way to replace him, and that you were happy with your sex life. The conversation lasted a long time, the both of you sharing your opinions and thoughts on the matter.

Tomura was blunt about his thoughts on the matter. He refused to let you bring any dildo’s or toys that would require any sort of insertion into the bedroom. No, that was his job, only he belonged deep inside your weeping cunt, not some plastic toy.

He also didn’t want any toys to be used on him either. He was already upset about bringing in toys to begin with, so even bringing up using toys on him would cause him to start scratching his neck.

Eventually, the both of you reached a conclusion. You’d go out together, and buy whatever toy would suit his merit and your needs. 

When the day finally came to go shopping, you were absolutely buzzing with excitement! Not only would you be able to go shopping for something for your sex lives, but also you’d be able to spend time and help Tomura understand your needs.

Entering the sex shop hand in hand, you dragged Tomura towards the first few toys you saw, holding them up and explaining their function to him. At first, he didn’t really pay attention, his eyes darting throughout the store, his body stiff and his hands constantly coming up to tug the black hoodie further down his face.

You weren’t too sure if he was embarrassed, or maybe paranoid of being recognized, but eventually he managed to calm down enough to actually help you browse throughout the store. He scowled at every dildo or phallic item you passed, and he even spent a few seconds gazing at the wall of monster dildos in the corner.

For a moment, he imagined you struggling to take such a monstrous cock, and how your pretty little cunny would squelch and cry at such a big size. But he quickly pushed those thoughts away.

Eventually, after spending around an hour or so of browsing, you both decided on what you thought was the most basic purchase, yet best item you could have gotten. A hitachi wand.

As you two warped back, you spent the first few hours unpacking and letting the wand charge completely. Once it was finished, you took it back to Tomura’s room, holding it up like a prized possession as you spoke.

“Let’s try it out now!”

As you laid on your back, your legs spread wide as Tomura stood between them, his cock sliding between your puffy folds. Your slick mixed with his pre, your body buzzing with lust and excitement. Tomura grabbed the base of his cock, slowly sliding it down your slit until the tip of his cock nudged your eager hole.

You sighed in relief as he slowly pushed in, the head of his cock sliding in with a small squelch as you reached over the bed to grab the vibrator. You could see his lips twitch into a small frown, but he didn’t comment on your actions as he bottomed out.

Once you felt the familiar slide of his cock moving inside you, you turned on the vibrator, the buzzing noise causing his hips to stutter as he pulled back far enough to watch you place the bulbous head against your clit.

Instantly, a breathy curse escaped your lips, eyes fluttering shut as your hips bucked up in response to the intense vibrations against your needy bud. You could hear Tomura whimper from above you, his hips beginning to move as he spoke.

“Oh fuck…I-I can feel it even when i’m inside you…”

From above, Tomura felt chills of pleasure run down his spine. Everytime he moved, he could feel his cock buzzing from the pleasure, and everytime he pulled out far enough, the force of the vibrations would go straight to his tip. He groaned, his cock twitching as he moved faster, your slick causing his light blue pubes to stick together, a small string connecting the both of your bodies every time he moved away.

You could feel your pussy begin to drool, your tits bouncing with every hard thrust of his hips. His grunts became louder from above you, his hands coming up to grip at your thighs, the plush flesh pooling out of his fingers as he rammed himself deeper into you.

“Fuck…you feel so fuckin’ good…hah…so tight, you gonna cum already?”

You didn’t even notice the way your cunt so desperately clung to his cock, the coil in your stomach forming so quickly you could only babble a whiny ‘yes’ as you pressed the vibrating head even harder against your clit.

Your throat burned as you screamed out in pleasure, your orgasm ripping through you in multiple waves, both the vibrator and his cock drawing it out until you were nearly crying. You pulled the vibrator away from your overstimulated clit, gasping out as he grasped your wrist and forced the toy back against your nub.

You yelped, a searing pain that felt way too good suddenly coursing through you, your body squirming under him as you sobbed in response to his actions.

“No! Aagh! Tom-Tomura! W-wait wait wait! It's too much!”

He giggled from above you, a breathy moan escaping him as his hand pressed the toy against you even harder as he spoke in a dark tone, his hips stuttering against your pulsing cunny.

“Fuckk…feels so good baby…I can feel the vibrator against my cock-shit! Oh god…mhn…just a bit more..!”

You couldn’t stop the tears from falling from your face, your clit burning from overstimulation and pain. It felt so painful but with every second the vibrator was held firm on your clit the more you could feel another tight coil forming, ready to burst once again.

But this one was different.

Your legs began to tremble involuntarily, loud sobs escaping your throat as your cunny began pulsing against his cock in an almost painful vice. You didn’t even notice the sudden gush of liquid that squirted out of you, hitting Tomura’s pelvis and forcing his cock out of your gushing hole due to the intense pleasure of your second orgasm.

Tomura groaned in surprise as a sudden force caused his cock to pull away, watching as your sweet little cunny quivered and pulsed as you squirted against him, the strong yet short stream eventually dying down to a dribble, falling onto a pool of your fluids beneath you.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight, and only after a few moments of staring, laughter began to bubble up in his chest, leaving his mouth in small manic giggles as he trailed his eyes back to your face.

Oh, what a beautiful sight you were. All sweaty, flushed and wrecked. Fat salty tears escaping your eyes as you shook, small pretty sobs escaping your lips as you laid out all blissed out and messy.

He leaned down to lick the salty tears off your face, his cock pulsing and throbbing with eagerness as he grinded against your sloppy pussy.

“Oh fuck…that was so fucking hot…holy shit..eheh…c’mon…don’t cry…let’s do it again…”

Did you enjoy this? Check out my Masterlist for more!

Requests are open!

[quadrantadvisor]

Pairing Off, in which the Waynes meet the Fentons, just not all at once. 2,443 words

-

Damian feels less than positively about the new girl in his grade.

Danielle Fenton has already garnered a bit of a reputation. Her uniform is clearly second hand, and rumors abound about whether she has joined them at Gotham Academy on a merit scholarship or as “one of Wayne's charity cases.” Neither is true; Father has offered no fiscal support to the Fentons, and yet both she and her older brother attend the Academy, leading Damian to believe they've somehow paid their own way.

Her lower class status and midwestern accent ought to make Fenton a target, but her response to being cornered or talked down to by other students was an unsettling combination of cheerful and aggressive. She is now mostly left to her own devices, despite her notoriety. 

Damian has no interest in the girl. While it is true that she excels in both mathematics and social studies, her performance in English and science are unremarkable, and she poses no challenge to his rank at the top of the class. If he finds himself pushing harder in certain classes this semester in order to maintain the edge, it's no one else's business.

Now if only she would leave him alone.

Damian preemptively slams his sketchbook shut, just as a brash, inconsiderate, annoying girl hops up to sit on his desk. “Hey Dami, what're you drawing?”

“It is none of your business,” Damian seethes. “Remove yourself from my personal space before I-” he isn't allowed to threaten classmates with bodily harm, imply that he has brought weapons to school, or use words that are derogatory to women “-do so myself. By force.” He would avoid her altogether if he could, but Fenton is annoyingly (suspiciously) sneaky. He can only ever seem to sense her when she's just about on top of him.

Fenton merely laughs, high, bright, and joyful, and Damian grits his teeth. “Did you draw me yet?” she asks, and doesn't move an inch.

“No, I have not drawn you. I never said I would, and I have no plans to. Stop asking me.”

She shrugs and kicks her feet. “Maybe you'll change your mind. Can I see what you're working on?”

Damian pulls the sketchbook a tad bit closer to himself (a protective reflex that shows his weakness, he should be better than that by now.) “Never, imbecile.”

Fenton sticks her tongue out at him like a child. “Mean,” she says, still smiling. “I wanna see your art. It's so good!”

Damian tilts his nose up at her. “Of course it is, plebeian, I have standards-” he starts, but is cut off by the teacher entering. Fenton slides off his desk and heads to her own seat. Damian stows his sketchbook in his bag and tries not to think of the unfinished work inside, featuring a girl with dark hair, light eyes, and a mischievous grin.

-

There's this brownstone on the outskirts of Crime Alley, an old townhouse recently converted into commercial space. There's a coffee shop on street level, a tattoo parlor down the stairs, some sorta wine emporium on the second floor, and on the third, a little second hand bookshop

It's outside the border of Jason's territory, but he feels sorta responsible for it, given that he frequents the place.

It's a little out of his way, but the atmosphere is nice, alright? Clean, with soft lighting, but not sterile or corporate like the bigger places downtown. The owners are an older couple who Jason has met a couple of times, and they seem pretty happy with the new location. They're collectors, really, who run the shop to make ends meet.

Mostly, Jason talks to their employee. Jazz.

Jazz works in the afternoons and evenings, after her classes. She goes to Gotham U, double majoring in pre-med and psych, on top of a full time job, because she's almost as insane as a bat. She assures Jason that she does alright, gets a little downtime to study on her shifts.

She always makes time to talk to Jason.

Jazz is an interesting person to talk books with. She cares less about plot and literary themes, and more about diagnosing every character with their own personal malady of the mind. She dissects their thought processes and behaviors, ruthless in her analysis.

She's gonna be a brain surgeon someday, open people up and see what really makes them tick. Jason doesn't doubt it for a second.

So maybe Jason is a little bit in love with her.

It's not a big deal. Obviously it's not going anywhere. It's just nice to have something normal, to talk to someone normal, about normal stuff like books and college and sibling antics.

Jazz's stories about her sibling, Danny, rival Jason's own, and his family is fucking disastrous. Jason isn't actually sure if Dan is older or younger than Jazz is, or, for that matter, what pronouns he should use for them, since Jazz mixes it up pretty regularly. He knows that Jazz absolutely adores them, though, and it's heartwarming, the way she smiles as she talks.

All of that to explain why Red Hood is keeping an eye on a brownstone that technically falls outside of his territory.

There's a girl inside that he needs to keep safe.

-

“Hey bud, late night?” Dick asks the man lying prone in an alley, a block away from the Iceberg Lounge.

The response is slurred with sleep and muffled by a cheek pressed hard into asphalt. “S'at you, Dick?”

“Sure is. We've got to stop meeting like this,” Dick tells him, and means it.

The guy's name is Dan. No last name offered, which was fair, since Dick hasn't mentioned his.

What was weird was that Dan didn't give Penguin his last name, either, when he signed his employment contract. Just Dan.

Penguin has been trying to expand his influence into Bludhaven, and Dick's been trying to figure out why. Cobblepot is a very Gotham sort of gangster, all wrapped up in the city's ideas of style and respectability; Dick honestly would've thought that Blud was beneath him. He needs to figure out who he's contacting and what they're offering him, and he needs to do it before Penguin can get a foothold on his turf.

Running into Dan was a side effect. Dick didn't mean to keep doing it. It's just that Dan has this weird habit of completely disregarding trivial concerns such as his own health and safety, and doing weird shit like, as a random example, getting tired, laying down, and passing out. In the middle of the street. In Gotham.

The main part of Dan's job seems to be bouncing at the club. It makes sense—if you wanted to hire a guy as muscle, you couldn't do much better than Dan. He's at least 6 and a half feet tall, with a chest wider than Jason's. 

But Dick has also seen Dan traveling with Penguin before. Add in the fact that it's almost impossible to dig up info on him, and that tailing him is somehow even harder, and a picture starts to come together. A very vague, very suspicious picture.

It's too bad that Dick sort of likes him, and that he's incredibly hot.

Dan has removed his face from the alley floor, and is in the process of pushing himself up. “Not your business, man,” he retorts. “What are you, a cop?”

Dick can't help a wry chuckle at that. “Not anymore.”

“No shit?” Dan asks, hauling himself to his feet. He towers over Dick like that, but it's hard to be intimidated by a man whose cheek is red and pockmarked by little bits of gravel. Dick is legitimately embarrassed that he finds it charming. He needs to get better taste in men. “Yeah, no, that makes sense,” Dan continues, looking Dick up and down. “No way they could keep your ass on the force.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks.

Dan snorts. “I can smell the idealism on you from here.” He starts walking, heading straight past Dick, who falls into step beside him. “You remind me of this kid I know.”

Dick gives an interested hum, hoping that if he doesn't interrupt, Dan will elaborate, but no dice.

“So, where're you taking me this time?” the big man asks, still leading, and Dick stifles a grin at how silly the whole thing is.

“Maybe if I take you out for coffee, you won't faceplant onto any more concrete,” he says, reaching up to brush off some of the little rocks. Dan stutters to a stop as Dick touches his cheek, letting him, then strides off again as soon as he's done.

“Don't care, as long as you're paying.”

Dick stops him with a tug to his arm. “Coffee shop's this way,” he explains, pointing, and Dan doesn't hesitate, pivoting to take the lead once again. Dick rushes to keep up with his not-date, a criminal who he literally picked up off the street and who has no idea where he's going. He can't see his own smile, but he knows from experience that it is both delighted and a little manic. He admits to himself, begrudgingly, that he likes his men with something wrong with them.

-

The biggest reason that Tim played so much Doomed with Ghost_Boy, a couple of years ago, was that they were the only player he knew who kept hours as weird as his were. There were worse reasons to form a friendship. Ghost_Boy was a great player, and was always funny in chat. They were upbeat when things went well, and they were sarcastic but not bitter when things went poorly. Playing for the game's sake eventually changed to booting up the game to hang out with Ghost_Boy. They talked about how different their lives were, with Ghost_Boy in the midwest and Tim in the crime capital of America, and they talked about the things they had in common, like falling asleep in class. It was Tim's favorite form of stress relief, back then, when being Robin was new and overwhelming.

Then Tim got busy. No, that wasn't true—Tim had always been busy. More like, Tim's life fell to shambles, over and over again, and he stopped making time for stress relief when the very concept seemed out of his reach.

That was over dramatic. Tim fell off the game, and didn't keep in contact with his friend. That's all there was to it.

That was all there was to it, until a few nights ago, when he booted up his old Doomed file for nostalgia's sake and found a message from Ghost_Boy, sent a couple months back, that said he was planning to move to Gotham and, if Tim wanted, he'd be happy to meet up.

Tim immediately replied in the affirmative, and then he freaked out that he'd done that and started cyber stalking the guy. He couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be embarrassed by this behavior. He knew who he was.

Daniel Fenton was, in fact, a real teenager from a real midwestern town (Amity Park, Illinois.) He had moved to Gotham right when his message said he would, and lived with his older sister, Jasmine (who had custody over him,) and his younger sister, Danielle.

And that was where Tim was planning to stop his research, for the sake of his friend's privacy. Once he confirmed that he wasn't being catfished by either a supervillain or a run-of-the-mill creep, he was going to stop looking.

But Danielle Fenton's situation was incredibly weird.

Apparently, she had never lived with Daniel, Jasmine, and their parents before. Instead, after she was born, she'd been adopted by the kids’ godfather, eccentric billionaire Vlad Masters, and he was still her legal guardian. It was only after the Doctors Jack and Madeline died that she moved in with her siblings and started attending Gotham Academy, states away from her adoptive parent.

Vlad Masters was a man of eclectic tastes. The stories about him in the news were always covering some weird investment he had made, like purchasing a cheese castle in Wisconsin, or buying up property in Green Bay just to have a stake in the Packers, or pouring money into experimental forms of alternative energy. He was always refined in his public appearances, but he had the desperate edge of new money wanting to fit in with the old. Tim knew of him, but had never given him much thought before. He'd never made a move into Gotham, after all.

But the whole story was bizarre. Masters had gone to college with the Fentons, the three of them creating their own field of study in “Ectology,” before Masters had been contaminated in a lab accident, bedridden and unable to finish his degree. Jack and Maddie had continued their research, garnering just enough interest in their work to receive the funding needed to keep afloat, until some sort of breakthrough a few years ago added validity to their theories. They were practically celebrities in the niche forums Tim skimmed through. Masters, meanwhile, stopped working directly in the sciences and instead turned to networking, gaining some generous help from the friends he made and playing the stock market like a fiddle, until he was one of the most well known and lucrative investors in the world. He owned a few companies publicly, and managed some others under the table (Tim had to snort at the ridiculous naming of Dalv Co.) 

And then the Fentons had kids, and they raised two of them (seemingly quite happily, if the photos on their memorialized facebook accounts meant anything.) And then, for some reason, they named the third one nearly identically to their second child and gave her straight to Vlad. Masters raised the girl in Wisconsin, until suddenly relocating to Amity Park and becoming the town's mayor. There he stayed, until the Fenton's recent passing in a lab accident of their own.

Tim doesn't know what it all adds up to. But there was something going on, with both Vlad Masters and the Fentons, and if there's something nefarious in Masters’ actions or his wealth, it could be entirely possible that Daniel was a plant—a way for him to get an in with the Waynes. Tim has to be cautious, and he has to get to the bottom of this.

That's why Tim is waiting in a coffee shop, pretending to be engrossed in his laptop while keeping an eye on the door, waiting for the appearance of a teen with black hair and blue eyes.

Tim idly thinks that Bruce had better not adopt this one.

[tricksh0t]

★ need a ride?

☾ aemond targaryen x top m reader

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.04k

cw: very subby aemond, dom top m reader, riding, one spank, mean reader, begging, daddy kink, dacryphilia, sort of humping, the L word but you don't really mean it (love) though it's not implied enough, written with an age gap in mind

To have one of the princes of the Seven Kingdoms on your cock regularly was a privilege. What you've done with that is declare that you prefer him riding you over fucking him, just because of how pathetic it makes him. This time, you make him face away from you, tall, pale body tilted towards a mirror in front of your bed.

Aemond is more focused on the movement than the mirror, but if he looked, he'd find that your sight is more focused on what's in front of you, of course, his ass and the way it ripples every time he slams down hard.

It's rare, though. He's uncoordinated, a mess teetering on the edge of release, just waiting for your command. Seeing your cock disappear into his hole is pleasure enough, though.

"Please, daddy." Aemond sobs. Both eyes cry.

"Please what, sweet prince?" You tear your eyes away from his ass to watch him in the mirror, to watch how the tears stream down his cheeks and how his nose is wrinkled.

Aemond is usually fierce, usually aggressive, so ready to become a usurper, and he's crying on your cock.

"I–" Aemond shakes his head, hands gripping the sheets in front of him. He can't find the words, not between sobs and sharp inhales.

When your hand comes down upon his ass with a sharp slap, it shocks him out of his sobs. "Fuck!"

"Calm down, Prince Aemond." You call in a calm tone he'd find mocking if his mind were with him.

From a pit in your heart you do not often find in you, you grant him mercy, letting him take a break.

He moans when you grab his hips and make his take you whole, but leave him there. "What is it that makes you cry?"

Aemond moves to wipe his cheeks, but you catch the movement in the mirror and stop him; partly because you like the way he looks with his cheeks wet and, "Don't rub your cheeks raw, sweetheart. Just talk to me."

"'S good, daddy." Aemond says weakly. You're proud, at least, that he doesn't stutter.

"So why are you sorrowful?" Your hands rub circles into his hips, and that has them shuddering, rubbing your cock inside of him.

"I am not." He denies vehemently, shaking his head. His eyes finally meet yours through the mirror. "It's–they're happy tears. I think."

"Mm, that kind?" You hum.

Your low voice invokes a reaction in Aemond. He squirms a little on his knees. "Yes."

"Then what is it you plead for?" His mouth opens to speak, but you continue, "You have everything you could want. You have my cock, you have pleasure, you have Vhagar, you're a prince, you're wealthy."

"I–" So it wasn't just the crying that was stopping him from talking. He hiccups suddenly.

"You're embarrassed. Is that it, sweet prince?"

He nods his head just barely.

"Speak your mind." Your voice is commanding. His eyes shy away from yours. "We have known each other intimately, inside and out. You can barely stand being clothed around me. You bare yourself to me often. Surely that must merit a loose tongue."

"Please fuck me, daddy. I need that, I need it, please." He begs so sweetly.

When you give no response, he tries to turn around, but you swing him right back with hands on his shoulders. You click your tongue, and the combination of all that–your cock still in him, the disappointed sound, the manhandling–makes him flinch. "I did tell you that I wanted you to ride me, yes?"

Confusion spreads across Aemond's features along with some kind of hurt at not being able to see you outside of your reflection. "Yes?"

"Yes, who?" You ask roughly, slapping one of his dreadfully pale asscheek just to get a reaction.

"Yes, daddy!" Aemond practically wails.

"And you will do whatever your daddy wishes you to do, won't you?" You didn't even wait for him to reply, because it would matter little to you. "I told you what I wanted, and you didn't object. You do not get to change your mind now, boy."

"I–"

Your hand lays on his pale asscheek, and that reminds Aemond of, though he might not be able to see it, his other now red, stinging cheek. It shocks him into obedience. "Yes, daddy."

"There you are." You raise your hands up to hold his hips gently, a big contrast from how you handled him earlier. "Go on then, sweetheart."

Eyelids snap shut over violet and scarred blue eyes as Aemond gets back into a rhythm, or as best a rhythm as he can muster.

Riding you makes him feel like you're splitting him open, which he should like–love, even–but the movement makes his thighs burn and his knees ache.

He can't deny, though, that it feels fucking good. His gummy walls clench around your cock just to feel you more.

Aemond's bad at this, but he doesn't even realize it.

You do, plain as day. He's slow, never consistent, he finishes too quickly.

You do kind of like how sloppy he is, and how it takes him so long that your cock'll stretch him gaping. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in effort, and you know he'll always want to please daddy. Your praise misleads him.

You grasp his cheeks in both hands, making him gasp, and then you guide him. "Like that, sweetheart."

It's fruitless, as when you let go, he continues at his own pace. It's amusing, anyway, to see his face scrunch up with effort, truly believing he is doing as you asked.

"Yeah," You coo, hands settling back onto his hips and rubbing, "you got it."

You can see sweat trails on his back.

Aemond's giving riding your cock his all. He's always particularly enjoyed being full, and he wants that now. You'd call it milking. Redness burns in his cheeks.

Nevermind what you'd call it, Aemond wants it. He doubles his efforts, wanting it before, or even while, he cums himself.

He clenches the sheets, knuckles ghostly white against his already pale skin.

He can feel it, coiling up in his stomach. It's like dragonfire, the way it spreads throughout his body and excites him.

Aemond rides you faster after that, chasing his release. He wants it. Wants it, wants it, wants it.

The dragonfire turns to ash as a real fire burns, making his limbs ache.

"I can't." Aemond breathes out, out of breath with a dry tongue. Exhaustion makes itself evident the same way as pleasure did, spreading from his core to his knees to his arms. When he speaks next, there's a sob, "Daddy, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't, sweetheart?" You ask, pressing a thumb against the base of his spine.

There's sweat there, a thick sheen. "I'm–"

"Exhausted?" You click your tongue, and the burning shame of disappointment accompanies Aemond's exhaustion. "You've barely been on my cock for an hour, sweet boy."

"Please." Aemond begs. He slides his body down, pressing his chest to the sheets and arching his back; still on your cock and still on his knees, but you can see how they're about to give.

He's presenting himself to you, showing you what you can have.

"You can do it, Aemond. You've done it a thousand times before."

Aemond shakes his head. He doesn't even care for the way it makes him rub his sweat and tears onto the mattress below him. "Not this time, daddy please."

"Get up."

"Daddy–"

"I said get up."

He obeys, upper half lifting off the bed in a struggle. His calf slides out from under his knee in an effort to stand, but you grasp it harshly.

"I said get up, not stand. Turn." You almost regard him like someone that needs taking care of constantly. "Turn around now."

Aemond does so, gladly, happy to see your face even with the tears blurring his vision and even if he has to slip off your dick. You pull him further to straddle your hips.

"You," You begin, grabbing a handful of his hair to tuck his wet face into your neck. His chest presses against yours. "will keep going, and you will continue until I finish, you understand?"

"Y-Yes, daddy." His voice is shaky.

"Say it like you mean it. I've made this easier for you, I'm holding you up, you've got me to hold onto, and you'll be rubbing your cock right against me like a dog. So again, say it like you mean it, Aemond."

"Yes, daddy." Aemond says. You can hear it in his voice that he understands what you're giving him and that he's grateful. You're right, of course you're right. "Thank you, daddy."

He rolls his hips, a whole lot better than the bouncing he was attempting earlier, not for feeling but for how much less work it takes.

Pressed so close against you, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, with each roll of his hips he's pressing his dick against you. It's not intentional, just a byproduct of the proximity, but before long it becomes intentional.

He humps you more than rolls his hips, losing his mind in the pleasure. That slick feeling of his pre and your sweat making it good and easier only reminds him of Sylvi.

That only makes him feel better, imagining it.

Aemond moans, but it turns into a gasp when your fingers thread through his hair, stuck together with sweat.

"What did I tell you?"

His mind is lost to him, so he answers literally, "That you–you've made it easier."

You chuckle, "Well, haven't I?"

"Yes." Aemond breathes out. He doesn't even need you to correct him or ask, "Yes it does, daddy. It's so good, daddy. Thank you, thank you."

When he rolls his hips, it's shallow, barely rising up, but it feels good anyway. It's more about being full, taking his daddy's cock like he's made for it.

He already knows he'll be sore in the morning, hole melded to the shape of your cock.

His thighs burn again, but this time he'll get over it. It feels too good to give up.

You cradle him like he's entirely yours, a warm, guiding hand on the small of his back and another on the back of his head, keeping him against you. It's almost like you care for him.

You can still see his back, through the mirror. He rolls his hips too softly for it to be a sight, but you can still see the effort he puts into it. Furthermore, you can watch your cock disappear in and out of him, watch the way it stretches him, how it almost looks like he's sucking you in. That is what turns you on.

"Keep it going, sweetheart." You whisper into his ear.

"Yes, daddy."

You place a tender kiss at the top of Aemond's head and he shudders.

He's darn beautiful, he is. Clean shaven, everywhere. No hair on his arms, his chest or his legs. You know that special little attention to the cleanliness of his shaved hole is for you, too.

Outside of dragons, death and politics, he is rather sweet, you suppose; and no one else knows.

His lips grow apart, looser the closer he gets to release.

It's hot against your neck, your sweat and the remains of his tears, his everconstant pants, the overabundance of his messy hair.

He can't keep still, neither his hips nor his head. Sometimes his teeth find your skin, sharp like a preadator's. He'd never bite down, anyhow. Doesn't have the mind to.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

You'd been too caught up with thinking about how he was all yours, and with his cute little backside, that you didn't notice he was so close.

"There you go. Love you, yeah?" You murmur, pressing your nose to the top of his head.

Aemond can barely moan a "cumming–!" before he's finishing all over your front. He slumps right over his own mess in exhaustion, breaths slowing as he relaxes.

He think it's all over, blissed out as he is. He forgot his own promise.

Aemond hums deliriously, "Hm? Oh, love you too."

You flip the two of you over, ready to have your way, as Aemond had before. You hadn't finished yet, after all. He'd understand.

"Wait, daddy–!"

[fairytales-and-folklore]

What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Derek gets cursed by a coven of witches with an inability to lie and a compulsion to blurt out whatever he's thinking and feeling at any given moment. The ironic thing is, everything he says is incredibly nice, heartfelt, and affectionate, leaving his packmates wondering: who are you and what have you done with our emotionally constipated surly alpha?

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway. Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try. Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

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Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh as he approaches the clearing along the mountainside, home to one of the most powerful covens Beacon Hills has ever seen, swathed in protection spells so thick it's a wonder he'd been able to track them down at all. He hopes like hell they'll be able to fix this, because otherwise, he is so, so screwed.

Mother.

Fucking.

Witches.

• • •

It starts at a pack meeting late one night in mid-October, all twelve of them crowded around the living room of the reconstructed Hale house in varying states of worry and boredom, half-empty pizza boxes scattered across coffee tables and couch cushions, trying to figure out how to solve the recent problem of witches in Beacon Hills.

According to Derek, a powerful coven has encroached upon their territory, stirring up mayhem all over town — people disappearing and reappearing at random, animals transfigured into objects and vice versa (that was a wild day at the cat café), townsfolk spontaneously sprouting mythical appendages (unicorn horns, fairy wings, mermaid scales, the works) and not taking any notice until they pass by a shop window and everyone rushes out to compliment them on their SFX skills, and, of course, the occasional body-swap. All in all, it's been relatively harmless, more like practical jokes in the spirit of the season than anything truly nefarious, but Scott figures it's best they put a stop to it before someone gets hurt.

Derek and Scott had been reluctant when Stiles first pitched the idea of a co-alpha blended pack dynamic, but so far, it's been working out surprisingly well. They've been seeing eye to eye on things a lot more lately, the pack growing stronger, learning to trust and rely on one another, now that they're one united front. And on the days where they clash, Stiles, self-appointed emissary, is quick to jump in and mediate. Derek had always assumed that Stiles would be biased and favor Scott, but he's actually quite good at balancing between the two of them, seeing the merit of both of their sides, translating miscommunications in a way both Derek and Scott can understand.

Today, however, is not one of those days. Scott's arguing for one plan of attack, Derek for another — one of them says something monumentally stupid just to bruise the other's ego, and just like that, all hell breaks loose, tempers flaring, insults flying. Stiles, bless him, makes a valiant attempt to intervene, but he's so overwhelmed by the looming threat of mercurial magic-wielders that he ends up interjecting his own panic into the situation, and suddenly it's the lacrosse locker room all over again, pacing back and forth until he's just an anxiety-ridden blur, freaking out over what horrible thing the witches might be planning.

"The full moon falls on Halloween this year, and a whole-ass coven of powerful witches just happens to show up in Beacon Hills?" he frets, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast it's a wonder he doesn't run out of breath. "You can't tell me that's just a coincidence. What if they're planning some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?"

"Stiles, I highly doubt that could happen twice in the same—" Allison interjects in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but Stiles just barrels on like he hadn't heard her.

"I've seen Hocus Pocus! I know what they're after!" he practically shouts. "It's the virgin thing all over again, and in case it isn't obvious, I still haven't fixed that particular problem. Seriously, how many times is my life going to become a fuck or die trope?"

Derek blinks a couple of times, lips parting slightly as he watches Stiles's frantic pacing come to a sudden halt.

"That settles it," Stiles declares with a decisive nod. "I need to have sex. Right now. Someone needs to sex me right fucking now."

There's a scuffle of laughter from the far side of the room, and then Erica's shouting, "Derek will do it!" at the same time Jackson snickers, "Derek, that's your cue."

Derek closes his eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Of course they'd jump all over that. Of course. Because somehow, over the span of the past couple of years, nearly everyone in the pack has gotten it into their heads that Stiles and Derek have got a thing for each other, and apparently, they're feeling particularly cocky today. 

He supposes he should be used to it by now. Derek has lost count of the amount of times he's caught them all muttering things like Jesus Christ, just fuck each other already and get a goddamn room under their breath every time the two of them start going at it, throwing empty threats and half-hearted insults at each other in the weirdest brand of flirting anyone has ever seen, or the way they all make gagging noises claiming they're choking on the thick layer of sexual tension permeating the air every time Stiles and Derek so much as glance in each other's direction.

Or the way Erica had full-on cackled that one time she'd caught Derek burying his face into a pillow that Stiles had spent the entire pack meeting holding, fidgeting with it until he'd unraveled the threading in one of the corners.

It's fine, Derek thinks. He's got a sewing kit around here somewhere, he can mend it later. He is a little concerned, though. He thinks maybe Stiles had just been nervous about the topics addressed during the meeting, scared for his father's safety at the idea of yet another potential threat, but he doesn't smell any hint of fear on the fabric. It just smells good. Like Stiles. Like pack. Like home. 

And— there's a hint of something else there too, something that Derek can't quite place, but it's making his heart do this funny flipping thing inside his chest.

"Oh my god, you guys are so stupid for each other, it's sickening," Erica says, but her tone is playful, almost fond. 

"What?" Derek says distractedly, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself with company.

Erica rolls her eyes. 

"The pillow, Derek," she says, pointing at it like it's incriminating evidence. Derek wraps his arms around it and pulls it closer to his chest, tucking it under his chin.

"The fucking pillow Stiles used as a goddamn boner shield all meeting," Erica smirks. "You do know why he had it, don't you? Come on, you can't tell me you didn't do it on purpose."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Derek snaps, but it's less heated and more defensive than anything else, and suddenly he won't look her in the eye. 

Erica heaves a theatrical sigh. 

"Next time you show up for a pack meeting straight after a workout, make sure you remember to put on a fucking shirt so Stiles doesn't have a heart attack, will you?"

And then she's laughing again, whipping around the corner and strolling up the stairs to her and Boyd's room, before Derek can do more than splutter.

Derek pushes the memory out of his mind, filing it away under things we refuse to talk about, along with the rest of the ever-growing mountain of Stiles-related incidents.

He's about to laugh it off, roll his eyes and tell them all to shut the fuck up as usual, but instead, what comes out of his mouth is—

"Okay."

Spoken in the softest fucking cadence he didn't even know he possessed.

The room falls dead silent. Everyone stops what they're doing and just stares at him. Derek's heart picks up speed as his brain catches up with his stupid, stupid mouth. His eyes widen like he can't believe he just said that out loud, like he had absolutely no control over it. Because truthfully, he hadn't. He chances a look over at Stiles, and— if he wasn't so shocked and terrified by what had just happened, he'd have laughed, because Stiles has got his mouth hanging open comically wide, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline as he fixes Derek with an incredulous stare.

And then Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Oh my god," he says, practically wheezing, hand clutched over his heart. "You really had me going there for a minute. You're messing with me, just like Danny. I've never heard you joke like that before."

And then everyone else starts laughing, and Derek forces himself to join in, pointedly avoiding the looks of what the fuck plastered all over Boyd, Isaac, and Erica's faces, internally screaming his own chorus of what the ever-loving fuck because that definitely hadn't been a joke and Derek definitely hadn't mean to say that out loud.

Amidst his panic, the query who the fuck is Danny? nettles at the back of his mind, and he can't decide if he's more offended by the fact that someone else propositioned Stiles for sex, or that the fact that they weren't actually serious about it.

• • •

At first, Stiles assumes it's a practical joke, or some kind of bizarre six-months-late April Fool's prank. It has to be, because over the course of the week that follows, Derek stops being a sarcastic asshole toward Stiles, and instead, starts showering him in compliments. Stiles is just going about his life, cracking self-deprecating jokes, but instead of smirking and adding an insulting quip of his own, Derek has started to become like, aggressively nice, getting almost angry whenever Stiles insults himself.

"God, I'm so stupid," Stiles sighs as he crosses out the wrong answer to a math problem he'd been working on at Derek's kitchen table.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," Derek growls, brow furrowed like he's genuinely offended by Stiles's offhand remark. "You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."

Stiles stares at him, highlighter cap falling out of his open mouth.

Derek blinks a few times in rapid succession, dropping the stack of playing cards he'd been shuffling for their upcoming game night onto the kitchen counter with a deafening clatter. He looks just as surprised as Stiles feels.

"Uh…thanks, man," Stiles manages, a tell-tale blush prickling the back of his neck as he buries his nose in his textbook and doesn't resurface for several minutes straight, having retained absolutely nothing on the page.

A few days later finds Lydia, Cora, and Malia all roaring with laughter as Stiles walks them through his intricate twenty-five step plan to get someone to want to sleep with him before the next full moon. Mock-insulted and mostly joking, he says, "What, you don't think there's at least one person out there who wants to get with all of this? I'm a goddamn snack, I'll have you know."

"Shut up. No you're not," Derek snaps, glancing up from the book he'd been pretending to read in the far corner of the living room. And then, like he just can't help himself, immediately follows it up with, "You're a full course meal."

Stiles pauses, staring at him in disbelief. 

Derek suddenly goes very rigid, eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm. He slaps a hand over his mouth, like he's physically restraining himself from saying anything more. 

And then Stiles bursts out laughing. 

"Dude, that's funny. I'm gonna have to start using that," he says, penciling in the pick-up line as step twenty-six.

The thing is, it isn't just compliments. Derek has also started to become, like, weirdly affectionate, in his own gruff, sourwolf way. He's started talking more — Stiles is fairly certain Derek has spoken more over the past week than he has in the past two years — his expressions becoming softer, a wider range of emotions smoothing away the frown lines as he opens up about his past, sharing pieces of family history, little anecdotes and personal stories and random facts about himself. 

Stiles collects them like a memory magpie.

Derek prefers pancakes over waffles. 

Derek likes the color red. 

Derek has the entire Harry Potter series in pristine hardcover. 

Derek used to sit at his grandmother's feet and untangle yarn for her while she knitted him and his siblings cozy winter hats and sweaters. 

And it'd be really endearing if it didn't make Stiles wildly uncomfortable, because this is Derek we're talking about — a guy so emotionally constipated, it looks like it's causing him physical pain. Over the years, Stiles has come to expect a certain dynamic between the two of them, one that straddles the line between half-hearted insults and playful banter, and this whole weird new nice guy routine that Derek has suddenly got going on is starting to make Stiles suspicious.

He starts to get really paranoid, thinking Derek must have somehow found out about his — well, he wouldn't call it a crush, exactly — and is just fucking with him, just to be a dick. Like, maybe he caught Stiles staring at him during pack meetings one too many times, or— oh god, what if he can smell the arousal coming off of him in waves whenever they lock eyes, and he's finally put two and two together after all these years and figured out that the reason Stiles's heartbeat goes haywire every time Derek so much as glances in his direction isn't because he's scared of him, or because he's had too much caffeine.

Or— oh fuck. Maybe Derek had heard him that one time he'd jerked off in the shower to the thought of Derek pressing him up against his bedroom wall, and gasped out Derek's name as he'd, uh, crescendoed, before strolling back into his room wearing nothing but a sated, shit-eating grin and a towel wrapped around his waist, only to find the real Derek sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. 

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the towel, shouting all manner of colorful obscenities. The look on Derek's face is…interesting. Stiles can practically feel Derek's eyes boring into him, trailing over every inch of him, lingering on the border where his towel meets his hipbones and swallowing thickly, and Stiles can't help but follow the movements, entranced, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down and wondering how it would taste under his tongue, and oh god, now his body thinks it's time for round two and he's tenting his towel and fuck fuck fuck oh no—

And then Derek clears his throat a little louder and more aggressively than normal, and they both avert their eyes, and Stiles controls himself long enough to ask why Derek is here, and then Derek slowly turns his back so that Stiles can hastily get dressed, handing him a slip of paper with a weird symbol on it that he's hoping Stiles can decipher for him.

"So, uh…out of curiosity…exactly how long were you here before I stepped out of the shower?" Stiles asks as Derek grips the frame of his bedroom window, one foot already out on the roof. The crack in his voice is hard to miss.

"Long enough," Derek says cryptically, which could either mean "I heard you" or "you kept me waiting," and Stiles is honestly not sure which one is worse.

A loud crash snaps Stiles back to the present and he looks up to find Erica climbing through his bedroom window, followed swiftly by Boyd and Isaac, tumbling into a heap onto his bedroom floor. Try as they might, the leather-clad trio have never quite managed to replicate Derek's finesse when it comes to breaking and entering.

Before Stiles can get out even so much as a what the fuck, they're rounding on him, talking over each other in a worried frenzy, insisting that there's something very very wrong with Derek. Stiles's heart starts to race, mouth going dry, and he's already going through his mental rolodex of potential cures and fix-its, when they say the most ludicrous thing he's ever heard in his life.

"We think that Derek's been cursed," Erica says.

"By a witch," Isaac clarifies.

"And now he can only say really nice things," Boyd finishes.

"What," Stiles says flatly, and then he's snorting with incredulous laughter.

"I'm sorry, run that by me again. You think Derek's been hit with a…what, a nice guy curse?" he snickers. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

"You don't understand," Erica says seriously, bracing her hands on either side of Stiles's shoulders. "Tonight, he told us that he's proud of us and that he loves us."

Stiles's mouth drops open in shock.

"And that's not all," Isaac chimes in. "We tested it out. Asked him to tell us how he really feels about Scott, and do you know what he said?"

"What?" Stiles eyes him warily, preparing to launch into a one-man Scott McCall defense party.

"That Scott's a good kid with a heart of gold," Erica scoffs, like it's physically painful for her to recall. "Can you believe that?"

"Holy shit," Stiles says, genuinely stunned.

And suddenly it all clicks into place, the reason Derek has been so unnervingly kind to him these past few days. He's been cursed. Stupid as it sounds, there's no other explanation for it.

"Yeah, so…as you can see, Derek needs help," Erica says, like being nice is some kind of terminal illness.

"And what makes you think I can fix this?" Stiles asks.

"Duh, you're the brains of the pack," Erica grins at him, like it's obvious.

"Derek said that if anyone is clever enough to find the answer, it's you," Boyd tells him. And that's…well, weirdly nice.

• • •

So he researches, and he researches, and he researches, and he doesn't come up with a single damn thing, because never, in the history of witchcraft and wizarding lore, has there ever been a curse that made someone say nice things.

Still, it keeps happening. Derek keeps dropping nice bombs fucking everywhere, every single time he opens his mouth. And it sucks, because it's really starting to have an effect on Stiles. Derek will say something really sweet to him, and he'll find himself starting to give in to that hope he's been harboring for years, and then he has to shake himself really hard and remind himself that it's just the curse talking, that Derek doesn't actually mean anything he's saying. 

Except—

Well…lately, it's like all of their interactions have this weird sort of romantic, sexually charged undercurrent to them, and Stiles can't help but notice that Derek doesn't act like that with anyone else but him.

He'll compliment Lydia on her intellect. Kira on her katana wielding skills. Allison on her archery. He'll tell Cora and Malia how grateful he is to call them family, how brave and strong and resilient they are. He'll tell Isaac, Erica, and Boyd how proud he is that they've come so far and learned so much, not just from him, but from Scott as well, who makes a great leader. He even tells Jackson that he thinks he could go pro in lacrosse, if he wanted to. 

But with Stiles, it's much more frequent, much more specific. Little details he shouldn't notice about him. If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd think Derek was flirting with him. 

"Red is a great color on you." 

"You smell like the forest after it rains."

"Your moles and freckles remind me of star maps." 

"I like the way your smile lights up your eyes."

"You have really soft hands." 

One time, he literally just said the word, "forearms," with a wide-eyed expression on his face before bolting out of the room, leaving Stiles standing alone in the middle of the living room with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a paintbrush held aloft in one hand.

And it all just keeps tumbling out of his mouth like dulcet word vomit, like he's physically incapable of restraining himself. 

Not only that, but Stiles could almost swear he keeps catching Derek just staring at him at random intervals, but whenever he looks up, Derek's gaze quickly shifts away and the tips of his ears redden a little bit like he's embarrassed at having been caught looking at Stiles, and it's like they've switched places, because out of the two of them, Stiles is supposed to be the blushing idiot, the one saying all of these stupidly candid schmaltzy things. Stiles is the one who notices all of Derek's little details, not the other way around. 

It's so unnerving that Stiles starts to wonder whether Derek has been spiked with something even worse, like a love potion. Stiles buckles down and hits the books even harder, losing sleep as he continues to search for a cure.

• • •

They're crowded around the kitchen table one afternoon after classes let out, shooting the shit about what they think the coven could possibly be up to, when talk turns to childhood nostalgia and they all start arguing over which Hogwarts house they'd each get sorted into if they were witches. 

Scott gets a unanimous vote for Gryffindor, but his triumphant smile fades when Erica insists that Stiles belongs in Slytherin with her and Lydia, and that Derek is some kind of Gryffindor/Slytherin hybrid. Isaac thinks they're all squibs. Boyd says that Stiles would get eaten by the giant squid before he even had a chance to be sorted. Stiles gets heated, slapping the table and arguing that Derek is obviously a Hufflepuff. 

"Think about it," he says. "He's all about family, incredibly loyal, selfless to a fault, patient to a fault when it comes to that creepy uncle of his, believes in hard work and fair play, strong sense of upholding justice. Case in point, Derek is the perfect Hufflepuff."

"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Derek's sudden interjection makes them all jump, and Stiles chokes on air because there's no way in hell Derek just quoted A Very Potter Musical. Eleven pairs of eyes whip to the doorframe where Derek is standing, balancing half a dozen pizza boxes in one hand, one eyebrow arched like he's seriously reconsidering his choice in packmates. And then his entire frame relaxes, broad smile spreading across his face as he strides toward the kitchen table and sets the stack of boxes down.

"Just kidding. I've got a prefect badge with a black and yellow badger crest on it hidden in my sock drawer," he says, and Stiles doesn't miss the way the tips of his ears burn scarlet after he drops that little anecdote.

"You're all wrong, by the way," he adds, almost as if compelled to keep talking. "If anything, Stiles is a Ravenclaw. Naturally curious, avid learner and researcher, creative and clever. And I mean, sure, he's got some positive Gryffindor and Slytherin qualities, too. We all do. Bravery and cunning kind of comes with the territory. But Stiles is a textbook Ravenclaw. Plus, he looks good in blue."

Derek pauses for a moment, wide-eyed expression fixed to the kitchen floor as he sucks in a steady breath and then very slowly releases it back out through his nostrils. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then promptly walks out of the kitchen at a quick stride, leaving Stiles staring after him, open-mouthed.

(And if Stiles winds up at the local craft store the following morning, picking out the softest black and yellow yarn he can find and cramming a copy of Knitting For Dummies under his arm so that he can maybe learn how to knit Derek a Hufflepuff scarf for his birthday this year…well, what of it?)

• • •

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway.

Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try.

Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

• • •

They're in Derek's living room late one evening, nearly a fortnight after the initial incident. Everyone else has gone home, or gone up to their respective rooms. Everyone except for Stiles, who had opted to stay behind to do a bit more reading in an effort to find a way to cure Derek of what Stiles has been affectionately referring to as the curse of the compliments, tucked away into a leather armchair in the far corner of the room, while Derek sprawls out on the couch, exhausted after a run through the woods.

He doesn't know when he had gotten so comfortable around Stiles, allowed himself to become so vulnerable and unguarded, but he ends up falling asleep, lulled by the sound of Stiles's steady scribbling as he takes notes and hums thoughtfully to himself, altogether missing the affectionate smile that spreads across Stiles's face as he glances up in Derek's direction and falters mid-sentence around a half-formed question. A little shiver winds its way down Derek's spine, and Stiles immediately bolts upright, scattering notes and highlighters everywhere as he moves to wrap Derek in a patchwork quilt draped over the back of the couch.

As Derek drifts into an easy slumber, he dreams about Stiles. It's that same dream he's had countless times before, only this time, there's no impending danger, no kanima stalking around the edges of the swimming pool — just the two of them, clutching one another, breath coming out in heated gusts that spiral over the top of their heads. 

It's all so vivid, like he's reliving it, only through a different lens. He can feel the bruising grip of Stiles's arms as they wind around his torso, the way Stiles's heartbeat crashes against his ribcage, reverberating against his back. In this memory, Stiles isn't holding him up because he has to — because this time, Derek has full control over his body. He twists around in Stiles's arms until they're facing one another, breath ghosting over each other's lips, and then he's backing him up against the edge of the pool, fingertips tracing the curves of his reddened lips before surging forward and capturing him in a kiss.

He can feel everything, the press of Stiles's body against his own as Stiles arches into him, writhes against him, like he can't get close enough. The feel of Stiles's lips and teeth and tongue against his throat as he buries his face into the curve of Derek's shoulder. The way Stiles whispers his name against Derek's ear, desperate and longing, with a soft affection that makes him want to weep. 

And it's all too much, too much, too cruel because it isn't real. 

Derek wakes with a gasp and Stiles's name on the tip of his tongue, only to find the real Stiles hovering over him with a blanket grasped in his outstretched hands, staring down at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open.

"Sorry, I was just—" Stiles falters, taking a cautionary step backward and averting his eyes. "You were shivering. I thought you were cold."

He holds out the blanket like it's a peace offering.

"Oh…uh…thank you," Derek says softly, reaching out to take it and tampering down the electric shock that jolts through his chest as his hand brushes against Stiles's fingertips. 

"And um…you were kind of talking in your sleep?" Stiles poses this next statement as a question, like he's giving Derek an out, eyes cast toward the ceiling as he attacks a phantom itch on the back of his neck.

Derek bolts upright, alarmed.

"What did I say?" he asks, fully aware of how frantic he sounds.

"You, uh…well, you sort of said my name. And you were kind of like, breathing really heavily," Stiles offers, chancing a glance over at Derek. 

"Is everything okay?" he asks, shifting into concerned pack dad mode, leaning in closer and placing a comforting hand on Derek's shoulder.

"Whoah, your heart's beating really fast," he breathes, brows narrowed in concern as he searches Derek's face for a fault line, no doubt feeling the erratic thrumming as he presses his fingertips against Derek's collarbone. "You okay? Nervous about something?"

Without missing a beat, and absolutely hating it, Derek says, "Yes."

"You want to talk about it?" Stiles asks softly. "What's got you so worked up?"

You, Derek muses with something caught between a smirk and a grimace. Seconds pass before he comes to the horrifying realization that he's just said that out loud. Stiles pales, absentmindedly digging his fingertips into Derek's shoulder, where he seems to be fused.

"I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice soft, disbelieving.

"Yes," Derek grits out against his will.

"Why—" Stiles pauses, swallowing thickly. "Why do I make you nervous?"

Derek stares at him, eyes wide, wondering how in the hell he's going to get himself out of this one without revealing too much.

"I was dreaming about that night at the pool," he says slowly, choosing his words very carefully. "That's why I said your name."

And technically, technically, it's the truth. Just not all of it.

"Oh," Stiles visibly deflates, a gust of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding rushing out of him. He quickly shakes it off. "Yeah, that's gotta leave you with some pretty heavy PTSD, huh?"

Derek nods, pressing his lips together to keep the truth from spilling out.

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles says suddenly, a heart-clenching combination of guilt, sadness, and determination in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have just left you there, right? Despite what you might think, I wasn't just looking out for myself that night. Literally the only reason I let you go was because I thought if I could get a hold of Scott, we'd both have more of a fighting chance. And if Scott hadn't showed— I would've held you up all night, if I had to. After everything we've been through, I just…I hope you know that by now." 

And honestly, Derek might as well be back at the bottom of that pool, because right now, he feels like he's drowning. He just stares up at Stiles, not trusting himself to speak, his throat uncomfortably tight, the corners of his eyes prickling.

"And I'm not just saying that to be nice," Stiles continues, cutting through the tension just as easily as he'd created it. "I'm not the one who's under some weird kind of nice guy curse, or anything. Which I know must be an absolute pain in the ass for you, but don't worry, I'm doing everything I can to find a cure, and then you'll be back to the surly, grumpy Sourwolf we all know and love."

Stiles gives Derek's shoulder a reassuring little squeeze, fixing him with an affectionate half-smile before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and slipping out the front door. Derek stares at the leather armchair scattered with books and leaflets and highlighters until the Stiles-shaped imprint in its cushions fades away, and then he's stalking up to his bedroom, dragging the quilt and the pillow that always smells like Stiles with him and wrapping himself up in it like a burrito.

• • •

Stiles nearly has a heart attack when his bedroom window slides open at a quarter to midnight on the full moon, and Derek comes tumbling inside, a little breathless, but looking determined and resolute. He squares his shoulders, looks Stiles directly in the eye, and says, "Now that I'm no longer cursed and can say this without being compelled to, I've got something I need to tell you."

Stiles prepares for an onslaught of…well, something bad, because that's just his life now, isn't it? That's just been his life for the past several years, ever since the night he decided, hey, looking for half a dead body in the woods sounds like fun and next thing he knows, his best friend is a werewolf, and then everyone around him is a werewolf, or a kanima, or a kitsune, or a banshee, or a darach, or—

What he isn't prepared for is for Derek to start waxing poetic about all the things he likes about Stiles. Because oh right, on top of everything else, there's also witches and Derek has been cursed. Only it's weird, because it's not quite as nice as it has been over the past couple of weeks — in fact, he's pretty sure there's a couple of insults disguised as compliments thrown in there that Stiles doesn't even have time to register because he's just so shocked by what Derek says next.

And I think I might be in love with you.

I think I have been for a while now, I just didn't realize it.

Or maybe I just wasn't willing to admit it.

I guess it took being cursed to finally admit the truth.

And that nervous little laugh he huffs out afterward. Sweet Jesus.

Every inch of Stiles is on fire.

"Oh fuck," he says, a surge of adrenaline burning through his veins like the world's worst shot of fireball whiskey. Derek's smile withers, because yeah, oh fuck isn't exactly at the top of the list of things you want to hear after you've just poured your heart out, and the look Stiles gives him is nothing short of devastating. 

"Oh fuck, I was right," Stiles groans, burying his face into the palms of his hands like he's about to cry. "It's gotten so much worse. You're not just cursed, you're delusional."

It hits Derek like a punch to the gut. He barely registers the blur of red and blue as Stiles bounds off the bed and bolts to his desk, rummaging through haphazard stacks of journals and leather-bound books with spiderwebbed spines. Derek watches him with a kind of cautious curiosity, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

"Don't worry, Derek," Stiles reassures him in a tone that's anything but, shoving the cap of a highlighter off with his teeth and circling a passage in one of the many, many pages of his chicken-scratch notes. "I promise we'll fix this. There's got to be something in here about love potions, because it's clear to me now that you've been spiked with one. We'll catch the witch that did this to you and make them pay."

And just like that, it all clicks into place. The knot coiling in Derek's stomach unclenches, and then he's laughing unabashedly.

"You're such a fucking dumbass sometimes, you know that?" Derek says as his laughter subsides, the gentle fondness of his tone clashing with the bite of his words. "I haven't been spiked with love potion, Stiles. And I told you, I'm not cursed anymore."

Stiles freezes, caught off guard, because it's the first time he's heard Derek's sarcasm in over two weeks, and he kind of hates how much he'd missed it.

"Are…are you sure?" he asks, wincing at how small he sounds.

"Dead certain," Derek replies with a shit-eating grin that shows all of his teeth, looking for all the world like he's physically struggling to hold back his amusement.

And that's when it hits him. If Derek was still cursed, if he'd been poisoned with some kind of love potion, he wouldn't be able to throw insults and sarcastic quips at Stiles. It would go against the very nature of the spell.

Which can only mean one thing: Derek isn't cursed. He's perfectly fine, and he's fucking with him. 

Stiles can't believe he learned two-color brioche for this asshole.

"Fuck you," Stiles says harshly, watching with a sick sort of satisfaction as it wipes the smirk right off of Derek's stupidly handsome face.

"Wait, what?" Derek balks, blinking rapidly like he'd just been struck over the head.

"Fuck you for thinking it's funny to mess with a guy's feelings like this," Stiles spits, hating the pathetic tremor in his voice.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Derek asks, eyes wide with worry, like Stiles is the one who's delusional. 

"The way I see it, there's only two options here," Stiles barrels on in spite of the anxiety-fueled adrenaline twisting through his veins, heat rising in his cheeks. "Either you've been cursed or spiked with amortentia or — I don't fucking know, some kind of spell that makes you think you have feelings for me, or you were never actually cursed at all, you've figured out that I'm the one who's in love with you, and you've just been saying all of this nice shit to me to…I don't know, wind me up? Make me look like a jackass? Or maybe you just like hurting people."

That last one stings, lends venom to the bite in Derek's voice.

"Option C," Derek grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fucking Peter got involved with not one, not two, but seven witches from the same coven, and started a civil war — which explains all of the weird shit that's been happening around town lately, apparently they've been trying to curse him and each other — got caught in his own web of lies and fled the scene, but not before hitting my house to pack supplies so he could skip town. The coven tracked him down, but couldn't follow him inside because of Deaton's protection spells, so they just assumed he was hiding out in there, and placed a curse on the sole proprietor. Little did they know, the house is in my name. So, lucky me, I got the full blast of it."

Stiles gapes at him for a few moments, eyes trained on the rapid rise and fall of Derek's chest as he struggles to recompose himself. Anything involving his creepy, murderous, and now apparently two-timing (seven-timing?) uncle always gets him so riled up.

"So, what? You actually were cursed and that's the reason you've been saying nice shit for the past two weeks?" Stiles asks with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, but his tone is several shades softer than it had been a few moments ago, curiosity piqued. 

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he says with the tone of someone trying to explain something obvious to someone who's very, very stupid. "It didn't make me say nice shit, Stiles. It made me incapable of lying, like Peter lied to all of them. It made me more open and vulnerable and vocal about the things I already felt, stuff I tried to keep hidden. And it made me realize just how much I hated doing that. Because yeah, it was definitely embarrassing at times, but it was also kind of nice, not having to keep it in anymore. And I realized that everyone around me seemed happier for it, that I was able to make the people I care about feel good, just by being honest with them about how I really felt about them."

"Which is why," Derek sighs, pausing to glance up from the floor and lock eyes with Stiles. "As soon as they broke the curse, I came here…to see you…to tell you that I— what I told you."

All of the air rushes out of Stiles's lungs.

"So everything…" he manages, just barely, to keep the choked disbelief out of his voice. "Everything you've been saying to me these past few weeks…and everything you said to me just now…that was real?"

Derek offers him a small, affectionate smile that nearly breaks him in two.

"Yeah, dumbass. I meant every word."

Stiles stares at him for a moment, rooted to the spot, and Derek can practically hear the cogs turning inside his head as he processes it all and plays catch-up. And then he's smiling, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face as he bounds across the room and throws his arms around Derek's neck with such gusto that he knocks them both backward onto Stiles's bed, swallowing Derek's surprised huff of laughter in a kiss.

[foxtrot91]

sweet like syrup

The batter sizzles as Tommy pours it into the pan, the scent of the pancake batter wafting up and filling Tommy’s senses. Evan is still sleeping in the bedroom, having arrived home late last night after his shift ran over. He’d showered at the station and had practically collapsed onto the bed next to Tommy, barely managing to grunt out a greeting before being pulled under into a deep sleep. From the messages he’d received throughout Evan’s shift, it had been a rough one.

Which is why Tommy is out here now, trying his hand at pancakes made from scratch. He takes a moment to mourn the loss of his store-bought pancake mix that he used to have before Evan had taken one look at it, shot Tommy a look of disgust and declared it sacrilege before tossing it in the trash. So now Tommy has to troll Google for pancake recipes and thank whatever god might exist that Evan has also taken to expanding the ingredients Tommy has on hand even if Tommy barely touches them himself.

The Canadian Pure Maple Syrup has been a wonderful addition, actually, – “Bobby has it shipped in from Montreal, so you know it’s legit.” – and while he wishes he had the convenience of a premade mix to go with it, he accepts the trade-off. He still hasn’t figured out the whole maple syrup grading colour system, however, but he’d enjoyed listening to Evan discuss the merits of each grade and their best uses in the kitchen.

If he’s completely honest, Tommy doesn’t notice much of a difference between the light or dark syrups and is halfway convinced that the Canadian government is involved in a conspiracy with the maple syrup companies to hoodwink Americans into spending more money for their pretentious, robust flavoured syrup. Jokes on them, Tommy decides, because he would’ve bought it regardless of some made-up grading system just for the way Evan lights up whenever Bobby brings over their portion of his latest order. Also, and he is mature enough to admit this– it’s a thousand times better than the thick, artificial table syrup he’d grown up with as a kid.

You win this one, Canada, he thinks, eyeing the can of syrup with the proud maple leaf emblazoned on the label.

He's nearing the end of the batter by the time he hears a faint shuffling coming from the direction of the bedroom. By the time Evan joins him in the kitchen, Tommy has turned off the stove and has moved to set the table with two plates, cutlery, butter – real butter, not the margarine Tommy used to carry which was another quick casualty once Evan had moved in – a stack of pancakes, and of course, the can of syrup.

“You made breakfast?” Evan says, barely suppressing his yawn long enough to get the question out. He’s sleep rumpled, wearing one of Tommy’s slightly too big sweaters and a pair of sweats that he’s yet to tie up, and Tommy knows that if the sweater weren’t hiding it from view, he’d get a delicious peek at the sliver of skin and trail of hair that leads into Evan’s pants.

Small mercies, he thinks, because if it weren’t for the bulk of the sweater, Tommy is certain they wouldn’t make it to breakfast, and he’s spent way too much time putting this together to not eat it with Evan.

“I did,” Tommy says, smiling as he pulls Evan into his arms and gives him a soft, lingering kiss before pulling back. “Thought I’d surprise you… are you surprised?”

“You hate cooking,” Evan says in lieu of an answer, smiling when he looks over at the table. “It smells amazing.”

Laughing, Tommy ushers Evan over to the table and pulls a chair out for him. “Hopefully it tastes just as good,” he says with a wink as Evan sits down.

Tommy takes the seat to his right and serves up the pancakes onto both of their plates. Once adequately buttered and drenched in syrup, they both dig in. They’re definitely not as good as Evan’s – he really should ask him for the recipe he uses – but they’re still good, if Tommy does say so himself. And by the look on Evan’s face, he’d say they’re at least good enough to pass his muster. They’re quiet as they eat, the sounds of their utensils clanging on their plates the only real noises filling the dining room. It’s a comfortable silence, and given Evan’s rough shift the previous night, Tommy imagines it’s a welcome one as well.

Once they finish, Tommy stands to gather their plates, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of Evan’s head before he turns to wash up. There’s a certain domesticity to this that Tommy has never felt in any of his previous relationships. Evan isn’t the first boyfriend he’s lived with, not by a longshot, but he’s the first who’s ever made the kind of effort for Tommy that he is. The first to speedrun a sexuality crisis for the sheer fact that it was Tommy he wanted to be with, the first to cook him meals outside of any special occasion just because, and the first to make room for Tommy in every aspect of his life, to seamlessly fit Tommy in amongst the people he values most without a second thought.

He’s the first to make Tommy want to match his effort.

When he finishes cleaning up, he turns back to see Evan staring at him over the back of his chair. His elbow is rested on the back with his chin perched on top and he’s gazing at Tommy in a way that has a warm prickle starting up in his chest.

“What?” Tommy asks as he wipes his hands on the towel hanging off the oven handle.

“Nothing, it’s just…” He trails off, but Tommy doesn’t try to interject. “Nobody’s ever made me breakfast before.”

That can’t be true.

“What about Bobby?”

“That-he doesn’t count,” Evan says, like it should be obvious. “I mean like… in a relationship.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, a little stunned at the thought. Evan has had many partners; surely at least one of them would’ve–

“Yeah,” he says, smiling as he stands from the chair to join Tommy where he’s standing near the counter. “Usually it’s me,” he waves a hand vaguely towards the counter before looking back to Tommy. “It was nice, being on the other side for once.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” Tommy says, “Because I’ve got Google at my fingertips and a whole host of new ingredients, kitchen appliances, and fancy pots and pans at my disposal.” Evan laughs, ducking his head at the reminder of how absolutely batshit insane he’d gone overhauling Tommy’s kitchen when he’d moved in. “I hope you’re prepared for a lot of terrible meals,” he adds, because cooking the kinds of meals Evan is capable of has never been in his wheelhouse. Pancakes are about as good as it gets. Evan giggles and shakes his head, shoving lightly at Tommy’s shoulder in response.

God, he thinks, I fucking loves this man.

“I love you,” Evan says, eyes bright.

I love you too. He thinks it; goes to say it in return as he takes in the bright blue of Evan’s eyes.

“I want to marry you,” is what comes out instead.

Evan’s eyes go wide as saucers and Tommy has a split second to think – fuck fuck fuck… before landing on, fuck it. – as Evan sputters in shock, “T-Tommy, you can’t mean-”

“There’s a ring in my sock drawer,” he says on a slightly panicked breath, “I had it all planned out for our trip next month.”

“Wait, what trip?”

“It was going to be a surprise, Bobby put the PTO in for you,” this was the one piece that Tommy had been somewhat anxious about, but Eddie had been adamant that Evan would be very much on board with Tommy’s surprise. “I’m flying us out to a private lodge a buddy of mine owns. Just you, me, and a whole lot of forest to hike through.”

“Fuck,” Evan says, eyes wide in disbelief and Tommy feels a curl of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach. He can’t help worrying that he’s stepped wrong here, that maybe it’s too soon. Sure they’ve been together for nearly two years now but really, what’s two years in the grand scheme of things– “Yes.”

Tommy’s brain goes abruptly offline as he processes, “What?” he asks, like an idiot.

“Yes, I will marry you,” Evan is grinning, chest shaking with barely suppressed laughter as his arms loop around Tommy’s neck and tug him in for a bruising kiss.

Groaning as they pull away, Tommy lets out a dry chuckle, “I had a whole plan,” he laments, shaking his head.

Evan isn’t having it; he takes Tommy’s face in his hands and draws him in for another heated kiss before pulling back. “Whether in some private lodge or here in our kitchen, my answer is still the same,” he says, and Tommy feels breathless.

“God I fucking love you,” he confesses, resting his forehead against Evan’s, noses brushing together.

“I know,” Evan says, and then, eyes sparkling with a little bit of mischief; “Wanna find out if engagement sex is better than normal, living-together sex?”

Tommy doesn’t have time to answer in the affirmative before Evan’s mouth is on his again, his lips still sweet with maple syrup. He feels a hand snake up his shirt as they start maneuvering towards the bedroom, losing articles of clothing along the way. He has more words to say, a whole speech he’d planned out that would show Evan just how much he means to Tommy. He’ll say them sometime, later, he thinks, when the desperation has worn off and they’re laying in the afterglow, sated, and happy.

Ao3

[blorbocedes]

Lando is on top of the world, lounging on AirMax, heading into summer break as the championship leader.

The team had hoped he'd be leading the championship by a clear margin by now, allowing them to institute a 1-2 and bring home both the championships. But Oscar was still close enough that that made it insulting, to play second driver when you're one DNF away from leading the championship yourself. Lando was fine challenging Oscar on merit, and he'd done so far, innit?

Although the way the media spun it... let's just say he's glad the focus is on Max potentially leaving RedBull now, after he was spotted speaking with Toto in Mercedes hospitality.

The RedBull's kind of been a shit show. Max has been clawing at that distant P3 but only barely, and the behind the scenes internal drama, the struggling second seat -- he does not envy Max getting grilled about that every weekend.

"So, is it true?" Lando asks, raising an eyebrow. "You and Toto sitting on a tree?"

Max sips on his gin&tonic, with an air of 'you know I can't say that.'

"Come onnnn," Lando persists. Max hands him his drink and he takes a huge gulp, washing out the champagne flavour from his mouth.

Max turns to him, completely serious. He picks his words carefully. "Sometimes you can spend your whole life with a team, right? And the partnership is good. But if they do something that makes it intolerable, it's better to walk out. If they break your trust."

Lando nods quickly, taken aback by Max's seriousness. Things internally at RedBull must be worse than reported. "Course. You can be loyal to a team but you're also a driver at the end of the day, you have weigh your options and your future." Max is father now, after all, which is still surreal to think about. His lockscreen is the baby girl.

Max softens. "First one's always the best. Enjoy it, Lando. I know I did."

"It's not over til it's over." Lando says, but crosses his fingers.

What hurt the most is that it really was out of the blue for him. He'd never ever ever expect it.

Zak pulling him aside, telling him they're willing to pay out his whole contract and then more. That he'll always be a part of the papaya family. Their first world champion after Lewis in 08.

It was an out of body experience, like wading through water, the words washing over him. He kept repeating, "I don't understand."

"Kid, it was out of my hands. Once it was official Verstappen showed interest, I had to report it to the board -- and Bahrain." Zak tried to soften the blow, hiding that he had been the one aggressively courting Max. Showing him confidential information of their projections of the new car.

None of it made sense. Lando's entire world was coming to a crash. The 2026 car was a gamble, they and Mercedes were neck and neck, they were powered by them after all, but '27 was supposed to return to form for McLaren with the new regulations.

"Believe me, you and Oscar were the dream pairing." Zak always emphasized the R in Oscar in his harsh American accent.

"Oscar." Lando said faintly. Oscar who came second to him, who he beat all 3 years they've been teammates. Why? Why him? Hadn't he proven himself, hadn't he won the title, hadn't he been with the team through fucking everything when the car barely worked? Andrea's comment vaguely echoes in his head, Lando is our present, Oscar is our future.

"You don't put two big dogs in the same team. You're a big dog now, Lan." Zak had his hand on Lando's shoulder like that was supposed to make it better. Lando is McLaren's World Champion and they still chose Max Verstappen.

"Why?" Why kicking him out and not Oscar — it's an unfair thought but he was better. There's a searing, heavy, visceral pain in his chest making it heart to breathe.

"Their reasoning was --" Zak hesitates, "It would've been a McLaren driver winning this year either way. But we don't know how 26 is gonna pan out just yet. And, I guess they were really impressed with how Max won it in '24 when that wasn't the best car, so when he came knocking..."

Zak said more words after that but it all got tuned out. After that his lawyers handled the rest. When the news dropped of Verstappen and McLaren after the season ended, Lando turned his phone off, packed his bags, and headed to Finland with Max Fewtrell.

The 'no thanks' to RedBull was easy. He had no interest in going to Milton Keynes and seeing Max's face, his trophies, his legacy everywhere.

He didn't even ask who he was replacing when the offer from Ferrari came. It's racing, after all.

[obligateweirdo]

What’s Really Magic About Aziraphale

Aziraphale: terrible magician, cringey speaker of bad French, laughable dancer of antiquated steps. Even defenders of the angel say “What a dork!” and giggle over his clueless antics.

I don’t, and have never, seen them in that light, and I’d like to talk about why.

First off—maybe most importantly—I don’t laugh at good-hearted people who are dorks. I try to see their challenges and celebrate their achievements on their own merits. I strongly dislike people who cut others down because they don’t measure up to an arbitrary standard.

Angels, presumably, and demons as well, are functionaries. They sprang fully-formed into existence equipped to perform the duties that were required of them (this may or may not jibe with the GO universe, but it seems likely to). Both Crowley and Aziraphale challenge their boundaries, and both should be appreciated for doing so.

We forget the main characters in GO aren’t human, because the actors are humans cosplaying supernatural beings cosplaying humans. We see them as human in the show when they’re actually not physically embodied, and because all fictional beings are, at base, cosplaying humans by metaphorically representing our humanity.

But they’re not human, and I like it like that.

Aziraphale loves humans. His first great act of rebellion is to give away his flaming sword with the intent to protect them. We don’t know a lot about what his directives actually were, but in both books and show he’s protective of them. He loves cosplaying humans, with his portly, comfortable shape, his reading glasses, his love of creature comforts.

I think Aziraphale is fascinated by human cleverness, and wants to understand it.

Aziraphale can speak all languages, but chose to learn French “the hard way.” (In truth, this is very likely to explain why his French was “rusty” in the prison scene in S1, but it becomes an important plot point in itself.)

How does a being who was created to speak all languages learn a language “the hard way”? You can’t learn a language badly when you already instinctively speak it perfectly; can can only pretend to speak it poorly.

To actually undertake this feat, he would first have to forget the language—presumably with a self-applied miracle. This is an important point in itself because it suggests that the supernatural beings in GO can choose to forget at will. But specifically it means Aziraphale cared enough about something to go to extraordinary lengths to explore it.

Crowley is baffled by the angel’s linguistic struggle, as he fairly frequently is about Aziraphale’s special interests. As Crowley says, Aziraphale is unpredictable; and it’s one of the things Crowley adores about him, no matter how cringey or frustrating the demon finds it from time to time.

I expect if you intrinsically speak a language, it may be exceedingly difficult to relearn it. Adult humans may struggle to learn a new language, and we’ve needed to do so many times over the course of human existence. We’re born with the ability to learn languages, and learn new ones if necessary.

Aziraphale was made with the ability to speak all languages; he isn’t naturally equipped to learn them word by word as humans have to. It’s outside of his skill set. Of course he isn’t very good at it, but he had the persistence to make the attempt, and is justifiably proud of his progress, no matter how we feel about it. Aziraphale is the only angel (or demon) we know of to have taken this radical step.

It’s been pointed out that French is known as the language of love, and that it’s beyond relevant that Aziraphale learned it from a Monsieur Rossignol. We might say that metaphorically he’s the only angel who has forgotten what Heaven has taught him about love (if anything), and relearned it, haltingly, the way a human learns it—by heart, the hard way. I hope he speaks it fluently some day.

The Gavotte. Ok, it’s cute and funny that Aziraphale learned something as antiquated and obscure in modern times as this dance, and it’s so adorable to watch him enjoy his skill. But let’s take into consideration that, canonically, angels don’t dance. Like they really don’t dance, like, “it’s one of the distinguishing characteristics that marks an angel” don’t dance. They don’t dance the same way orioles don’t tie their shoelaces, and even demons (presumably laxer about decorum in general) apparently aren’t very good at it.

This is something no other angel has ever done. He’s not a two-left-feet guy who has to work to get a mediocre skill, he is a pioneer of an art form that his species has never explored.

But Aziraphale, although he took to it like “a duck to merchant banking,” persisted, and (unlike French), he became “quite good at it.” If that’s not a triumph against your conditioning and your toxic heritage, I don’t know what is.

Then there’s magic. Yeah, yeah, yeah, usually he’s embarrassingly bad at it and it’s very funny at his expense. Why is he bad at it? Because, as Crowley points out as he tries to fathom what the hell is up with his angel, he can do real magic, and he’s good at that. That engineered Austenian ball was a tour-de-force of miraculous orchestration.

But he loves human magic—prestidigitation, sleight-of-hand. He was made with the talent for miracles; the skill for illusion he has had to fight for and to persist at.

I think about ancient cultures where the imitation was more valuable than the original—imitations of natural objects made of cloth or precious stones where the value is in the human ability to mimic, to fool the eye of the observer. I’m a sculptor in a small way, and I know a good statue of a cow will generally enthrall me more to look at than a living cow (no matter how fond of cows I may be), and in a different way.

NO HE ISN'T “GOOD” AT IT. Of course he isn’t. It’s actually against his nature, but he does it anyway. Why would an angel need an aptitude for stage magic? He doesn’t have the aptitude, but he persists.

And I know, I know: Crowley was so very gentle when he told Aziraphale—right after Aziraphale’s magic trick saved his demonic bacon—that he really is “terrible at magic.” I think it may actually be the worst thing Crowley does in the series. It always makes me cringe. He could just as well have said “retire the act until all the kinks are worked out” (which is also a fun double-entendre, of which they are fond), or something of that nature. Give the angel a break—it was his first time on a big stage, with a dangerous act that hadn’t been rehearsed, in the chaos of trying to perform with an unexpected miracle blocker in action—and they pulled it off. Aziraphale scarcely missed a beat.

Terrible at (stage) magic? Aziraphale is better at it than any other angel. That’s pretty impressive, really.

Angels are also presumably not engineered to lie, which is another form of human magic. We often see Aziraphale as a bad liar, but when the chips are down, he lies as well as any demon (or any human, more germanely).

In Conclusion

Aziraphale is not just funny and clumsy; he’s actually a trailblazer. We all know Crowley asks questions—but so does Aziraphale. The questions are just different ones. I think he loves how humans work and delights in experiments to celebrate them.

We see Aziraphale being brave a number of times—in the Final Fifteen, certainly, in the confrontation in the dressing room with FurFur, and—my favorite—when he goes balls-out (with apologies to Jane Austen) to defy the hectoring martinet of a quartermaster, to desert Heaven’s army and defect to earth despite being handicapped by the lack of a body, in search of someone to possess despite having no idea how any of that works. He figures he will just learn on the job, and he did.

But I think he deserves recognition for the bravery of doing so many things he isn’t good at, will likely never be good at, likely never can be good at. He delights in them for their own merit and doesn’t judge himself by others’ standards.

Maybe your own victories are worth celebrating, even if your best friend thinks you’re terrible at them.

[rose-maidenn]

Destiny swapping among mars nakshatras

What is destiny swapping ?

The interchange of your life course with someone else , generally occurs when someone close to you tries to copy you to the point of exchanging fame and popularity and your talents , you lose your position and feel drained while the swapper gains more and more .

Generally occurs when people with bad intentions have too much access to you .

For more info watch this by Chokoladka ✨️

Some of the widely known examples of destiny swapping are

Aaliyah and Beyonce, Paris and Kim

In both the cases Aaliyah and paris ( both Dhanistha natives ) were destiny swapped by Beyonce and Kim ( both Chitra natives) .

Dhanisthas have the khyapayitri shakti to gain game and abundance so that is very natural to them , people being jealous too , dhanisthas have to be careful about the people around them . In case of Chitra they have punya chayani shakti to achieve good merit , use this power to create the best in art like Vishwakarma himself .

Apart from celebrity cases even in real life I have observed this in case of Aries ( mars sign) natives , the other girl was getting too close to my friend was adopting her clothes her vocabulary and her energy , slowly my friend was feeling bounded by her , by God's grace she recognized the thing and moved away from the other girl.

In case of Chitra swapping with Dhanistha it's like the Martian restlessness in case of Chitra, Dhanisthas experience the height of mars , if a Chitra native isn't well knowledgeable they will do it intentionally or unintentionally, my advice is to be careful and knowledgeable and avoid such circumstances because all of us have our unique Destiny.

Apart from in case of mars nakhatras and signs this can also happen in case of Sagittarius natives with Sagittarius natives ( Purva ashadha, uttara ashadha and mula ) so please be careful .

Destiny swappers get to know you by being close to you and ultimately swap , cause loss of popularity or being astry from your true path

To be away from destiny swappers maintain discrepancy and choose your closed ones carefully .

🫶Thanks for reading

[st-juliet]

Utmost Merit, Part V

Character: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: Sherlock presents the Reader with a most unconventional proposal.

Content: Absolutely 18+ for very very very filthy language, smut with minimal plot, purposely unprotected sex, breeding kink, spouses-to-lovers, pregnancy, and some period-typical gender roles, but nothing unkind or insidious.

Notes: What if I told you I'm back?

Previous Chapters: Part I Part II Part III Part IV

The first week of your married life is like a dream.

The day after your wedding, Sherlock whisks you off to his family estate, a rambling manor house set back within acres and acres of woodland paths and open fields, even more beautiful than he promised. His brother and sister’s absence and his generous afternoons and evenings off for the staff give ample opportunity for you to indulge in one another…all over the house.

He takes you in the library, pressed up against the shelves; bends you over the billiards table; and, with a wolfish grin, kneels and turns his lips and tongue to profane purposes as you perch upon the edge of his desk, clutching him closer by his hair and crying out in exaltation.

At first, this heedless freedom of passion is enough to distract you from the feelings which only grow the more time you spend with your husband, from your hours on the train and in the carriage—the conversation flowing and gentle touches exchanged—to boisterous picnics ending in you laughing your way across the lawn naked, with your ravenous lover in hot pursuit.

In these tender and impassioned moments, you find you can forget yourself: your fear and your longing fade as he pins your wrists above your head and ruts into you like an animal, growling sacrilegious curses into your ear, or when he gently, maddeningly slowly drags the head of his cock across the delicate bud at the apex of your thighs, cooing, “Such an impatient creature you are, Mrs. Holmes. I’ll have your pleasure from you first, then I will give you my cock…”

But these interludes of relief, when you can almost pretend that he returns your love in full measure, are more and more fleeting. As soon as your head rests upon his chest and your eyes flutter closed, drowsy in the warmth of his arms, you must shake yourself awake again, lest some sleepy murmur of affection escape you. When he tosses and turns in his sleep, you long to comfort him with promises of eternal devotion, your heart a safe harbor for all his worries and fears, but you can only try to comfort yourself with the knowledge that at least you get to bask in the light of him for all your days, even if the shadows cast by that light mar your joy.

A fortnight since the wedding and near a month after you first gave yourselves to one another fully, those shadows have prevailed. For the third morning in a row, you have awoken melancholy and quiet, slipping out to walk the grounds before he wakes. Your heart is most compromised in the morning, seeing Sherlock at his most vulnerable: fluttering eyelids, half-parted lips, his colossal form stretched out and laid bare to your besotted eyes and fervent hands. If you woke him with a kiss—or anything more—you knew you might not leave bed for hours. 

But you cannot risk it today. If he so much as opened his eyes, your first words would be “I love you”, and the spell would be broken, the arrangement betrayed, the trust between two equals thrown into an even greater imbalance. You are protecting him, you reason as you quietly dress, from a revelation that would only cause you both greater pain. The fresh air, you hope, will do you good and clear your head, and perhaps you will contrive as you walk some means by which you can fall out of love with the man who, you suspect more and more each day, has already given you his child.

Hours later, having traced course of a babbling brook back and forth a half dozen times and circled the tallest tree of the estate over and over again, your spirit and body grow weary—and your stomach unsettled—and you know you must return home. As you approach the house, you can see Sherlock through the wide window in the parlor, fully dressed and pacing back and forth, raking his hands through his hair. He catches your eye through the glass and, to your dismay turns away, whether in anger or embarrassment you cannot tell. Your heart plummets. You know you must go in to him, and when you arrive in the parlor, he faces you and acknowledges you with a slight bow, as if you were virtual strangers again.

“Was your walk pleasant?”

“Yes, thank you.”

For the first time since his proposal, a tense, wary silence grows between you. His manner is as sober as your own, and you uneasily hover in the doorway, unsure as to whether he welcomes your presence or would rather you go right back out again.

“Will you come and sit with me?” he asks at last, and you gingerly join him on the settee below the window. Not quite meeting your gaze, he continues, “Rosamund, these past few days, I have sensed a distance, such as has not been since we were strangers. Even when we…when I hold you most nearly…a veil has fallen between us.”

“I cannot deny it,” you murmur, steeling yourself for the conversation you have been dreading.

“Do you know the cause?” he asks.

He knows. He must know. And now he would have you name it.

“I know…I have realized that our feelings for one another…differ.”

He nods slowly, murmurs, “I have deduced the same,” and turns his face away from you, taking a slow, deep breath. The moment seems to stretch for hours, each second heavier than the last.

“Well. We are more fortunate than most,” he says at last in a measured tone, a pained smile barely flickering across his lips as he glances back at you, only to look away again immediately. “In that our minds, our tastes, and our purposes in life are so aligned. It would have been too much to ask of providence that our hearts be likewise matched, do you not think so?”

“Indeed,” you manage, feeling tears pool in your eyes. You know he does not mean to hurt you, in bringing this matter to light—entirely the opposite. You promised one another perfect honesty, but you began to think suffering in silence and doubt was far better than this excruciating surety: he had recognized your love, but did not requite it.

“If you are yet amenable to our shared purpose, I myself am wholly undeterred. Every word I have said to you is true: my respect for you, for the exemplary wife and someday mother you show yourself to be, takes precedence over all. But given the circumstances, we might perhaps continue with a more…restrained approach. If you prefer to cease our relations for the moment and wait until such a time as you may have surety of your condition, I will resume my lodgings at Baker Street in anticipation of a verdict. We may then renegotiate our terms, one way or another. But you must know that no matter what, you will never be without my protection and devotion. And my utmost fidelity.”

“Oh, oh, no, Sherlock, how could I ask—?”

“And, if one day you find you love another—”

“Love another?! I could not love another, I love only y—!”

“—I will turn my eyes away and bear it without hesitation or complaint. But I can no longer pretend! I love you. I will love you till my dying breath and whatever remains of me beyond this life will still seek your service, your comfort, your good. I cast myself upon your mercy, Rosamund!”

Sherlock Holmes, his eyes brimming with tears, falls upon his knees before you, taking your hands in his.

“Will you forgive me that I cannot pretend any longer? Will you still have me? Will you still allow me to be a husband to you, to care for you and build a life for you and for our…?”

His voice trails off into a stifled cry, and you throw your arms around him, covering his face with kisses as your own tears flow.

“Sherlock! Please, oh please don’t cry, my love!” The torrent of adoration you have stemmed for so long pours fourth from you as though a dam had burst. “My dearest friend, my very heart…we have mistaken one another! I thought you did not love me!”

Sherlock’s demeanor shifts in a heartbeat, as if he has been struck by lightning.

“You love me?”

“I have loved you since long before I knew it! And every minute we share delivers me a new reason to love you more, every day better than the last, every word I speak to you a profession of my love! I could not pretend either…for no other reason could I tear myself from your side. Forgive me my coldness! I thought it for the best—”

“No, no, there is nothing to forgive,” he insists, rising and drawing you up to stand, completely enveloped in his arms, pressing fervent kisses to your cheeks and forehead and lips. ““I have most of all deceived myself in swearing I was no romantic! What a fool to think I could resist the call of a soul’s companion? My perfect angel, my salvation! I will spend a lifetime making up for a month’s lack of telling you of my love.”

“I shall never grow tired of it,” you promise him, each breath a sigh of relief, a prayer of thanks, a new dawn of hope.

“There is no man alive who knows my joy, nothing on earth that can surpass it!”

“Nothing?” you reply very quietly, unable to be measured or careful now…it was far, far too late for that. “Then you do not wish to hear of another happiness?” For the second time in a single morning, the whole earth’s axis shifts as Sherlock’s eyes widen. You quickly continue, “It is early yet. Too early. But yet I…I feel it, in my heart, as surely as I feel I love you.”

Sherlock Holmes bows his head and weeps in earnest, burying his face in your hair as he holds you tightly and whispers over and over again, “My love, my wife…”

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[pulsingvoid]

mistynat are so tailored to my tastes im in awe that they even exist because i NEVER get to have female characters like this. SO much had to align for them to be this good: thee christina ricci and juliette lewis dying to work together for several decades and finally getting a chance to do it on a network series that's relying on 90s nostalgia. the writers having no choice but to pair them up because how can you not. leaning into both their vibes and making lewis an edgy trigger-happy con artist (which they then forgot to expand on but that's fine <3) and ricci an offbeat pedantic psychopath. them dodging blandness and palatability by not quite being protagonists and having complementary eccentric character designs. lewis freshly out of a role where she plays a butch lesbian having lesbianism on the brain the entire time she plays nat. ricci being tired of being exploited by the industry and refusing to entertain misty romancing a man. misty wearing frumpy clothes the entire first season because ricci was pregnant, thus creating incidental body type diversity (true for teen misty as well since sammi was pregnant while filming s3). explosive chemistry between actors that have orbited each other for 20 years and are now basking in finally getting to work together. the characters themselves being heavily traumatized and therefore allowed to look and behave like freaks in an increasingly sanitized tv climate. and of course this couldn't last and of course they torched it by season two by writing lewis off the show but as it happens said show has TWO timelines and now i get to watch the effortlessly cool and dreamy rising superstar sophie thatcher emulate whatever riccilewis had going on with an actress whose misty is so unpleasant and awkward and pathetic that she makes ricci's misty seem tame and quirky in comparison. and people are either finally seeing the merit of this dynamic or they're crashing out because they find misty as repulsive as they find nat hot. even when i lose i win. cannot believe this is my life