#bowling pin stim

[cutiepieautistic]

Jermbo stimboard

×/×/�� ×/× ×/×/×

[gummi-stims]

🎳🌌Cosmic Bowling🪐🎳

From glitter.slimesofficial's Y2K nostalgia collection! (Link only leads to the slime maker's tiktok account, unfortunately the video I got these from got deleted/taken down while I was editing the gifs)

[faefetti]

Hello Little Pumpkin! Are you ready to enjoy your spooky party? 🌙ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐🎃✨🖤🧡

Here just for you, it’s your very own spookie room! And a mini partie for you and whoever you’d like! (Unless of course, you’d prefer to keep all those candies and sweets for yourself 🧡🖤)

Featuring pretty lights for looking and touching, a little blow up set of pumpkins, a blanket for getting cozy and maybe watching a spookie movie with, plenty of super delicious treats to enjoy, the perfect tent for stimming and kicking your feet in, some bowling pins and a perfectly orange ball and lots of plushie friends!

Remember that you can check out any of the other rooms I’ve made you in the softroom time tag! With that being said, it’s time to vote again! So…

[le-velo-pour-dru]

What a fun premise!! I love this picrew, the art style is very fun and the choices are awesome (and I'm so happy they included an iDKHOW pin!!!! ^w^)

Tagging (no pressure): @prettylittlelights @battlecriesandroses @date-mate-re-animate @chocolatebonboncookie @bowied-lennox and anyone else who wants to do it!! :P

[ID 1: A picrew of a pale person with straight chin-length brown hair. They're smiling and giving a peace sign. They have brown headphones around their neck, a chew stim necklace, a Lemon Demon hoodie, an iDKHOW pin, and a button that says, "Ask me my pronouns". They are in front of the genderfluid and bigender flags.

ID 2: A picrew of the same pale person, but with thick shoulder-length brown hair. They're smiling and holding the cat from the Spirit Phone cover. They have pink heart-shaped glasses a pink bow in their hair, alien themed earrings, a pink spiked choker, a colorful choker with shapes like hearts and stars, and white angel wings. They're wearing a button-up shirt with a pattern like an 80s bowling alley carpet, with a Lemon Demon pin and a button that says, "Ask me my pronouns". They are in front of the genderfluid and bigender flags.

ID 3: A picrew of a pale person with short hair that's half black and half white. They're grinning while flapping their hands as a stim. They have ghost earrings, a Lemon Demon hoodie, and a button with the symbol for autism on it. They're in front of a background that's half the transgender flag, and half the pattern of an 80s bowling alley carpet.

ID 4: A picrew of the same pale person, but with short hair that's half black and half teal. They have three eyes, and a smile with fangs poking out. They're holding the cat from the Spirit Phone cover. They have stickers of hearts and stars on their cheeks, horror-themed earrings, and a black spiked choker with two small colorful necklaces and a necklace with a big UFO hanging off of it. They're wearing a suit with a jacket patterned to look like the game Pac-Man, and a Lemon Demon pin. They're in front of a background that's half the transgender flag, and half the pattern of an 80s bowling alley carpet.

ID 5: A picrew of a pale person with short, straight, brown hair. They're smiling with their tongue sticking out. They have glasses and ghost earrings, and they're wearing a red flannel over a white t-shirt and a fishnet shirt. They have Lemon Demon and Talking Heads pins. They're in front of a background that's half the nonbinary flag, and half the pattern of an 80s bowling alley carpet.

ID 6: A picrew of the same pale person, but with short hair that's half pink and half brown. They're smiling with their tongue sticking out and holding the cat from the Spirit Phone cover. They have glasses, but their eyelids are purple, and their eyes are all black except for their yellow pupils. They still have ghost earrings. They're wearing a purple jacket over a pink t-shirt, with a simple black choker, two small colorful necklaces, and a necklace with a big UFO hanging off of it. They still have Lemon Demon and Talking Heads pins. They're in front of a background that's half the nonbinary flag, and half the pattern of an 80s bowling alley carpet.

ID 7: A picrew of a pale person with short, wavy, white hair. They're smiling with their eyebrows downturned, and they have glasses, but their eyelids are purple, and their eyes are all black except for their yellow pupils. They're drawing with a drawing tablet covered in stickers. They have devil horns and dinosaur earrings. They're wearing a button-up shirt covered in beakers and vials with a Lemon Demon pin. They're in front of a background of fire.

ID 8: A picrew of the same pale person, but with short, wavy hair that's half white and half black. They're smiling with one eyebrows raised, and they have glasses, but their eyelids are purple, and their eyes are all black except for their yellow pupils. They're holding the cat from the Spirit Phone cover. They have devil horns, black lipstick, and skeleton earrings. They're wearing a colorful tweed suit with a Lemon Demon pin. They're in front of a blue background with yellow eyes on it.

ID 9: A picrew of a pale person with mid-length, wavy, brown hair. They're smiling with fangs poking out, and their hands are up and flopped at the wrists. They have dark freckles on their face and a necklace with a moon on it. They're wearing a hoodie with a fire pattern and a button that says, "she/they". They're in front of the demigirl flag.

ID 10: A picrew of the same pale person, but with shorter brown hair. They're smiling with fangs poking out, and their hands are up and flopped at the wrists. They have dark freckles on their face, small antlers, star earrings, white angel wings, and a necklace with a moon on it. They're wearing a hoodie with a fire pattern and a button that says, "she/they". They're in front of the demigirl flag.

ID 11: A picrew of a person with long ginger hair. They have a slightly worried-looking expression, and there's a red flower on their left side. They have orange, yellow, and white flowers in their hair, wireless earbuds in, and a necklace with a round, green charm. They're wearing a button-up shirt with ghosts on it over a black and white striped shirt, with a Hello Kitty pin. They're in front of a blue background with a white circle behind their head.

ID 12: A picrew of the same pale person, but with shorter hair that's half pink and half ginger. They have a happier expression, and there's a big teal worm on a string to their left. They have a pink bow in their hair, small hoop earrings, and a pink heart necklace. They're wearing overalls with paintbrushes in the pocket over a red button-up shirt with mice on it and a fishnet shirt. They have a black cat pin on their shirt. They're in front of a blue background with a white circle behind their head.

ID 13: A picrew of a pale person with short brown hair. They're looking to the right with a neutral expression, and a phone with a space-themed phone case is to their left. They have acne and headphones over their ears. They're wearing a green t-shirt with a button with the symbol for autism on it. They're in front of a background with color bars seen on a TV screen, with white stars around them.

ID 14: A picrew of the same pale person, but with brown hair shaved close to their head. They're looking to the right with a neutral expression, and a phone with a space-themed phone case is to their left. They have acne, antennae with light blue ends, and an earring shaped like a UFO. They're wearing a suit with a pattern that looks like their skeleton, and a button with the symbol for autism on it. They're in front of a red background with a white scribble behind it.

ID 15: A picrew of a pale person with long dark brown hair. They're smiling, and they have colorful braces. They have glasses and acne. They're wearing a light blue t-shirt with eggs and bacon on it, and a yellow ribbon pin. They're in front of a pink background with a white squiggly border.

ID 16: A picrew of the same pale person, but with pink hair in a bun. They're grinning, and they have a split eyebrow. They have stars above their head, hearts on their cheeks, a colorful choker with shapes like hearts and stars, and a necklace with the Star of David on it. They're wearing a button-up shirt patterned to look like the Dare To Be Stupid cover over a fishnet shirt, and they have a yellow ribbon pin. They're in front of the aroace flag, with a white squiggly border.

ID 17: A picrew of a pale person with short blond hair. Their eyes are closed and they're smiling, and they have a Cthulhu plush to their left. They have dark freckles, headphones over their ears, a necklace with a mushroom on it, and a necklace with the triple goddess symbol on it. They're wearing a purple hoodie, with a button with the symbol for autism on it, and a possum on their shoulder. They're in front of the sapphic and genderqueer flags.

ID 18: A picrew of a pale person with short brown hair. They looking to the right, smiling and waving. They have colorful clips in their hair, corded earbuds in, butterfly earrings, a colorful choker with shapes like hearts and stars, and a necklace with a crystal on it. They're wearing a button-up shirt with a pattern like an 80s bowling alley carpet over a rainbow shirt, and they have a button that says, "she/they". They're in front of the unlabeled and aroace flags.

ID 19: A picrew of a pale person with short brown hair. They're smiling and giving a peace sign. They have glasses and a beauty mark to the right of their mouth. They're wearing a navy blue hoodie with a purple ribbon pin. They're in front of the nonbinary and aroace flags.

ID 20: A picrew of the same pale person, but with short brown hair dyed purple in the front. They're grinning and giving a peace sign. They have glasses, duck earrings, and a necklace with a moon on it. They're wearing a colorful cardigan over a purple shirt, with a purple ribbon pin. They're in front of the nonbinary and aroace flags.

ID 21: A picrew of a pale person with mid-length brown hair, half of their bangs being blue. Their eyes are closed and they're grinning. They have acne, brightly colored star earrings, and a necklace with the triple goddess symbol on it. They have a navy blue t-shirt on with rats on their head and shoulder and a button that says, "I use any pronouns". They're in front of the lesbian and aroace flags.

ID 22: A picrew of a pale person with light ginger hair. He's looking to the right, and his tongue is poking out of his mouth, and he's giving the "rock on" sign. He has wireless earbuds in and a colorful choker with shapes like hearts and stars. He's wearing a colorful button-up shirt with a button that says, "he/him". He's in front of the aroace and transgender flags.

ID 23: A picrew of the same pale person, but with short hair that's half white and half blue. He's looking to the right and smiling, and giving a peace sign. He has wireless earbuds in, a sword earring, a colorful choker, and a simple black necklace. He's wearing a button-up shirt with ghosts on it over a black and white striped shirt, and he has a button that says, "he/him". He's in front of the aroace and transgender flags.

ID 24: A picrew of a pale person with long brown hair. They're smiling. They're wearing a navy blue hoodie and are in front of a white background.

ID 25: A picrew of the same pale person, but with short, darker brown hair. They're smiling. They're wearing a frog hat, dragon and sword earrings, brown headphones around their neck, and a necklace with a moon on it. They're wearing a dinosaur hoodie with a button that says, "they/them". They're in front of the asexual flag.

ID 26: A picrew of a pale person with short hair with blond bangs and brown hair. They're smiling. They have glasses, a beauty mark to the right of their mouth, and skull earrings. They're wearing a button-up shirt with ghosts on it over a black and white striped shirt. They're in front of a dinosaur-themed background.

ID 27: A picrew of a pale person with short, curly, blue hair. Their eyes are closed and they're smiling. They have planets above their head, dragon and sword earrings, and teal dragon wings. They're wearing a denim jacket covered in patches over a t-shirt. They're in front of a background patterned with bubbles, there's a white square behind their head, and there are two ghosts on either side of them.

ID 28: A picrew of a pale person long blonde hair. She's smiling with her tongue sticking out and her hands are up and flopped at the wrists. She has glasses, wireless earbuds in, and mushroom earrings. She's wearing a cardigan over a shirt with a frog on it, and she has My Melody and iDKHOW pins on. She's in front of a pink background with a white circle behind her head.

ID 29: A picrew of the same pale person, but with pink hair in two buns. She's smiling with her tongue sticking out and there's a plush of a rosy maple moth to her left. She has brown moth antennae, glasses, stickers of hearts and stars on her cheeks, corded earbuds in, mushroom earrings, moth wings, and a colorful choker with shapes like hearts and stars. She's wearing a bee hoodie with iDKHOW and My Melody pins on it. She's in front of a pink background with a white circle behind her head. /end ID]

PICREW CHAIN TIME!!!

https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1078070

Using this picrew, make how you currently look vs how you want to look! (Or just one of those, doesn't matter!) Anyone can join, but I'll tag people too!

Here's mine:

Have fun!

@fairy-space @gin-juice-tonic @glitchxcat08 @lemondemonpickuplines @luckynature @labratgurlz @longmasluck @mike--exe @ominous-arcade @penguinsinhell @prettyshitwizard @r0b0-rainb0w @triangleguy @transexualsonic @touchtoneautismphone @touchtonemegaphone @unsubtle-oddities @3v3ry0n3z-fav3-al13n-x3 @4ng3l-g4br13l

[nonobadcat]

A real world AU Gothic Romance - Final Chapter

Artwork by the amazing @obsidianne-art

Pairing: Ghost Shigaraki X Fem!Reader

Rating: Readers 18+ only

Content Warnings: PnV relations with a literal ghost, toys, mirror

Chapter Three Word Count: 3.9k, Ao3 Mirror

Part I ---❤--- Part 2

Sunday October 23rd, 2022

At six in the morning, you awoke to the screech of a train horn, and a full bladder. Wiping your half-matted hair out of your face, you creaked to your feet and wrapped yourself in the comforter. Dragging your warmth with you into the bathroom, you climbed onto the toilet with one eye open…

…and proceeded to pee fire.

By nine in the morning, two inquisitive text messages and one graphic description of chafed skin summoned your best friend to the landline like a fox to an injured bunny. 

“Well, of course you’re gonna give yourself a rug burn using something rough like that!” Serenity spat into the phone. “What were you thinking?!”

Um… how horny you were for some dead man’s dick?

Gripping the cold pack between your thighs, you winced. “Since when is thinking involved in that kind of thing?”

An annoyed snarl echoed from the other end. “Look, if you can’t use your fingers, you need to use a toy or something!”

You scrolled through the adult toy listings, eyeing up the options. Fake glass cock. Fake silicone cock. Fake plastic cock. Fake hot pink plastic cock with a little vibrating branch that looked like Vienna sausage. Hitachi wand. Egg thingy. Silver bullet? That sounded more like a solution to a werewolf infestation than something you wanted to put between your legs.

 “Give me a break Ren-Ren! There’s too many different options,” you protested,  scratching the back of your neck. “How am I supposed to know what to buy?”

You could practically hear your best friend’s headache as she loosed an indignant sigh. “All right. I got you. Do you want inside or outside stim?”

“Um…” you scrolled past a fake tentacle with weighted Kegel eggs. “Both?”

“Then order a rabbit.”

“What’s a rabbit?”

“Heaven have mercy,” she muttered. “Sit yourself down because this is going to be a long talk.”

Monday, October 31st, 2022 4:013 pm

Eight days after your sexual re-education lecture, a text message notification dinged your phone as you passed through the center of Smalltown, USA. Pulling into the old brownstone library, you parked your car and took advantage of the only five bar signal in Podunk County outside of the Walmart plaza. Not even the smell of garlic and deep fried something pouring out the vent from Wang’s Chinese Buffet could distract you from your excitement. The message was from USPS.

Your package has been delivered.

Oh good, Mrs. Murray’s pack of angry, push-face Pekingese hadn’t eaten the mail lady. You weren’t so sure when you saw her tearing down the sidewalk last week, being chased by bubble-fluff Cujos who probably asphyxiated for their efforts.

As you looked up from your phone’s screen, blustering winds painted the smooth cement walkway to the library doors with curled, brown leaves. A plastic sign reading “Trunk-or-Treat - 5pm - Halloween” flapped in the wind. You eyed the library's posted hours before cutting the engine. Perfect. For once, you were done with house calls early enough to go inside. Snagging your purse, you schlepped up the walkway to the glass doors and pushed your way in.

Paper cut-out ghosts and fresh pumpkins from “Miller’s Prize Winning Patch” coated the warm lobby with seasonal excitement. Tiny rubber bats flapped from the door frame, leading visitors up a trail of plastic “Big Foot” tracks to the circulation desk. Pinned into a vintage, slate colored silk dress with billowing mutton sleeves, the head librarian paused her frenzied typing just long enough to adjust her golden Prince-Nez spectacles. She tugged at the frilly trim of her high collar, fussing with the long lace. The upturned brim of her wide, feathered hat reminded you of a bowl. It didn’t budge as she lifted her head to face you. Considering the number of long, pearl tipped pins she’d inserted through the felt, it probably would have shrugged off an EF5 tornado by having a glass of sherry.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Curtwright." You folded your hands neatly on the desk. "I'm sorry it took me so long to make it in. Work has been savage."

The librarian smiled and turned to the squat metal, bookcase marked “holds”. She pulled down a heavy grey text labeled “Miller’s Antiques Encyclopedia”. “It’s just so good to see that old house cared for by someone who really appreciates its history,” she replied, passing you the massive reference book. 

“Speaking of which, do you know what happened to the Shimura’s son after the fire?”

She hummed, tapping her chin. “Not off hand.”

You sighed. “Oh well.”

“Did you find another picture in the old furniture?”

“Uh…” Your cheeks burned as images of the naughty dream drifted across your mind. “Something like that. There was a young man in his twenties with wavy white hair. He looked a little different but I could swear it was the same person.”

“If you know the date, we can check some of the old town records.”

“There wasn’t a date on this one.”

She tugged at her sleeve. “Do you remember what his clothing looked like?”

You crossed your arms. “A red velvet jacket with these fasteners that looked like a marching band uniform.” Closing your eyes, you tried to picture the outfit you were wearing. “There was a woman in something that looked like your dress. It was really tight fitted with these slightly poofy sleeves—”

“Poofy at the shoulder or the wrist?”

“The wrist? Sort of anyway. The end of the coat was wide like a funnel.” You scrunched your face. “It was short and the shoulders were smooth, like a normal suit coat.”

“Bell sleeved jacket with Bishop sleeve shirtwaist. Probably Edwardian then. Did the dress have an S-shape that made the chest and butt stick out?”

You nodded.

“Pouter pigeon. Classic Gibson Girl look,” she murmured, leaning into the conversation. “Must have been the early years. Was there a hat?”

“Yes. It was kind of puffy and made of felt.”

“Did it have a brim?”

You pinched the air. “Maybe a small one?”

“A beaver felt Toque. I’d guess 1901 to 1904. By 1905 they were back to the Leg-of-Mutton style shirts.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Let’s go check the old town records.”

Leading you across the open floor, she motioned to some leather bound volumes on the far wall behind the “Historical” desk. Labeled by decades, each volume was four inches thick. She tugged down the 1880-1910 binder and gingerly flipped through the yellowed pages. You leaned on the beige, laminate countertop, peeking over her shoulder. All at once, a single certificate caught your eye.

“There! Shigaraki! That was the name I saw.” You pointed to the small slip of paper. “What is that?”

“Huh…” She turned the book so you could read it. “Adoption paperwork. It looks like little Shimura was adopted by someone named… well… the first name is smeared but the last name is clearly Shigaraki.” Mrs. Curtwright wrinkled her long, roman nose. “I wonder if he was related to the old Dr. Garaki that used to practice in town.”

You cocked your head. “Why are you making that face?”

She lowered her voice to a whisper and cupped her cheek. “He was a notorious grave robber. They tried to run him out of town but he had some rich friend from New York that prevented it. Supposedly, the buddy had underworld connections.” 

“Oh…”

The librarian winked at you. “I’m not sure how much I believe that. Why would a crime syndicate come all the way to this little town?”

As you thought back to the scars on your dream lover’s face and how powerful his grip had been, the idea of him being more dangerous than you first realized didn’t seem that out of place.

Mrs. Curtwright flipped the page. “Oh, it looks like they changed his whole name after the adoption. No wonder Tenko Shimura disappeared from the records at the end of the Victorian era.”

Printed on the fragile paper in ink the color of night was the name you’d been searching for: Tomura Shigaraki.

After a quick stop off for $7.99 per pound Chinese buffet take-out, you rolled down the solitary drive to your Second Empire home. Pointed wrought iron trim along the edge of the tall, Mansard roofline looked like rusty knives against the thick, overcast sky. A cold, late autumn breeze slapped your cheeks. Pulling the hood of your Carhartts up, you crunched up the gravel drive to the front door. You snatched the “discreet” cardboard package off the front porch and fumbled for your keys. The old oak rattled in the breeze, its leafless twigs snapping against each other like dried chicken bones being crushed under foot. With a shudder, you headed inside and locked the door behind you.

Wang’s fried food and wonton soup proved every bit as delicious as the smell promised. However, sitting alone at a table built for many left a cold disappointment balled in your chest. You picked at the scrumptious meal, surveying the empty walls and vacant shelves. Maybe some photos would help? Did you have any printed pictures aside from the Shimura kids? Pressing your forehead against the smooth wood, you groaned. 

“I need to get out more.”

After dinner, you settled in the front parlor to await any visitors. Nursing a cup of warm apple cider, you sat in the bay window, clutching a wide plastic bowl full of Kit Kats, Reese’s Pieces, Snickers, Fun Dip and SweeTarts. Dusk descended on the world outside. Trick-or-Treat hours came or went, but no costume coated child made the long trek up the barren gravel drive. 

“Guess this isn’t suburbia,” you muttered, eating your tenth candy of the night. “The kids probably go to Trunk-or-Treat because the houses are too far apart.”

Disappointed and lonely, you flipped off the porch light and retreated upstairs with your package. 

Flopping onto the bed sheets, you rattled the white and red box. The flesh colored, rubber-free cock flopped in its clear plastic packaging. Heat filled your cheeks as you tugged open the safety seal. As you flexed the internal rod, the moveable skin wrinkled in your fingers. You snorted with laughter, positioning it into a raunchy curve. Taking your new toy into the bathroom, you cleaned it gently with unscented soap before sticking it to the side of the porcelain basin. Giggling to yourself at your suddenly well endowed sink, you flipped on the shower and started in on your nightly routine.

Twenty minutes later, with the bedroom door locked, you peeled the plastic organ off the side of your sink and wet the base. Bathed in the flickering light of a single wick oud and musk scented candle, you snatched up your bottle of “personal jelly” from the nightstand. Then, you headed for the bare, wooden floor just beside the heavy, mahogany bed. Tossing the comforter pillows down, you fluffed them into a makeshift nest. The fake cock came down on the wooden bedframe with a lewd smack. It wiggled for a moment before standing tall directly in front of the antique oval mirror. Heat glowed in your cheeks as you adjusted the bendable shape into a less intense curl.

On the other side of the room, Tomura leaned against the other side of the ornate frame, strong fingers crawling at the glass. Blazing red eyes watched tentative hands smearing the textured organ with gelatinous lube. Then slippery digits found their way between your legs. Closing your eyes, you leaned back against the pillows. Tomura licked his rough lips as soft thighs spread for his viewing pleasure.

Smooth but firm, you teased apart your folds, working your way towards your sensitive nub. The pad of your finger lifted hooded flesh, tickling the nerves with deep, slow swipes. Musky moisture pooled in your core as a low moan slipped from your swollen lips.

One finger dipped inside, tracing over stippled flesh as it followed the curve of your body. Your wrist ached, pressing your palm tight over your clit as needy hips rolled of their own accord. Your eyes squeezed shut. Tossing your head back against the side of the old bed, you pinched one pert nipple between your fingers.

“Tomura…”

At the sound of his name, Shigaraki’s hard teeth bit his thin lips to blood.

Groaning as your hand pulled away, you climbed to shaky legs before kneeling in the nest of bedding. Lowering yourself to your forearms, you shuffled back and reached behind your hips. False flesh slid between your thighs as one hand pressed it hard to your core. The dildo’s artificial skin puckered. Thighs clenched tight, you rode its length, letting all the world fade into the feel of its sultry friction between your legs. Your body quivered as gaze drifted into a glazed stare.

Tomura groaned, savoring the erotic sight. Positioned directly in front of his mirror, you glided across the toy. The teasing sway of your tits combined with occasional peaks at pebbled nipples was exquisite torture. A bead of thick pre-cum rolled down his fingers. His eyes never left your blissed out face.

Spreading your hips and squeezing your lips, you pressed the rounded head in between your folds. Tickling yourself with the tip left your body shaking with need. You sunk back, letting your new purchase worm its way past your entrance. Quivering hands fisted the blanket. When it dipped inside, your eyes went wide.

“T-Tomura!” you stuttered. 

The toy’s delicious curve was well worth the trouble. It fit like a hand in a glove, following your body’s arch to that tender spot along the front of your pussy. Drool pooled at the corner of your lips as you leaned into the sensation, letting the veiny craftsmanship set your nerves ablaze. Slick fingers gilded across your clit as you rocked yourself back and forth between twin pleasures. 

Shigaraki’s eyes bulged, following every nudge of your hip as you rode his pathetic replacement. Irritation bristled across his skin. He clenched his jaw, watching the toy with burning envy as it slipped in and out of your body. A steady stream of breathy curses poured from his mouth as he waited for the right words to come from yours.

“Tomura… ohmigosh Tomura!” you moaned. “Need your cock.”

Not yet. Not until you said it.

“Please! Please! Tomura! Ngnnn—w-want you so bad.”

So close! Too close!

As you bottomed out against the base, you let your tongue hang like a dog in heat. Saliva pooled at the tip before dripping onto the blanket below. Tomura’s nails raked the glass. The candle light flickered. You looked dead in the mirror and fixed him with a lust drunk smile. 

“Take me, Tomura Shigaraki.”

All at once, a hard hand pinched your jaw. You glanced up, only to see a feral snarl. Massive, tombstone wide teeth flashed in the thin light. Pale waves of ghost white hair framed his heart shaped face. Blood dripped from his broken lip as he sneered down at your intoxicated smile.

“T-thought you’d never come…” you mumbled.

Red eyes glowed in the din. “Thought you’d never ask,” he snarked back.

In one smooth motion, Tomura dragged you to your wobbly feet. You stumbled into his chest. Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, he kicked the comforter aside. The mattress squeaked. One massive hand pressed your cheek first into the springs as the other hoisted your hips against his. “You know you really ticked me off, putting on a show like that.” 

“S-sorry,” you muttered, scooting back against him. “Didn’t know what else to do…”

He rolled his eyes, slotting himself between your thighs. You gasped as cool, firm flesh clipped your raw clit. His hoarse voice growled in your ear. “No more games and no more toys. From here on in, the only one you wag your tail for”—a thick, cold weight pressed against your hot entrance—“is me.”

You nodded.

He chuckled, patting your cheek. “Good girl.”

Tomura canted his pelvis to meet you. One stroke at a time, he worked his way inside, spreading goosebumps along your skin. Icy fingers spread your lower lips, soothing your friction sore nub. Warm breath steamed from your every pant as your ghostly lover molded your pliant body to his cock. When he finally seated himself deep inside, an experimental roll of his hips left you writhing in the sheets.

“Oh no, no, no .” He taunted. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Grasping the meat of your thighs, Tomura set a steady, bouncing pace. Every thrust pressed you deeper into slippery sheets. Your clit tingled. Crawling pleasure prickled up your nerves. His girth filled you to the brim, baring you to him in ways that set your skin ablaze. Soon, the rhythmic creak of the mattress was drowned out by mewling cries of unbridled ecstasy. 

“Like that, do you?” he demanded, pressing into your farthest walls. 

“Mmmm To-Tomura,” you moaned, arching your back. Another grind of his thick cock left you slurring your words “A-ah! L-love it!”

He leaned his weight forward, licking the shell of your ear. “Slut,” he rasped. 

“D-on’t mind”— You buried your warm face in the bedding and grinned—“being your slut.”

With a curse, Tomura ripped himself out of your body. You flopped to the mattress with a confused whine before turning to face him. Before you could speak, he grabbed your shoulder and flipped you on your back. Cracked lips smashed against yours in a frenzied kiss. Cold hands dragged you over the side of the bed, as he hoisted your legs over his hips. When he broke the kiss, a skeleton wide grin split his face from ear to ear.

“Oh?” A creepy chuckle shook his chest. “Is that so?”

With a snap of his hips, Tomura buried himself deep in your cunt.

You yelped, clawing at his shoulders. Long hair tickled your cheek as he pressed his nose into your neck. Hard teeth nipped at the delicate skin. He reached between you, boney fingers toying with your clit. With a gasp, you writhed on his cock. His free hand cupped the back of your head, tilting your face.

“Take a look at how naughty you are,” he whispered.

When you saw yourself in the mirror, your breath caught in your chest. Though you could see him plain as day, there was no one reflected in the glass. Instead, your body hovered in midair, back curved and nipples tight. Between your thighs, glistening in the candlelight, your naked core clenched around nothing. Heat flooded your brain, torching all rational thought. You gulped.

Tomura turned your gaze back to him. Half-lidded eyes paired with his smug grin sent a shock of lust though your insides. He chuckled at your expression before rolling his hips again. When you gasped, he smothered it with another hungry kiss.

“Mine,” he growled.

Locking your hands beside your head, Tomura trailed his scratchy lips down the column of your neck. You whimpered, turning your cheek into the sheets. Squirming legs clamped to his sides. An eerie chuckle rumbled from his chest and he buried his nose in your hair. The wet smacks from each firm thrust filled the air like a lewd base beat. When he settled upon one particular motion, you choked on your own voice. 

“Oh?” He sneered. “Here?”

Tomura leaned into you, rolling his head across your walls. 

“T-Tomura!” you whined, arching your back.

A shiver wracked his body. “Again,” he commanded, pressing into the spot that left your vision swirling grey. 

Your toes curled. “Tomur-ah!” 

He sped the pace, pounding you against the sheets. The springs squeaked their protests but you couldn’t hear them over the sound of his feral panting. “Again!” he hissed.

Closing your eyes, you wrapped your legs around his back. “Tomura…” you moaned, pulling him tight against you.

Shigaraki swore again, wrapping his arms under your shoulders. Burying his face in your neck, his movements stuttered. Tingling waves of pleasure rippled down your thighs. You tensed, clamping your body down until the electric vibrations rattled your brain. He surged forward, pounding relentlessly into you. 

“Gonna take my cum aren’t you? Take it like the good little slut you are."

As coarse white hair clipped across your swollen clit, your world swam behind blurry tears. Half formed thoughts slurred from puffy lips.“Want it. Want your cum so bad!”

Tinged with the taste of copper, his feverish kiss threatened to suffocate you. You tongue met his in an intoxicating dance. Saliva dribbled down your chin as your body coiled tighter and tighter. Just when you were about to snap, he whispered one final order:

“Say my name.”

“TOMURA!” you yelped as your world exploded into white hot bliss. 

With a strangled grunt, Tomura emptied himself inside you. Out of breath and shaking, he collapsed on top of you, grinding his hips against you over sensitive skin. As his seed leaked around the sides of him, you pressed your forehead against his. Clammy skin met flushed flesh as you tried to still the spinning room around you.

Climbing to his elbows, Tomura swept the stray hairs away from your sweaty brow. A cruel cackle filled the room. Scarlet eyes gleamed with villainous mirth as he lifted your chin. 

“Boo," he whispered.

 ❤ ~Fin~ ❤ 

Need more dark, gothic romance with hot villains? Check out my original reader insert novel:

Maid For Your Master by Afipia Felis

Available world wide in paperback and ebook.

CW available here

Reviews from readers like you:

"...The fantasy world is lush and the descriptions feel very historically real... This is a story written [with] the kind of dark heroes who feel real, and who don't immediately reform when the heroine batts her eyes at them..." - (Amazon)

"...It also has a lovely dark plot that really gives off the best historical tropes in a really well thought out world :)..." - (Amazon Kindle)

"Delightfully Devious! One thing I also particularly enjoyed about this book was the POV. Its very seldom that you find well written novels written this way. This was a very thrilling book and I can't wait to read more!" - (Goodreads.com)

Read the first three chapters for free on Amazon and Google Play.

Artwork:

Character design by Obsidianne-art

Chapter seven Excerpt By NoNoBadCat

Taglist:

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[whump-a-la-mode]

Magician’s Assistant - Trance

I heard you liked cliffhangers so here’s a cliffhanger for your cliffhanger. Much thanks to @nightfrostshadow for requesting another piece of this, you’re really a cheerleader for this series!

The rest of Magician’s Assistant can be found linked to in my info post, pinned at the top of my blog. I hope you enjoy!

CW//Some dehumanizing language, food

Villain was scared.

Of course, Friend had expected that. Anticipated it, almost taken a moment to imagine just how it would appear, nerves twisted upon such a feeble countenance. Civilian had warned them as such over the phone, warned them to be gentle, to go slow, to avoid any sudden movements-- as though they were talking about something dangerous, something feral.

In a way, they were.

But, now, as their new charge stood before them, there was something almost unbelievable about the sheer depths of their terror, and the way they presented it.

Villain was small, short in stature and so awfully thin that a stiff gust of wind could more than likely shatter their twig-like bones to shards. They looked upwards like a scared puppy dog, bag held in front of them with both hands like a shield, as though, if they simply kept it there, they would be safe, forever and ever.

And, hopefully, they would be. It was perhaps only a minute or so ago that Civilian had coaxed them through the door, shoving a handful of messily written instructions into Friend’s hands with a hurried ‘thank you.’ That meant that they had a week. A week to keep this- this thing calm, comfortable, and, more importantly than any of that, under control.

They could balance the most complex of equations, withdraw patients from near-death, turn caustic chemicals to life-saving medicines. But taking care of someone so anxious? And without...

No. They didn’t back down from a challenge.

“Hey, bud.” They tried to smile, trying so desperately not to terrify their charge. Not yet. They gestured with a hand to the bag they held, knuckles clenched so tightly as to turn a pale hue. “What’s in there?”

It felt stupid, but at the very least, their ward seemed to respond.

“Um...” Villain glanced downwards, to their burden. Their voice was almost inaudible, whimpering in form. “It’s- Spouse gave it to me. To help.”

To help.

“Can I see?”

They held it close to their chest, shivering turning to all-out shaking. Based upon the look in their eyes, if they ever lost their grip on the thing, they would simply perish.

“No.”

“Okay.” Friend sighed, biting their lower lip. There went that avenue of conversation. They supposed that making conversation with a failed attempt was somewhat of a lost cause in the first place. They needed to stay calm, not necessarily entertained. “Well... How about I show you to your room?”

“M-My room?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Villain dipped their head. It was a display of respect, even as fear made them defy everything, up until the very concept of staying still. Gently, their caretaker reached forward, hand looping about their wrist with an ever so ghostly touch. They shivered, but abided.

“Let’s go then, okay?”

“Okay.”

They had set up the room quite some time ago, as soon as they had gotten Civilian’s call. As soon as they learned what they needed to do, to keep the world ticking over as it was supposed to be. The guidelines had been as simple as they were detailed, leaving nothing to chance, to whim.

Moving to the hall and creeping open the proper door, Friend found themself nodding to themself in satisfaction. They’d checked so many times, verified it all, but knowing that it was still arranged properly was an awfully grand relief.

Dim and cozy, Civilian had said. “They don’t like windows, be sure to cover them. They’re used to the kennel. Anything too big will scare them. Give them a bed, but know that they’re going to end up sleeping under it, assuming they don’t wind up in the corner. Other than the bed, the room should be empty. They can’t read, and they’re afraid of books. That includes any signage or decorations. Think of it like a kennel-- anything unnecessary is an unnecessary risk.”

And, it was so that friend had designed their ward’s living space. A small thing, perhaps ten feet by fifteen, with grey-painted walls and a bed with beige comforter. The singular window was covered in its entirety with an off-white curtain, allowing only enough light to seep through as to allow the room to not be entirely dark. And, that was it. Just like a kennel.

“Do you want to hang out in here for a little while?”

The question seemed to bring Villain quite an extreme relief, as they nodded frantically. They crossed the threshold into the space, nearly disappearing within the dim shroud.

Friend almost left, before remembering a piece of their instruction that Civilian had insisted on being terribly vital: The cuffs.

“Do you want your mitts on, buddy?”

A nod. And so it was done.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“They’re pretty good about eating, nowadays. They can eat the same food as the rest of us. My partner says they like chili, and things that look more like what they’re used to eating. But, more or less, it’s fine, so long as they eat.”

Civilian’s instructions regarding their ward’s mealtimes had been far less specific than those for their habitat. Anything that normal people ate, but specifically chili. It was certainly an odd favorite food to have, given what their diet had once been, but it was something.

Thus, with a quick mix, Friend’s kitchen had quite quickly been filled with an overwhelming aroma-- beans and spices, seasoned meat and the mixings to go along with it. Villain was still scared, even a slightly above average monkey would have been able to see that.

The whole quest, the whole effort, was a farce. They knew that. But, at the very least, perhaps they could make their charge somewhat less frightened for the time which they had them. It would be better to see them smiling, after all, instead of screaming. They’d spent too much time, listening to Villain screaming. It really did get grating, after a while.

When the hot dish upon their oven as last appeared to be finished, they picked it up by the pot’s handle, swirling it around for a moment before reaching a point of satisfaction. A few moments of pouring, and two bowls were equally filled with heaping helpings of meat and beans.

Eating the same thing as a failed attempted. That was a thought.

Friend placed the dishes upon their dining table, on opposite ends, and finished the assortment with a small variety of other offerings-- baby carrots for vegetables, and dinner rolls to nibble upon. The kitchen filled with scents and steam, they turned.

Villain was still in their room, they assumed. Civilian had mentioned that they were quite reclusive, which made sense. They would have plenty to entertain themself.

With jostling steps, they made their way up the stairs, feeling as the aroma of herbs practically followed them up. The room in which their ward was housed was just at the top of the staircase.

The room that-

The room that’s door was opened.

With a raised brow, Friend peered inside. Certainly, Villain was absent, nowhere to be seen. Not in the corner, not upon the bed, nor under it-- they checked. Yet, the bag had been left behind, stim toys and plushies placed neatly and piled to categories.

Perhaps they had only been looking for the bathroom? With a more cautious air about them, they moved forward, along the hall. The corridor existed in an L shape, its shorter side at the top of the stairs, and its longer side around a sharp bend.

The bathroom stood at the end of the hallway’s shorter piece. The empty bathroom.

A bated breath.

Friend turned the corner.

Civilian certainly hadn’t warned them about this.

The longer end of the L-shape was definitively emptier than the other, edges lined not with doors, but with sparse decorations, bookshelves and meaningless paintings. It was all a vessel, a vehicle, for the door at the end.

The door before which Villain stood. There was an odd stiffness to their legs, their whole body. Not a muscle of them moved, not even their eyes, so it seemed as they stared. Stared at nothing.

A closed door, from which creeped the barest scent of antiseptic.

Villain most certainly was not allowed in Friend’s lab.

[kainumbernine009]

My audio “altar”

Art + Sound 7-in-1 media player (CD, AM/FM, phonograph, Bluetooth, cassette player, aux cord)

Bottom shelf: Himalayan salt lamp and marble sculptures

Middle shelf: antique radio found at thrift store; hunk of AK quartz I dug out of the ground myself, various other stim items and singing bowls

Top shelf: Book of Shadows, John Philips Sousa Award I won in HS, a chess set and nesting dolls from Russia, made in Russia, spirit box, a picture of my husband and his brother, and more trinkets.

Top of furniture: my husband’s wool hat he got in Europe with pins and things we have collected from traveling.

[aroworlds]

What Makes Us Human, Part One

Moll of Sirenne needs prompts in their girdle book to navigate casual conversations, struggles to master facial expressions and feels safest weeding the monastery's vegetable gardens. Following their call to service, however, means offering wanderers in need a priest's support and guidance. A life free of social expectation to court, wed and befriend does outweigh their fear of causing harm—until forgetting the date of a holiday provokes a guest's ire and three cutting words: lifeless and loveless.

A priest must expand a guest's sense of human worth, but what do they do when their own comes under question? Can an autistic, aromantic priest ever expect to serve outside the garden? And what day is it...?

Contains: A middle-aged, agender priest set on defying social norms around love; an alloromantic guest with a journey to undergo in conquering her amatonormativity and ableism; and an elderly aromantic priest providing irascible reassurance.

Content Advisory: Depictions and discussions of ableism, amatonormativity and dehumanisation, particularly with regards to autism and aromanticism. Please expect additional background references to partner abuse and dysfunctional relationships, along with a side mention of magic causing harm to animals. This piece also includes reflections on non-romantic love's being pushed as a second-best "humanising" quality on non-partnerning, aplatonic and neurodiverse aros.

Length: 4, 946 words (part one of two).

Note: This is the newest entry in my tradition of Not Valentine’s Day Aro Stories posted on Valentine’s Day. No familiarity with my other Marchverse stories is needed, although it does obliquely nod at events referenced in Love is the Reckoning.

You think love is what makes us human, if you must choose one quality?

Moll opens their girdle book and, without looking, sets their fingertip by a word written a third of the way down the page. Gardening. Sighing, they buckle the book closed and drop it back into position at their hip. Sirenne’s greenhouses and vegetable gardens, in their midsummer bounty, gift the monastery a glut of corn, beans and cucumbers; they can start breakfast’s conversation with that observation. The kitchen’s current tendency to add corn to foods and dishes that don’t usually encompass them offers another direction, along with more anodyne comments about weeding and Sirenne’s scores of potted plants. Simple enough, as discussions go.

When will their calling start to feel simple?

True, they count ownership of their red robes in weeks and months, the scar on their shoulder still pink. The brown belt of a novice priest bears the girdle book and a leather pouch, its length crisp and unmarked. Five years of study can’t yet earn the confidence of experience: by logic’s metric, it’s unreasonable for Moll to expect mastery in this new art. How can they compare the difficulty of their new work to the ease they owned in the old? Aren’t they creating their distress by anticipating the unrealistic?

“Fifteen years with the Seventh,” they mutter under their breath as they walk to the serving tables and fill a bowl with steamed rice and quinoa, today drizzled with stewed apricots. A waiting acolyte, standing behind the array of dishes, pays Moll’s murmuring no mind. “It’s only been a little over five, here. Don’t compare them.”

They add another ladle of apricots to their bowl and turn towards their table, tucked to the side of the great hall—away from the clatter of the kitchen doors, close to a window looking onto one of the monastery’s fern-clustered courtyards. Moll dislikes navigating all the chairs filled by guests, acolytes and guiding priests, but they’ll accept that thrice-daily annoyance for the comparative quiet of their corner.

Today, despite the hall’s great arched roof and echoing tile floor, the noise isn’t as bothersome.

Only when they reach their table do they realise why: one advising priest, her red robes belted with green, joins the gaggle of guests and acolytes. Where are the others? Did something happen overnight? The Guide misses as many meals as she attends, but never has Moll seen so few of Sirenne’s senior priests at breakfast. Frowning, they look to their acolytes sitting at the middle of the table. Dare they ask? If something serious has happened, wouldn’t Moll already know? Why risk distressing James by calling attention to something that may lack any import?

Neither appears to mark anything amiss.

“Good morning.” Moll sits opposite James and across from the brown-robed acolytes, working to keep their voice even and low. James regards the slightest abruptness in Moll’s speech as indicative of anger or disgust, and they prefer no further misunderstandings. “I see that the kitchen serves cornbread, creamed corn and corn fritters this morning?”

The acolytes nod vehemently.

James, staring at her plate, pays Moll no attention. She’s a small and delicate woman, pretty as some reckon such things. Fine chains of embroidery decorate the cuffs of her linen shirt and the panels of her grey waistcoat; studs carved like silver roses sparkle in her ear lobes, while matching combs and pins hold back her silky curls. Paint darkens her lips and evens a complexion in little need of it; no callus of pen, needle or weapon roughens her soft fingers. She’s elegant like a fashion plate in a book, but the illusion breaks when Moll looks to her nails, bitten down to the distal edge. A habit, they know, discouraged in the classes of people needful of donning powder and paint before breakfast at a secluded monastery.

Never has she bitten them in public, and she rejected Moll’s suggestion of fidget tools as though offended by their observation of her need. Even their usual use of a weighted, beaded cord while talking drew her ire: it’s manipulative, she said, as though their stimming exists only in relationship to the shame social niceties require nobody mention, to pressure me by using something I have refused in front of me.

She did, yesterday, observe the morning greeting.

“Corn wouldn’t be so bad,” Alicia says, her eyes flicking from James to Moll underneath an untidy mop of red hair, “if they’d do something new with it.”

“Don’t say that!” Ro howls, poking Alicia in the arm. At eighteen, he isn’t much more than a child, gangly and frenetic. Remembering the reasons underpinning his service during meals—to help a guiding priest maintain a casual conversation before their guests—isn’t yet second nature. “They’ll be giving us corn in pudding next!”

Moll suspects they’re meant to learn from Ro’s impulsiveness as much as Ro should from their measured consideration.

Measured consideration is the polite way of saying “rigidly follows rules”.

“Corn custard?” Alicia grins and elbows Ro in the ribs. When he forgets his duty, she soon follows him.

“Don’t even say it! Don’t give them ideas!”

“Corn custard, corn custard, corn custard!”

James sits at the table as if unhearing, her lean hands pushing a piece of toasted wheat bread across her plate. She smells like jasmine, her perfume a foreign, expensive contrast to breakfast’s savoury aromas, Moll’s apricots and the damp, earthy scents of the courtyard. She smells like their childhood.

They hastily swallow a mouthful of their own breakfast, the grains mingling with the sweet fruit, before attempting a direct question. “Do you garden, James? I didn’t have the opportunity before Sirenne, unless I count the Warp’s tendency to provoke sacks of flour into sprouting seedlings overnight? I still know little, but I’ve learnt that I enjoy mucking about with a trowel.”

There: a question and a few personal observations. Isn’t that the mainstay of an acceptable social exchange? Three terms in the Seventh Western Regiment, stationed in the Warp during the Council of Advocates’ last attempt to settle that magic-twisted territory, have left Moll with a lifetime of anecdotes. Many—like the time a crate of fleece-lined coats outside the wards became a bleating collection of violently disfigured sheep—are best left unmentioned during meals, but magical wheat seems safe enough for breakfast chatter.

James, without blinking, pinches off a corner from her piece of buttered toast.

If not for a week’s observation, Moll may have thought her unable to hear or process.

“I hate gardening,” Alicia offers, after another look at James. “Dirt under my fingernails? I’d rather dust or wash dishes or sweep.”

Ro snickers. “Dirt? Of course—”

Moll taps him on the ankle with their bare foot.  

“Uh … yes, I don’t like dirt, either. Because I hate laundry. Your hands get all cracked and dry. I’ve still got scars from when my skin split in winter. But when your father’s a launderer…” Ro shakes his head and glances at Moll. “What did you hate, in your old job?”

People who go through my wagons. Officers who refuse to follow needed precautions. The mouldy-citrus smell of warped, decaying magic.

Instead, they stop to think of something others will find relatable: Moll enjoyed the usual army annoyances of polishing boots and mending uniforms. The barracks brats of the Seventh always knew when their quartermaster passed a sleepless night, for they’d wake to find their newly-darned stockings laid out over their gear chests.  

“Latrine duty. I didn’t dislike planning or digging, but cleaning up a latrine site isn’t enjoyable for obvious reasons. Soldiers left to unsupervised orders, however, have a marked tendency to the slapdash.”

Alicia, of course, pulls a face.  

James turns away from Moll, her pressed lips and deep frown suggesting irritation or disdain.

Anxiety, too familiar a companion, sits as heavily in Moll’s gut as a month’s diet of wheat bread.

They can’t remember a time in childhood absent that pervasive sense of dread, the knowing of their having errored without cognition on how or why. Nor was their adulthood so free—the difference being that Moll had twenty years to learn the rules and rhythms of military life, and service in the Warp excused some of Moll’s habits and provoked similar needs in others. Then the Council surrendered to the Warp and disbanded the Seventh, leaving Moll adrift in a world governed by normal magic and unexplained rules.

Sirenne, where people communicate with clarity and directness about concepts brushed aside as unacceptable, should have offered refuge.

They eat, letting Alicia and Ro carry the conversation against the backdrop of James’s pointed silence. She only makes a few pointed grimaces when Moll speaks, picking her way through half a slice of toast.  

After yesterday, they planned to offer James the morning for further discussion.

Today, in the absence of a proper breakfast and animus targeted at Moll, they’d best make it a priority.

When the acolytes clear away the dishes and the hall empties out with priests and guests going about chores or sessions, they stand, round the end of the table and bow at James. “Would you please come and walk with me?”

At first, it felt deceptive to string together words so unrelated to their intent. Honesty, to Moll, means saying what is meant: I want to have a private conversation about your mood and health, to help guide you in following the life’s path best suited to you. Gennifer explained, over several occasions, that while all believers know what a priest of the Sojourner means by “walk”, success rarely results from beginning said conversations with direct utterances of an uncomfortable truth.  

They still don’t grasp the logic in that, but Moll now regards the script as a signpost marking the transition from breakfast’s communality to discussion’s intimacy. If Sirenne possesses an agreed-upon willingness to dishonesty between all parties, is it still a lie? A priest’s work doesn’t mean, Gennifer added, a strict adherence to direct honesty, and aren’t they supposed to be challenging the existence of an objective truth? Why should Moll’s regard become the defining metric of falsehood?

Priesthood requires accepting the unfading presence of an existential headache.

James rises, drops her spoon onto her plate with a teeth-jarring clang and follows Moll from the hall—offering, presumably, her consent.

Their favourite courtyard, as always, bears no tag of occupancy. A triangular space jammed between the kitchens and the Guide’s personal wing, it lacks the green softness of Sirenne’s other courtyards, instead beset with craggy planes of rock part-covered by draping vines. While few areas of the monastery don’t feature running water—its movement reflecting the Sojourner’s eternal journey—here a still basin houses pond fish and lilies. Other priests abhor the darkness and stuffiness caused by four walls and the slanting eaves above, but Moll appreciates the yard’s quiet. How do the others listen to running water for hours on end without succumbing to teeth-grinding annoyance?

They murmur the spell for a peach-hued witchlight, palm the resulting sphere and fling it upwards to catch on a trailing cluster of vines by the archway’s apex. “Please, enter.”

James folds her arms, passes under the arch and sits on the bench by the basin, staring at the white lilies clustered along one edge. The toe of her left boot, the leather polished near to gleaming, worries at a crack in the flagstones. “What.”

No lilt, no upturned voice. Probably not a question.

Moll moves to their usual seat. A pillow placed on a dip of the rocky wall provides a safe distance between them and their guests while offering the damp, loamy aura of fern and moss. They still can’t take ordinary nature for granted; they still wake in the night, startled to breathe air that doesn’t smell of rot. “I fear that I have caused you offense or hurt. I would appreciate knowing, if you’d be so kind as to explain, what I did.”

The difficulty in needing to ask people for explanations lies in their requiring them from those Moll has hurt. Some don’t mind, those who understand the cause of their ignorance, but too many become more offended when having to explain the how and why of something Moll should have known to avoid. If a quartermaster is expected to read another’s body language and glean its inspiring thoughts and feelings, guests grant far less leeway to a priest—no matter how much introductory explanation Moll provides about their autism.

They try, where possible, to describe situations and ask questions of other people, but how can they do so here? James is distressed enough to disregard the customs on which she sets such value; while she wasn’t friendly at breakfast, she didn’t direct her expressions at the acolytes. Moll, based on limited evidence, a reasonable assumption and their history, must have caused her mood.

Again.

James turns her head and shoulders away from Moll—almost putting her back to them while remaining seated on the stone bench.

“I apologise.” They bow as best they can from their seated position. “It’s unfair to place on you the burden of educating me after being hurt. I do wish to know how I can avoid distressing you in future, and I promise that I won’t be angered by your explanation. If you wish another priest to assist in—”

James whirls to face them with startling speed, her teeth bared in something close to a snarl. “What, so you’ll write it down in your book of things to remember?”

Talking, however abrupt and disagreeable, provides an entry into exploration. While a variety of considering or responsive silences should be recognised and supported in a healthy exchange, guiding is easier when anything expressive replaces the wall of sullen silence.

Even accusation and aggression.  

“I don’t understand,” Moll demurs, letting their eyes rest on James’s face for fear avoidance suggests anger or insincerity. “Didn’t I explain sufficiently to you why I use my book?”

A guiding priest must, inquisitively, engage with their flock’s thoughts and feelings. Curiosity means putting aside judgement and listening, open-hearted, to the twists and turns of a path that lead to their conclusions. Curiosity means offering, as non-judgementally as possible, a more useful direction. Curiosity means listening to and acknowledging another’s criticism of their work. Curiosity means putting aside the last conversation Moll had with a guest about their girdle book … even as bile’s bitter sourness coats the back of their throat and tongue.

James snorts. She holds her chin high above the stiff collar of her shirt, her shoulders set, her hands folded in her lap. Even in session, she doesn’t forgo correctness for comfort. “You think that I haven’t seen you picking something to talk about each meal? Except you didn’t remember to write down what day it is, did you? You just ask completely irrelevant questions!”

What day…? They work through the shards of story James has shared, but none suggest significance of the day, week or season. She spoke, in short references, of a relationship fallen apart and a family taking the side of her partner, citing reasons of financial investment. She spoke of need for a temporary reprieve from both—threaded with the hope of return when her partner’s anger ebbs enough for normal’s resumption—but resentment colours her references to the friend that suggested sanctuary at a monastery. They know of no anniversary that lends one summer day such profound weight.

Perhaps her disdain draws from something she believes sufficiently communicated, conveyed in hints perceived by an allistic priest?

“I find participating in casual exchanges difficult. This book,” and Moll dips their chin towards their hip, “helps me engage in the talk many of our guests find comforting. Perhaps I mayn’t need it in future, but today I do.” Moll closes their fists and opens them, one deliberate finger at a time. Since fidgets provoke James’s anger, Moll possesses fewer ways to direct and manage their nervousness. “I am grateful for a tool that eases my navigation of unsuited customs. Do you have occasions where you would appreciate a tool to help you with something people don’t expect you to find difficult?”

Gennifer gifted them the girdle book a few months after Moll took the brown; the acolytes of Moll’s calling-year spent that evening offering suggestions and prompts. Sorcha and Oki passed the book amongst the priests until a score of hands filled the pages. For the first time in Moll’s life, they found themself surrounded by people more interested in helping them navigate expectations than in using their difficulties to void their position.

If not for the guests, Sirenne should have offered nothing short of paradise.

Even to think this borders on sacrilege.

“You’re a priest. You’re supposed to be…” James stares, shaking her head. “Or maybe that’s why! You don’t even know what today is, do you? It’s just another day to you—away from the real world, thinking you know anything!” Her voice edges on shrill as she leans forwards. “Is that why you all become priests? Because you’re not normal enough for anything but hiding here?”

Moll admits that their calling exists in part because of the similarities shared by divine and armed service. Both offer the comforting limits of hour bells, set times for work and play, assigned clothing, clear expectations around behaviour. While surprises happen, Sirenne and the Seventh provide rules and processes for how one responds; even the unexpected, in many ways, still owns a guiding spectre of regularity.

Structure, Gennifer summarised after Moll’s explanation. You need—thrive in—the structure.

The monastic life also permits and justifies their failure to navigate life and relationship expectations. A priest of the Sojourner needn’t avoid partnering, but such avoidance isn’t unexpected given their remove from circumstances that facilitate such relationships.

They knew, their boots crunching on the driveway’s blanket of fallen leaves and twigs, that this secluded compound will become home.

They knew, during their first gently-interrogative conversation with Gennifer, what new path their feet must follow.

Does that correlate to hiding?

“I was quartermaster for fifteen years in the Seventh Western Regiment,” Moll says quietly. “After the Seventh’s disbandment and my discharge, I was called to begin a new shape of service, in which I am recognised by the Sojourner and the community of Sirenne. May I ask what ‘normal’ means to you?”

It’s crass to draw James’s attention to their bare shoulders, one marked by their god and one marked by the Guide. What does the possession of either mean, anyway, if Moll doubts their ability to serve as called? They open and close their fists, lifting and lowering one finger at a time, until their body feels less likely to slip out of control.

James, her thin brows raised, stares at the basin and its lilies.

Remember your curiosity.

Curiosity, in the Warp, too often became lethal.

“Would you share with me your understanding of priestly service? Guests are often surprised by the differences between the monastic orders.” They try to smile. “I think that speaks to what the Sojourner preaches—that there are many pathways, often contradictory but always leading to the same place, to understand and honour hir. But it can, sometimes, make for confusion.”

Even her criticism, should it encompass substance and clarity, seems better than this wall of vague disdain interspersed with rejecting silence. Other than referencing a date on which Moll recognises no significance and objecting to their use of the girdle book’s prompts, she hasn’t provided actionable critique or evaluation. They forgot—or didn’t know—today’s significance. How can they rectify that without explanation?

James snorts. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

A woman so bound up in observing customs of dress and behaviour must intend her rudeness.

Should they admit defeat and take James to Gennifer for reassignment? Yet if something significant busies the Guide and her advising priests, Gennifer doesn’t need a brown-belted priest running for help with one guest in, comparatively, a trivial circumstance. Surely even a raw priest, who doesn’t need reminder lists for mealtime conversations, will navigate this situation without help? Isn’t this, then, a learning opportunity? If they can figure out how to gain James’s trust, will they make fewer mistakes with other allistic guests?

They draw a series of breaths—inhale, hold, exhale—but the nauseating anxiety now bears the edges of a restless, sweating panic.

“Yes, I do tell myself that,” they say as agreeably as possible. A display of receptiveness may help James feel comfortable with further elaboration, even though they don’t know why she made such a snide comment. “I do wish to better support you. Before I can do that, I need to learn from you. Every priest must learn from their guests; I just have a greater need than some.”

James looks down at their feet, scraping the soles of their boots across the tiles with a sound that sets Moll’s teeth on edge.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Exhale for as long as possible. Close fingers one by one, hold, open them again as slowly as possible. Breathe.

“That sound hurts my ears. Would you please stop?” Moll attempts, again, a smile, but even on the best of days and in the happiest of moods such an expression feels forced and unnatural. If only they could project an image of quiet harmlessness! How else do they manage a tension too often read as threatening when their lips don’t move the usual way? “Thank you.”

James stills her feet, staring at Moll with her head tilted as if to suggest that she looks through them to focus on the vine-shrouded stone behind.

“I understand that today has meaning to you,” they offer. Perhaps retreating to the one problem about which James has provided any clarity will encourage movement. “Would you share this meaning with me, so I can offer the specific support you need? I’ve missed your communicating it.”

As soon as the they say “me”, they realise that an allistic priest with an allistic’s intuitive understanding of social interactions will instead have asked an unrelated question or offered a distracting observation on an unrelated subject.

As soon as they say “me”, they know they have handed James all the excuse she needs.

They just don’t know why.

She leaps upright, her hands trembling. “How are you going to help if you don’t even know? How are you going to help me with my partner, when you don’t know why today matters? Why I have to be alone today of all days, and how awful that is—but you just want explanations like you’re a child at their first solstice, too young to know anything! What’s the good of talking to you when you’re just a statue, lifeless and loveless? Look at you—you don’t even have an expression!”

Her brown eyes glisten as though she stands one wrong word away from tears.

Moll opens and closes their hands, one slow finger at a time.

Share, Oki advised every shadowing. Don’t burden them with your pain, but don’t secret your own struggles. Show them that you walk this road because you know theirs.  

One word, though, they are hesitant to mention.

Perhaps their aromanticism, the sense Moll has owned as for as long as memory that they don’t desire romantic partnerships, is obvious to others. Perhaps James believes that an autistic, with stiff words and a book of conversation prompts, must be aromantic, both “lifeless and loveless”. Maybe she believes aromanticism accompanies an identity equally misunderstood as a detriment or shortcoming. Doesn’t she believe, at least, that those called to priesthood have surrendered any validating sense of what she considers normal—and, therefore, of value?

Convention, for all that she privileges it, nonetheless sent both sheltering beneath Sirenne’s roof.

“I’m truly sorry that you’re hurting and that today is difficult for you. I will do my best to help you, but the more you’re willing to share, the easier I will find it.” Moll speaks with measured care, pausing between each word in the fight to keep their voice from breaking. Measured means rigid. Rigid … isn’t that another way of saying “lifeless”? “My autism or aromanticism, however, don’t mean we lack humanity in common, or that I haven’t struggled with my family or departures from my road—my own despair and illnesses. I haven’t experienced your precise circumstances, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in your struggles or won’t offer a sympathetic ear.”

How can they provide that if she won’t explain her needs?

Lifeless. Frantic limbs and a wild voice, emotion given movement and language, also earns them censure—accusations of immaturity or aggression. Moll’s big, broad body and limbs don’t permit even dangerousness’s suggestion without provoking restrictive consequence. No, they can’t expect her to understand their inability to recollect freedom of reaction, emotion or speech. They don’t expect her to understand that adulthood’s repetition has rendered a seemingly-unnatural control all but innate. Can’t she at least assume that if Moll can master that acceptable state of allistic-flavoured emotional expression, they will?

Loveless. No, they don’t feel in any way categorisable as “love”. They’re not drawn to friends or partners in ways that suit, even non-romantically, the word’s sense of passion and vibrancy; it doesn’t fit their connection to people, labour or place. Their calling to service is too powerful and all-encompassing to be love. Such a general word, often used to describe feelings and actions contradictory to its given purpose, feels ill-suited.  

Why must it be a moral failing to use words other than “love” to describe their relationships and feelings? Why must complex emotions be reduced to a binary of hate and love? Why must people replace the pressure to love romantically with the pressure to at least avoid accusations of lovelessness?

“Lifeless” devalues their best attempt to oblige other people’s expectations.

“Loveless”, not synonymous with loathing or disregard, shouldn’t serve as any kind of criticism. James loves. Which of them, today, is the crueller?

Maybe Moll has constrained their feelings for too long to permit a broader, warmer range of emotion.

Maybe their need to match feelings and experiences to words’ exact specifications means they, unknowingly, feel something allistics name “love”.

Maybe the stories that explain and identify love hold little relevance in real life, and people not Moll better accept the chasm standing between idealism and reality.

Maybe the reasoning doesn’t matter: the Sojourner has never required that her followers love.

What if, though, they’re better suited to a trowel or chopping knife than the careful, subtle art of guiding their guests? What if Moll can’t help James because of the qualities they don’t experience or the relationships they don’t desire? What if lovelessness and lifelessness, even best regarded as neutral states of being, render them ill-suited to the work?

“You’re like a puppet—moving your wooden lips, saying the words. But you don’t know anything about … about really being human.” James folds her arms across her body before turning towards the arch, her chin held high. “There’s no point. Not with you.”

No, there isn’t. She needs a priest who won’t make her feel distanced by their inability to share her experiences. One who, in curiosity and kindness, can explore and sympathise with her pain-born feelings and judgements. One who doesn’t feel slapped across the face and punched in the gut by three words: lifeless and loveless.

They understand the process. Pluck out the least-acceptable aspects of aromanticism and autism, disguise them as general qualities society finds objectionable and wield them at the vulnerable—prejudice now concealed under the thinnest veneer of acceptable disregard. Awareness doesn’t ease their hurt.

Wooden. Puppet. Statue.

Inhuman.

She halts at the archway, gesturing in their direction. “See? You aren’t even saying anything now! You’re—”

“Pain!” The word spills from Moll’s lips with shocking vehemence. “You think love is what makes us human, if you must choose one quality? No, humans are pain, not love—the pain of having our worth denied, the pain of injury and loss, the pain of our cognisance of our mortality, the pain of fear, the pain of being overlooked or ignored, even the pain of having our pain denied! Who doesn’t endure against the hurt of being told in word or action that we aren’t worth kindness?”

James stares at Moll in an aghast, still silence.

“You think I can’t know you? If you think, in your pain and ignorance, that I haven’t had someone demonstrate that I’m undeserving of respect, you have done so just now! You sought to strip away my humanity, because you think cruelty will give you back the power torn from you. It won’t. It only makes you cruel. It only envenomates another.” They rise and walk towards the archway, fighting to keep their steps slow and hands loose by their sides. “Because you misunderstand your own humanity, you gave me what makes me as human as you—pain. Will you say it again, now, why I can’t guide you?”

Her lips part as though about to speak, but no sound emerges.

“I have consented to guide you to your rightful path. I haven’t consented to your disrespect.” Despite their efforts, Moll’s bare feet smack against the stone as they step past James into the fern-lined pathway. “Gennifer will assign you to another priest’s care. I won’t spend a moment longer with you.” Just for a moment, they adopt the snapping bark mastered with the Seventh: “Come!”

James moves as though afraid to make the slightest noise, hanging back a few steps behind with the nail of her pointer finger clasped between her teeth.

[genderfleur]

!!! Some picrews (and a niche/aesthetic) of me!!!

Picture desc:

Pic 1: a feminine picrew of Bab with a curly bob, earrings, overalls, and a turtle neck on. Bab is holding a lesbian flag, and has a genderfluid pin on her overall. The background is the demigirl flag.

Pic 2: an androgynous/semi-fem picrew of Bab with a curly bowl cut type hairstyle, a sweater and necklace. Xer hands make a heart shape. The background is the genderfluid flag.

Pic 3: a semi-fem picrew of Bab with wavy hair, freckles, hoop earrings, and red lipstick on. She wears a shirt that says “joyfriend material” with a brown button up surrounding it. They have two pins: lesbian and nonbinary, on their left side. The background is the pan flag.

Pic 4: an androgynous picrew of Bab smiling with a straight bob, one green eye (cyclops), and upside down heart earrings. She has the pan flag on her cheek. Xe wears an off the shoulders sweater with a thick strapped tank top or binder, Xe also adorns a black chocker with a rainbow charm. The background is the lesbian flag.

Pic 5: a feminine picrew of Bab in the trendercore aesthetic. She has a curly, fluffy bob cut that has many multi-coloured pins in it. She has freckles on her pale skin that are covered in multi-coloured bandaids (pink, green, blue). She wears many necklaces, one being a rainbow teething type necklace she uses to stim. She wears a white shirt with holes that hands off the shoulders, under shows a rainbow binder. On her shirt she has a pink wlw pin (female symbols). Bab holds the lesbian flag in her left hand. The background is a dark blue night time theme.

Pic 6: a niche of Bab with multiple pink and black objects scattered about a white background. To the left there is Bab’s Zepeto outlined in black glowing lines. The header is “Bab” in a fancy text, and on the left side it says “@sleepysystem”.

*DNI: truscum, AroAce exclusionists, transmeds, MAPS, pedos, creeps, fujoshis, anti-nonbinary/enbyskeptic, transphobe, anti-mogai, anti-agere, NSFW, gore, anti-neo/emoji/nounpronouns, anti-anti, fetishizer of any kind, radfems/swerfs, ddlg/cgl, + other basic dni criteria!

[angelofthequeers]

Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 34

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Power's back! I lost power about an hour or two after my last update and the worst of the bushfire passed that day. Since it was just yesterday with no power, I figure I'll upload yesterday's and today's chapters together.

Chapter 33 | Chapter 35 | AO3 link

“By the power vested in me, I declare you all my slaves!”

“Well,” Rena Rouge says as the golden bubble that Malediktator is creating starts to expand above his head to terrifying proportions. “We’re screwed if that pops.”

“What’s the plan, Ladybug?” Honeybee says, unslinging her trompo. “I can –”

“No, no, don’t go charging in.” Ladybug throws a hand out to stop Honeybee in her tracks. “This’d be so much easier with Chat Noir and Carapace. I’ll have to…Lucky Charm!” A massive machine gun falls into her hands, and Rena Rouge and Honeybee’s eyes bulge.

“Well, that’s an effective Lucky Charm!” Honeybee splutters. Ladybug just snorts, detaches the laser pointer, then tosses the gun away.

“No way I’d use something like that,” she scoffs.

“Are you sure?” Rena Rouge and Honeybee say in unison, eyeing the discarded gun longingly.

“Yep,” Ladybug says. “Honeybee just needs to take the sting out of Malediktator. Rena, we’ll need you on standby to make sure that Honeybee’s secret identity is safe and that no one suspects who she is.”

Honeybee grins and flips her trompo around her fingers with the string. “Venom!” she says once she’s holding the trompo, and it starts to throb like a beating heart.

“You know, part of me wants to be annoyed that all I ever get to do is hang back and trick people,” Rena Rouge says. “Then I remember how fun it is to mess with them when they don’t know who I am. And how screwed this team would be without me.”

“Just keep telling yourself that, hon,” Honeybee tuts.

“We all know what we’re doing?” Ladybug says before they can start arguing. Rena Rouge and Honeybee nod. “Alright. Let’s go!”

While Rena Rouge ducks away to hide and Honeybee starts to edge around, Ladybug aims the laser pointer at the rooftop with Malediktator and his guards. Just as predicted, Chat Noir lets out a mew at the sight and starts to chase after the laser, and Ladybug can’t help but grin as she guides him around to knock over all the guards like bowling pins.

“What?” Malediktator gasps. Honeybee takes this as her cue to swing out with her pulsating trompo outstretched and jab it into his chest. He lets out a choked cry and freezes in place like a statue, allowing Honeybee to grab the sash and throw it to Ladybug to tear it in half. Ladybug captures and purifies the akuma, then throws the laser into the air.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

The healing ladybugs deposit everyone back on the ground, and then Malediktator melts away to reveal André Bourgeois once everything’s fixed. Chat Noir and Carapace blink and shake their heads as Malediktator’s brainwashing fades away.

“Dude,” Carapace groans. “What are we doing here?”

“Missing the amazing Ladybug and Honeybee saving the city,” Ladybug grins and holds her fist out to Honeybee, whose eyes light up.

“Pound it!” she cries with Ladybug.

“I really can’t be Queen Bee again, huh?” Chloé emerges from a nearby alleyway with a wistful look on her face as she takes in the sight of Honeybee. For a moment, Ladybug has no clue what’s going on, until she looks around for the missing Rena Rouge and then remembers her instructions to her teammate.

“Sorry, Chloé,” she says, keenly aware of André and Audrey Bourgeois watching from nearby. “But Paris knows your secret identity. I can’t allow you to be Queen Bee again for the safety of you and your family.”

‘Chloé’s’ mouth droops. “I understand, Ladybug. And…I’m sorry about the mess I caused.”

Honeybee shifts on the spot at her illusion self’s words. Ladybug smiles and says, “Apology accepted, Chloé. Thank you for being brave enough to own up to your mistakes.”

“Want me to take her back to the school?” ‘Rena Rouge’ leaps down to land next to ‘Chloé’, in a mimicry of the same trick that had been pulled with the illusion Marinette earlier. “I didn’t have to use my power, so I’m not gonna time out.”

“That’d be awesome, Rena,” Ladybug says. “Thanks. Chat and I will stay here and brief with Honeybee.”

‘Rena Rouge’ scoops ‘Chloé’ up and bounds away, while André and Audrey start to bicker – or, to be more accurate, Audrey starts to tear into André while he cowers.

“Thanks for trusting me to help, Ladybug,” Honeybee says once Carapace has also leapt away. “Here, I’ll duck into this alleyway and take the Miraculous off –”

“No need,” Ladybug says. “You passed the test…Chloé.” She says Chloé’s name in a whisper that only Honeybee and Chat Noir can hear.

“The what?” Honeybee’ eyes bulge, while Chat Noir blinks and turns to look at where ‘Rena Rouge’ had disappeared with ‘Chloé’. After a moment, his face clears at the realisation.

“We test all our newbies to see if they’ll give it back when we ask,” he says. “And I’m guessing milady tested you more to make sure we could trust you with a Miraculous again.”

“Welcome to the team, Honeybee,” Ladybug smiles. “But Chat and I are responsible for you, so if you blow this second chance –”

“I won’t! I won’t!” Honeybee practically leaps ten feet in the air. “Thank you, Ladybug, thank you! See you next time!”

“Huh,” Chat Noir comments as Honeybee jumps away. “She doesn’t make a half-bad hero.”

“Pollen will be a good influence,” Ladybug says, then grimaces when her earrings beep. “Well, that’s my cue. I gotta recharge and hand out the Dragon. I think that’ll be our team for the time being, until Master Fu’s comfortable with handing out more zodiacs than just the Dragon. I know we’ve already pushed it, giving out all the working Wu Xing ones.”

“Good idea,” Chat Noir says. “Message me who gets it tonight, okay?”

“Of course, kitty,” Ladybug says. “Oh, can you drop by Chloé’s and get an email address from her so we can add her to the group chat?”

Chat Noir bows and says, “It would be my purrleasure, milady.” He takes off before Ladybug can scold him, leaving her to sigh loudly and duck into the nearest alleyway to detransform and refuel Tikki. Then she’s once again swinging through Paris, towards the small Tsurugi mansion with a sleek red car parked in front of it; although she’s never actually been to Kagami’s house, she certainly knows where it is, at least, thanks to Adrien. But she doesn’t know which room is Kagami’s, so she’s forced to take a quick peek inside each window until she finally stumbles across Kagami sitting at a desk, clearly deep in her homework. Kagami looks up at the tap on her window, and her eyes widen when she catches sight of the superhero dangling outside.

“Ladybug? Is everything alright?” Kagami says after rushing over to open the window. Ladybug slips inside and stares around at the room, marvelling at how it’s just so…Kagami. The walls and massive king bed are a deep red colour, the carpet is soft and black, the desk is made of rich, dark wood, and there are several decorations such as a Japanese flag on one wall, a few fencing trophies on a dark wooden shelf, and some photos pinned to the wall above her desk. A closer look reveals to Ladybug that these photos are of her – well, Marinette – and Adrien, cut from photoshoots and magazine articles, such as the article that had covered Marinette’s hat at the Agreste fashion show.

Oh. Wow. Kagami must really care about them…

“I know it’s not ideal, only having staged photos of them,” Kagami says as she draws level with Ladybug. “But they’re my friends, so I figure the circumstances behind the photos don’t matter.”

“Maybe you could take photos with them?” Ladybug says.

“I suppose…”

“From what I hear, you’re a very direct person. Why hesitate now?”

“It’s just…” Kagami sighs and looks away. “I’ve never had friends before. I don’t know what’s appropriate and when it’s appropriate. If I make a wrong move, how do I know I won’t lose them? Unlike fencing, I don’t get to come back for a rematch. And unlike fencing…I don’t know how to navigate this.”

“Oh.” Ladybug reaches out to rest a hand on Kagami’s arm. “Can I tell you something? I’m inexperienced when it comes to friends as well.”

“Impossible. You’re Ladybug. You’re sweet and charismatic. Me? I’m just an awkward autistic girl who only knows how to stab people.”

“You’re autistic?” Ladybug gasps. “So am I!”

“What?” Kagami’s head whips around to stare at Ladybug. “You – but you’re –”

“An awkward mess outside the mask,” Ladybug says and squeezes Kagami’s arm. “I mix my words up all the time. I melt down and flip out whenever I’m really stressed or losing control of the situation. I have to plan out what I’m going to say before I talk to people about important stuff, otherwise I turn into a blabbering mess. I have to bounce or fidget or do anything to stim because I can’t sit still. I’m clumsy. I’m obsessed with fas – uh, my special interests. I can never seem to be where I should be because I just can’t manage myself, even before I became Ladybug.”

“Oh.” Kagami tilts her head and ever so slowly reaches out to pat Ladybug on the shoulder stiffly. “You get it. I have to script my conversations as well. And…well, I don’t have meltdowns and I’m very organised, but…mostly because Mother would be extremely disappointed in me.”

“Yeah. Masking,” Ladybug says. “It’s kind of ironic, you know. I’m wearing a mask as Ladybug, but it’s the one time when I’m not masking at all. Like, I have to be the saviour of Paris, the role model for everyone…but I can also just be freely autistic because, well, who can tell me to stop fidgeting? And my main responsibility is fighting the akumas, which I don’t need to plan for in advance or work into a schedule.”

“Wow…” Kagami’s soft smile is genuine. “I can’t believe it. You really get it.”

“Yeah,” Ladybug says. “So, trust me when I say that asking your friends for photos isn’t a wrong move. And if you do mess up, you have to trust that they’ll call you out for it. That’s what friends do. But they won’t leave you because of a mistake.”

“Thank you, Ladybug,” Kagami says. “Just…thank you.” Then she squares her shoulders and slips back into business mode and says, “But why are you here? I doubt that you visited me just to give me advice.”

“You’re right,” Ladybug says. She swipes open her yo-yo and pulls out a little box. Kagami’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open. “We were hoping that you’d join the team and fight alongside us.”

“M-Me? I mean, it’s an honour to be offered the chance to fight alongside you, but why me?”

“Because you’re strong and terrifying with a sword,” Ladybug says. “But you also crave freedom, just like Chat. You’re kind and loyal and helpful and always do your best to do the right thing, even if you struggle to properly interact with people. And those are the qualities that make a hero. So, Kagami Tsurugi, if you’re willing, here is the Miraculous of the Dragon, which will grant you the power over the elements of the storm. You will use it for the greater good, to protect Paris and have your teammates’ backs.”

For a moment, Kagami just stares at the box. But before Ladybug can start to panic, Kagami nods and takes it and snaps it open, then gasps and shuts her eyes against the brilliant red light that pours out of it.

“Greetings, young lady, and good day to you!” says the little red dragon kwami that materialises in front of Kagami. “Fear not! I am Longg, the Dragon kwami.”

“You’re a what?” Kagami says after a moment.

“A kwa-mi,” Longg says. “Allow me to tell you about the many feats a magic being like myself will help you accomplish once the magic words have been spoken!”

“She’s more of a direct learner, Longg,” Ladybug says as Kagami slips on the beaded choker.

“Ah,” Longg says. “A woman of action. Very well, then. All you must say is, “Longg, bring the storm” and you will –”

“Longg, bring the storm!” Kagami says, and Longg is sucked into the choker in a blur as red light envelops her. Kagami’s superhero outfit turns out to be a tight, scaly, dark red suit with black shoulders and upper arms, both of them made of black scaly armour with golden trim spiralling along and down to her elbow-length red gloves with golden trim. Two gold-accented black dragons coil around her legs, with their tails fading into boots and their heads meeting and intertwining around her stomach, and a gold and red dragon’s tail flows out of the back of her suit. A circle divided into swirling thirds sits on her chest, with a little elemental symbol in each third, and she has short red dragon horns with gold and black accents sticking out of her windswept black hair, and a red mask with gold and black lightning bolts extending from the bottom. Her eyes, previously light brown, have turned to dark brown with gold sclerae.

Okay. Bad Ladybug. Stop staring. Stop it.

“I love the armour,” Ladybug says, and Kagami runs a hand over the scales on her shoulder.

“I know that the suits are magic, but I always feel safer when I’ve at least got a little armour on,” Kagami says.

“What should I call you?”

“Hmm…Ryuuko. My name is Ryuuko.”

“Well, Ryuuko…” Ladybug crosses over to the open window and smiles back at Ryuuko. “Let’s go for a little evening stroll.”

.

[10:46 pm] Honeybee has joined miraculass.

catitude: welcome to hell

catitude: i mean

catitude: nice work today thanks for saving us

[10:47 pm] Ryuuko has joined miraculass.

Ryuuko: Hello

ladyBIrd: hey

catitude: sup

Honeybee: ew who named this chat

mess w turt u get hurt: rena

what does the fox say: hey

what does the fox say: it’s a great name

ladyBIrd: …it grows on you

Honeybee: KNFLKDSMNZBXCKCLKSDHFOA;SLD

Honeybee: LADYBUG HI

what does the fox say: pfft

what does the fox say: gtfo with your keysmashing i was here first

Honeybee: fuck off

what does the fox say: wow rude

[10:49 pm] what does the fox say set Honeybee’s name to honeybeetch.

honeybeetch: omg

honeybeetch: i hate you

ladyBIrd: I think it’s kind of funny

honeybeetch: asdfghjkl of course

honeybeetch: it’s perfect

what does the fox say: lol desperate

honeybeetch: the only reason i’m not gonna fuckin deck you

honeybeetch: is bc i’ll lose my miraculous

honeybeetch: that and pollen will give me the look of disapproval

catitude: don’t you mean

mess w turt u get hurt: nO DONT

catitude: beecause?

Ryuuko: I’d like to leave, thanks

honeybeetch: where are u

honeybeetch: i’ve got venom ready n everything

catitude: :)

ladyBIrd: Chat, you’re grounded

catitude: :(

honeybeetch: wait

honeybeetch: laDYBUG IS BI

honeybeetch: AJSDHLDSKJ

what does the fox say: don’t even think about it

what does the fox say: i was here first and i have dibs

honeybeetch: actually fite me

honeybeetch: you think your illusions will do shit when i sting you

ladyBIrd: I’ve got a boyfriend, so

ladyBIrd: and there’s a girl above both of you on my list

what does the fox say: :(

honeybeetch: :(

catitude: :)

mess w turt u get hurt: istg i don’t understand why chat reacts half the time

catitude: 0:)

[10:53 pm] catitude has set Ryuuko’s name to airhead

airhead: Are you asking for death?

airhead: Because I have a sword and I’m intimately familiar with how to wield it

honeybeetch: omg i hate everyone here

honeybeetch: except lb of course

[10:56 pm] direct messages

Chat Noir: so

Chat Noir: ryuuko?

Ladybug: Kagami

Chat Noir: omg yes i love

Chat Noir: but i gotta ask

Chat Noir: why give Chloe another chance?

Chat Noir: not that i want her to fail

Ladybug: she’s proven she really does want to change

Ladybug: she even apologised to Marinette and everything

Ladybug: granted, it was an illusion by Rena

Ladybug: but she still passed the test

Chat Noir: i mean

Chat Noir: i’m glad you gave her this chance

Chat Noir: i guess i just don’t want her to let us down again

Chat Noir: especially with the miraculous

Ladybug: the Bee will be perfect for her

Ladybug: I know it

Chat Noir: true

Chat Noir: bee works best with someone with potential for growth

Chat Noir: sting for the greater good and remain warm without burning out of control and all that

Ladybug: ok, how do you remember that?

Ladybug: that was months ago

Chat Noir: i have a near-purrfect memory

Ladybug: does your autocorrect recognise all your puns?

Chat Noir: actually

Chat Noir: yeah

Chat Noir: don’t @ me

Ladybug: :)

Chat Noir: :(

Chat Noir: wait does that mean rena knows honeybee

Ladybug: it was unavoidable

Ladybug: I needed her Mirage

Chat Noir: oof

Chat Noir: thank god she doesn’t know our ids

Ladybug: haha, yeah

Ladybug: I’m gonna DM Honeybee before I sleep

Ladybug: night, kitty <3

Chat Noir: night bugaboo <3

[11:02 pm] direct messages

Ladybug: Hi, Honeybee

Honeybee: ASKJFDSL;KGLDKFG

Honeybee: HI LADYBUG

Ladybug: you don’t have to freak out

Ladybug: it’s just me

Honeybee: yeah but

Honeybee: i’m in a gc

Honeybee: with LADYBUG

Honeybee: and i’m a SUPERHERO

Honeybee: pollen’s trying to take my phone help

Ladybug: lol

Honeybee: so like

Honeybee: not that i’m ungrateful

Honeybee: but why me

Honeybee: why not marinette

Honeybee: she was right there

Honeybee: and she didn’t mess up and out herself to paris

Ladybug: for one, she told me she’s got a pretty busy schedule

Ladybug: for another

Ladybug: I guess I just remembered our conversation about your mother

Ladybug: and I knew there was potential there if I just teased it out

Ladybug: because you really have been trying, even if you slip up

Honeybee: i just

Honeybee: it’s easier to push ppl away

Honeybee: i have to tell my mother to fuck off tmrw and

Honeybee: i’m kinda losing my shit rn so

Ladybug: you can do it, Chloe

Ladybug: she’s a toxic influence

Ladybug: and she’s stunting your potential for growth

Honeybee: ik ik

Honeybee: pollen said it’s like pruning the weeds to let the flowers bloom?

Ladybug: yep

Ladybug: kwamis are pretty wise

Ladybug: Pollen will help and support you

Ladybug: and you’ve got the group chat

Ladybug: you’re not alone, Chloe

Honeybee: <3

Ladybug: <3

Honeybee: ASLKFHSDLK

[an-absolute-travesty]

ok i’m just OBSESSED with collecting buttons and pins. i love them so much i have 500+ pins i’ve collected since i was 8 and i love little buttons they’re so cute! i’m obsessed with mushrooms too they make me happy stim sooooo much i FREAK out. i swear i have 200 photos in my phone of just MUSHROOMS they’re amazing.

:O buttons are very very cute. Like a jar of buttons just seems like such I nice thing to have. I bet if you put a bunch in a bowl they’d feel real neat to run your hands through. Also I wish I had a bunch of pins, my goal is to one day get a bunch and just fill up my whole backpack with them. I wish I could relate on the mushrooms thing but alas I have a weird fear of fungus, it just freaks me out. Once my brother put a mushroom on my phone and I had to use a fork to take it off before sanitizing my phone and washing my hands. It’s irrational and I know that but still.

[disabled-queen-hc-blog]

Sunrises and Sunsets

Anon asked: Gonna bring back autistic!joger and ask for a proposal :))))

Your wish is my command, love.

There were thousands upon thousands of crystalline lights shimmering and dancing on top the purple water. The waves rolled in, slowly but steadily, the white foam whispering hisses as it reached the shore, only to slide back into the depths. The sand, like tiny shards of glass, glinted at the setting sun, the sky and puffy clouds brilliant shades of orange and pink. Colors that shouldn’t go together, but somehow did when painted on by mother earth.

John breathed in the salty air, eyes fluttering shut as a gust of wind blew through his curly hair. His toes and fingers sunk into the scratchy sand, taking in the feeling of the majesty that was the beach at dusk. There wasn’t a soul around him, besides the gulls cawing in the horizon and Roger, who sat right next to him.

Roger was reclined on a folding chair, shades drawn down, eyes focused on the glistening sea before them, listening to the purr of the ocean and crackle of the shifting sand. It was magnificent, he had to admit. There was something about witnessing a sunrise or sunset that reminded you that the world could be beautiful. Even when things were hard or confusing or wrong, living and being alive and continuing on was so worth it. Even if it was all just to watch another sunset.

That sentiment never rang so true until now. Roger’s life had been filled with strife. Teased mercilessly by other children for acting different and threatened cold-bloodedly by other adults for loving different. His life was one of more personal failures than victories. It could’ve been so easy to give up, throw in the towel. He could’ve changed how he acted, mimicking others for the sake of the world rather than himself. He could’ve dated a nice girl, not for his own satisfaction but for the leering eyes around him. He could’ve done so many things differently at the cost of who he was.

But he didn’t. Sticking true to his character, he kept on going, kept fighting. All for the hope of seeing another sunrise.

And look where that got him?

Under their beach umbrella, John laid back, his hair puffing out around his head like a halo, grey eyes landing on the man next to him. A gap-toothed smile grew on his face as he rested his hands on his stomach, a faint blush spreading onto his face. It’s been 10 years since they got together and John still couldn’t look at Roger without going absolutely pink.

“I had a lot of fun today,” John said, his gaze falling down to stop the fluttering in his tummy.

“Did you?” Roger asked, smiling too, failing to resist the urge to lightly pinch John’s cheek, which made him squeak and squirm.

Today really had been tremendous. It was date day. Every first Wednesday of the month was. They started off with breakfast in a little diner. John with a mile-high stack of pancakes and Roger’s usual tea and bacon, eggs and toast.

Next was a mid-morning walk around the park. It was the park Roger had asked John to be his boyfriend in. The coincidence was not lost on John, who happily pointed to the bench where it all happened, clapping as he recalled the memory. God, Roger had been so sweaty. He was a nervous sweater, unfortunately. Not that it mattered to John. After he had agreed, the spent the better part of an hour jumping around like idiots, both getting drenched in sweat.

They sat there and talked for a while, about nothing in particular, about the weather, about the dishwasher in their house that was broken, about the songbirds fluttering about. At noon, they departed.

It was a week day, so the bowling alley was empty. Just how John preferred it. No cacophony of dozens of people chattering, 5 balls crashing at once, cheers and groans. It was just the two of them. And to be honest, they both were horrible at the game, so not having witnesses to their mediocrity was another benefit. They did try their damnedest though. They would howl with laughter when the other got a ball in the gutter and flap away when they knocked even a single pin down. The one worker manning the fort couldn’t help but to chuckle at the two hyper men as they fist bumped after getting a combined score of 60.

After a rigorous hour bowling their hearts out and with stomachs filled with stale pretzels, it was time to go to the movies. They picked a scary movie because getting scared was fun even if it wasn’t romantic. John loved to pretend he was so scared that he needed Roger to hold him. Roger loved that too, squishing John up to him in his arms while John just giggled as if they were the only two people in the theater. But this time around, Roger seemed nervous. He kept fidgeting in his seat, fingers drumming away quietly on the arm rests. John thought maybe the movie was too scary for Roger, so this time he held the drummer and made a mental note to watch a comedy come next date night. Roger just smiled, still fidgety as ever even in his boyfriend’s grip.

They both exited the thriller, eyes wide and mouths agape. The movie had been much more frightening than anticipated, the both of them clinging to each other only half way through. But they made it out alive, dignities not intact. Roger let out the shrillest (and cutest) scream at one point.

This was usually the end of their date, so they both hopped into Roger’s car and got onto the road. John started to talk about the movie and speculate on theories when he stopped abruptly, tugging on Roger’s shoulder.

“You missed a turn!” He said, watching as the exit to their part of the city flew past them.

“I know,” Roger said with a cheeky smile, eyes still on the road.

“Aren’t you gonna turn around? There’s no way to get back home from here if you keep going,” John said, head cocked forward to get into Roger’s peripheral vision.

“Nope,” Roger replied, chuckling.

John sat back in his seat, eyes squinted, very confused. He side eyed Roger, not sure what the blond had in mind. It was date night after all. He could’ve added something secretly to the agenda.

Which was a mistake on Roger’s part because John hated secrets. Christmas was hell.

While he rocked back and forth in his seat, John asked, “Where are we going?”

“’S a secret,”

“Where are we going?”

“I dunno,”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere!”

“Where?”

“A place,”

“Wheeerrreeeeeeeeee?”

“The beach!”

Roger was bad at keeping secrets especially while being grilled so geniusly by John, who now sat quietly stimming with his fingers, a big grin on his face. Cute bastard.

It took them awhile to get there, Roger parking the car as the sun started its slow descent in the sky. John kicked off his shoes as Roger pulled out the two beach chairs and umbrella he had in the boot of his car.

The couple lugged what little cargo they had onto the most perfect spot on the near deserted beach, right by some hills that provided them with some additional shade. After a brief set up, they sat and watched as the world grew darker and quieter and all the more beautiful.

Another salt laden breeze tickled through their hair, the thunder of crashing waves echoing through the beach. They didn’t even notice, grey and blue eyes holding on another’s stare, mixing somehow to make a rainbow.

Stuttering hearts. Shaking limbs. Abated breathe. Just like it was 10 years ago. Just like it was every single day. Now was the time, Roger thought. The perfect moment.

He got up from his chair, head woozy with anticipation. He kneeled down, both knees digging into the sand and began to speak, voice trembling.

“John Richard Deacon, I love you. You know that. You have given me so much love, clarity and support this past decade that I’ve had the privilege of loving you. You’re my best friend, my confidant, my lover and you just get me. And I need you to know it doesn’t go unnoticed,”

“All I ever want is for you to be happy. To be safe. To feel loved. I never thought I’d be a man to, um, settle down and all, but you did that. You.”

“John, I want to listen to you talk about Snow White and wires and basses for the rest of my life. Will you be my husband?”

Roger reached into his pocket, pulling out the box that was weighing on his mind all day and opened it.

John came face to face with the ring, mouthing dropping, eyes going wide. He couldn’t even say anything; his brain had stopped working from the shock. So, he did the next best thing.

He tackled Roger to the ground, attacking his face with kisses, overwhelmed tears dripping down his cheeks.

John was never good with words, so Roger considered this the yes he’d been dreaming of for the past few months.

He laughed, wrapping his arms around John, eyes shut as he let himself be drowned in kisses. His heart was still beating loudly in his chest, not from anxiety anymore, but relief.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” he said, voice muffled by John’s rapid-fire kisses and blubbering.

“Yes! Yes!” John repeated back, voice finally able to make intelligible words again.

“Well, put the ring on, you animal,” Roger said, still clutching the opened box in his hand. John’s ear grew hot, rolling off of Roger and holding his left hand out. That’s how they did it in movies, right?

Roger shook off some sand before he sat up, pulling the ring out and slipping it delicately onto John’s finger. It fit like a charm.

“Like Cinderella,” John whispered. Roger nodded with a grin.

John looked down at the ring, taken aback by its simple beauty. A plain gold band flickered with the suns dying rays, three circle cut diamonds sitting in a row, the middle one the largest.

“It’s gorgeous,” he mouthed

“It is,” Roger replied, grabbing John’s hand in his own and kissing the knuckles softly.

They sat in an awed silence, glancing at rings and the loves of their lives before John blurted out, “I’ll have to get you a ring too. A big one,” While John enjoyed modesty, Roger was far from it. He’d need a ring that’d put their friend Elton John to shame. Something obnoxious, shiny and did he mention shiny?

Roger waggled his eyebrows, only imagining what John would concoct in the jewelers. A lot of square cuts. And silver, oh silver looked pretty on him. And a-

“Look, the sun’s already set,” John pointed to the sky using his left hand, the sky now a light navy, a few stars already shining through the cloak of night.

Roger hmmed in surprise, never even having noticed the sun dipping so dangerously below the horizon. He’d made it past another sunset.

John without so much as a word got up onto his feet and starting flapping, hopping about. He’d never been so shocked that he forgot to stim before. It was time to get all those rumbly sparklers out from him.

“We’re married!” he shouted, the empty beach shouting it back to him. He flapped so hard, hair bouncing, head shaking from side to side.

Roger shared the sentiment, getting up to jump on the sand, which was harder than it looked, flapping and squealing back, “We’re getting married!”

“Married! Married!” the two said, bouncing around the beach, the sky littered in stars, the waves frothing and rolling and the wind cool. They continued their celebration, holding hands and yelling excitedly until their knees hurt and they were covered in sweat.

10 years of sunrises and sunsets and nothing had changed.

[spooky-scary-imagines]

i got tagged by @novemberpines 0wU u

1. Nicknames: Bitch? All my nicknames are just insults lol. Everyone calls me Leo.

2. Zodiac Sign: Pieces Though I’m and Aries cusp if y’all who know astrology think that means anything

3. Height: 5′3??? I never remember that stuff 

4. Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff

5. Last Thing I googled: The IMDB page for “Don’t Look Now” I’m on IMDB like 25/8

6. Favorite Musicians: AJJ, The Mountain Goats, Pansy Division, Britney Spears

7. Song Stuck in My Head: Funkytown by Lipps inc..

8. Following Now: 267

9. Followers: 797 Holy shit! Though I’m sad I missed properly celebrating 69, 420, and 666

10. Do I Get Asks?:Yes, but I’m a lazy bitch and it takes me five-ever to answer them

12. Lucky Number: To quote Bill and Ted, “69 Dudes!”

13. What I’m Wearing: Glen or Glenda shirt, cargo shorts, my funky cat socks. I got a crystal necklace fiddling with and a safety pin in my ear. 

14. Dream Job: Film Historian, I adore more than anything analyzing films and how they are products of their time and location and how they affected the society around them.

15. Dream Trip: I’m a homebody and I don’t much care for traveling tbh But I’d love to go to the Greenich village of the 70s before it was gentrified all to hell. Maybe I’ll make my “Divine” pilgrimage to Baltimore.

16. Favourite Food: My taste-buds are hella devolved uh...Chicken Ramen noodles (I like to eat it dry cause the crunch is a nice mouth stim), candy, and Meat Lovers Stuffed Crust pizza from Papa Murphy’s, ya boi is a simple man

17. Instruments: I can sing aight but I can’t play anything worth a shit/

18. Languages: English and I’ve cheated my way through three years of French so I’ve picked up some of it.

19. Favourite Song: It changes constantly but at this second: Boys Like U by Zand, Bill and Ted’s Homosexual Adventure by Pansy Division, and Soccer Practice by Jonny McGovern

20. Random Fact: I love doing voice impressions. Some of my faves are John Mulaney (my voice actually just sounds like that it’s weird), Chop-Top/Beetlejuice, Buffalo Bill, and I can do over half the entire cast of South Park. I also just accidently slip into different voices for no reason lol.

21. Aesthetic: Trashy films in the back of the video store, Norman Bates’s stuffed bunny rabbit, a plain white mask, bowling alley carpet, a candy cigarette, touched-starved fingers reaching over the movie theatre armrest, fake vampire teeth, the wildly-stupid dialogue of gay porn, the feeling of biting into Styrofoam and tearing it to bits with your teeth, cuddling up with someone watching MST3K, Giant sharp monster teeth and a big ole tongue, etc.

Tag 21 people: That’s hard : P Just anyone who wants to do it can!

[the-lightless-star]

With you I am home

My humble entry for @celebraterogueone. Week of Cassian. Day 7

His grip on the cool sheet tightened as he burrowed his head further into the soft mattress. A small whimper escaped his lips as he whispered incoherently in his sleep.

The hot sizzle of blaster fire heated his skin as it embedded into the bark of a nearby pine. Cassian breathed heavily as he peered from a moss covered log at what remained of the Imperial outpost. The charred bodies of rebel and imperial alike lay strewn in companionable silence as the battle moved further toward the shield generator. He searched with baited breath for any sign of life as the smoke cleared from his vision. 

Cassian dropped low behind the brush as a scout trooper picked his way through the carnage. He watched as the trooper quickly lifted his blaster, aiming at an unseen target. The trooper dropped as his intended victim shot first. Cassian bounded from his hiding place, edging closer to his mark. Searching the area where the blaster fire had originated, he saw nothing but piles of rubble where metal supply units and imperial weaponry had been blown to bits. A hushed moan emanated from beneath a large piece of debris.

Pain etched on her tired face, Jyn’s entire right side was pinned down, the metal burning and cutting into her tender flesh, rendering her unable to extricate herself. 

Holstering his weapon, he made his way toward her still form. As her name spilled helplessly from his lips, her eyes grew wide as they focused over his shoulder. Her scream filled the air as white-hot pain shot through his side, “Cassian!”

His eyes shot open as her screams continued to reverberate in his ears. His shallow breathing puffed in painful gasps as he struggled with his grip on reality. Closing his eyes he focused on her voice, remembering the steps that would ground him.

“What do you feel?” 

He reached out with his trembling hands and felt the smooth sheets beneath his head, their softness beckoning him to return to slumber. The prickly stubble of his untrimmed beard tickling his fingers as he wiped a hand across his face. Sweat dripping from his brow and splashing upon his dry lips.

“What do you smell?” 

Cassian inhaled the scent of stim caf wafting from kitchen, likely left in anticipation he’d be waking soon. The heavy aroma pairing with the lightest scent of herbs that grew just outside the bedroom window. The strong redolence of spices mixed into a poultice and rubbed into his skin not hours before.

“What do you hear?”

The heavy drumming of his heart had dissipated as it was replaced with the sound of wet clothing as it swung on the line, blown back and forth by the occasional breeze that swept the hillside homestead. The steady beat of metal, as it hit the ground, breaking up the hard sediment stripped of its nutrients from years of mining. The soft mewls of a new little life as it echoed outside, safe in the arms of his mother.

“What do you see?”

Cassian opened his heavy eyes against the brightness of their small bedroom. The windows were opened wide allowing the light of twin suns to cast shadows on the wall. The breeze lifted the thin curtains as they ruffled like sails on a seafaring vessel. 

Tentatively sitting up, Cassian felt a tug of pain against his side as he straightened his back. He touched the sensitive spot to find a lightweight cloth wrapped firmly around his midsection, protecting their bed from the medicinal covering that had been applied.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Cassian began to piece together what had happened.

Both he and Jyn had been up into the wee hours of the morning, him with an excruciating back spasm, and her with a screaming infant. He had been sitting in the same position as he currently found himself, only in far more pain.

His hand gripping his torso, Cassian bit back a groan as he attempted to get up. 

“Cass, go back to sleep, I’ve got him,” Jyn whispered as she trailed her fingertips along his shoulder and rose from their bed in the darkness. The piercing cries of their son echoed in the small room, as he waited to be picked up. 

Cassian dutifully laid back down, knowing it was a losing battle to argue with her. Shifting to lay on his stomach he hoped taking pressure off his back would lessen the tightness he felt growing in his muscles. 

Closing his eyes, he listened as Jyn attempted to soothe the baby. He knew their routine by heart. She would nurse Kai, change him, rock him, and pray he’d return to sleep. Most nights he had other plans.

The persistent crying escalated to screams after the first hour, Jyn’s pleading becoming more and more desperate. Cassian twisted to get out of bed when his back seized up, stealing his breath and causing him to groan in pain. He lay silently on his side, hands curled into fists, attempting to control his breathing.

Screaming baby strapped to her chest, Jyn entered the room with a steaming bowl and a long cloth. As she kneeled beside him on the bed Cassian’s apologetic eyes met her own, but she brushed the look off with a tired smile. 

“Deep breath,” she whispered. 

Cassian hissed as the hot salve was applied to his side. The spice mixture was one of Jyn’s own creation, picked up during her time with Saw’s rebels, when patching up injuries themselves was the only option. She whispered an apology as her calloused hands massaged the tender muscles. 

His back had healed quickly after their attack on Scarif, surprising himself and the medics alike. Residual pain lingered, but he could maintain the same level of responsibility in the alliance as before, but the injury incurred in the final hours of the Battle of Endor would test his limits of recovery. The single blaster shot to the lower torso had damaged muscle and nerve endings that never fully healed. On his best days, there was hardly any pain at all. On his worst, he couldn’t get out of bed. 

But he was not the only one to bear scars.

Turning his head to face her, he stared at her stoic expression, attempting to unveil the emotions she kept closely guarded. Reaching out to touch her arm, she pulled away sharply, startling the baby and causing him to resume his wailing. 

“It’s fine, Cass.”

Grabbing a small cup from the bedside she nudged his lips. 

“You know I don’t like this, I’m no help to anyone when I take it,” he bemoaned. 

He opened his mouth in obedience and drank the offending liquid. It tasted innocently enough like tea and honey, but he knew she added herbs to make him drowsy and relieve the inflammation. The only caveat was the heavy sleep it induced, and the hazy memories that lingered afterward. 

He grabbed her wrist as she pulled away, baby still screaming between them. Eyes drifting closed, he whispered an endearment as her hands slipped from his own. He shifted as she wrapped the cloth around his body and softly placed the thin blanket over him. As darkness fell upon him, he could still hear his son, inconsolable in the arms of his tired mother.

After dragging himself to the kitchen, he savored the taste of the caf Jyn had left for him, leaning against the door frame, staring at the familiar figure in the distance. 

The ground beneath her stubbornly refused to yield as she cleared vine and thorn from the dry soil. Baby secured tight against her back, lulled to sleep by the repetitive motion. He watched worriedly as the raising and dropping of the shovel visibly began to tire her. Her method was becoming sloppy, as she’d begun using her non-dominant hand to wield the tool. 

As Cassian moved closer he watched as she dropped the tool to the ground, leaning her head against the handle for a moments respite. The sudden stop of motion caused the baby to cry out, startling Cassian and causing Jyn to lift her gaze. 

Jyn lifted her left arm to shift the wrap around her torso, but the awkward angle made it impossible to move the baby from her back. 

“Cassian?” she questioned tiredly, her unspoken question clear.

His chest tightened at her defeated plea. 

Standing before her, he loosened the knot at her chest and kept his other hand tight against her back. Unwrapping the layers, he watched her face blanch as he loosened the fabric from beneath her right arm. Removing the final fold, he gently pried his son from her back and cradled the tiny form against his chest. 

Cassian pressed a small kiss to his head as Kai quieted on his chest. 

Putting a hand to her back, Cassian ushered Jyn toward the house. 

“You calm him,” she stated simply, albeit sadly. 

Cassian chuckled quietly, “That is because his papa has nothing he seeks.”

He kissed her temple as they entered the house, “He cries for mama, because he needs her,” his eyes finding hers misty, “as do I.”

Taking her hand he lead her silently to their room, letting go only to place Kai on his pallet. Walking to the refresher, Cassian turned the shower on and waited for it to heat. Together they’d worked to fashion the unit to filter and recycle water, using runoff from rain barrels they’d placed around the property. As convenient as sonic showers were, they were not economically feasible, nor did they provide the feeling of cleansing to the mind and body as running water. 

Cassian returned to find her sitting on their bed, staring towards the window in contemplation. She looked fragile and weary, as if the smallest movement might break her. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he replied softly.

Jyn looked worriedly toward their son, “I should feed him, he’s probably getting hungry.”

“He’s sleeping, Jyn. He’ll be alright.”

Cassian knew she was looking for a distraction. It was one of the many traits they shared. It was much easier to busy yourself in the care of others than to explore the complexity of emotion warring within. 

Kneeling in front of her he tugged at her boots and watched for any reaction. Her eyes glazed over as he continued to undress her. He placed her wet socks on the floor and reached up for the clasps of her shirt. Starting at her neck he grazed the scars that ran the entire expanse of her throat, painful reminders of her time aboard an imperial cruiser. She had come back without her kyber crystal, a loss that seemed greater to her than the disfiguring scars it’s removal had left behind.

With steady hands he pulled at the first button. Her eyes met his own as he continued his path down her chest, caressing the soft skin beneath each one. As the removal of her shirt revealed heated skin beneath, her gaze dropped to her abdomen as his hand traced patterns over the stretch marks left on her body. Jyn’s hands covered his own as she stopped his ministrations. 

Cassian knew she was uncomfortable with the changes to her body since giving birth, but he found them intoxicating. The softness of her abdomen, still swollen from harboring a growing child. The white scars that marred her skin below the belly button, soft and smooth as he ran his fingers along their patterns. The curve of her hips and thighs, full and rounded, waiting for him to dig his fingertips into as he gripped her close. For the first time since they’d met, she was healthy, nourished, and safe. 

His touches to her skin had lulled her into a daze, her eyes shut tightly as she leaned into this touch.

Cassian pulled her shirt from the left arm first, exposing the smooth skin of her shoulder, soft and unadulterated. Taking a deep breath he looked to her for permission to remove the rest of the shirt. Breathing deeply, Jyn nodded in acquiesce. 

A whimper crossed her lips as he slowly pulled the shirt away. Her right arm was a myriad of color. Mottled pinks and reds with tight bands of white where new skin growth tightened and puckered. Medical treatment had healed much of the scarring, but the tracks of the most severe burns remained. The discoloration stretched across her skin like tails of lightening streaked across the sky. The scars were the least of her worries, as having been pinned beneath such a heavy structure she suffered nerve damage that would periodically cause her to lose mobility.

Pulling her from the bed, he pressed her toward the refresher. 

“Take your time. I’ll be right here if you need me,” he encouraged. 

With no indication she’d heard him, Jyn walked past him and out of sight. 

Cassian blew out a breath and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he listened to the steady beat of water on the stone floor. Another sound began to overlap the steady stream. The hitch of breath and the muffled sound of crying.

Edging around the corner, Cassian stopped and took in the sight before him. Knees pulled tight to her chest, Jyn sat in the middle of the shower, back to the door, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her body was bare, save for the breast band tight around her chest. Her right arm hung limply at her side as she made no attempt to speak. 

“Jyn?” he whispered. 

Kneeling just outside the shower, Cassian stifled a groan as his tender back protested the position. Her eyes flashed to his, an unspoken apology in her gaze. 

“Do you want me to go?” he questioned. 

Jyn shook her head in response, arm tightening around her knees. 

Cassian reached for the clasp at the back of her breast band, pausing as if silently requesting permission. Releasing the clasp, he pulled it gently from her chest, placing it on the floor behind him. Reaching for cleanser, he rubbed it into his hands and began to massage it gently into her scalp, scratching gently at the nape of her neck and behind her ears. 

Her hair had grown considerably long since they’d met, length now past her shoulders, and fringe at her collarbone. Rinsing her long strands of cleanser, he smoothed a hand over her head and brushed wet locks from her face. 

Quickly lathering his hands with soap he began to rub her neck and back. A low hum sounded in her throat as he dipped to her lower back. Coming back to the front, he pulled her knees gently from her chest and began to knead the soft skin of her tummy and breasts. Brushing his hand against her sensitive and swollen chest, he watched as milk began to drip in earnest. 

Her gaze caught his own and his heart broke as he watched tears mix with water that dripped down her face. Leaning in to gently kiss her wet cheeks, he rinsed the soap from her body and turned off the water. 

Jyn allowed him to dry her off and wrap her in his loose robe, her small form even more evident in the large covering. 

Laying on her left, Jyn curled up on Cassian’s side of the bed and looked toward him expectantly. He had already turned away to pick up Kai and bring him to their bed. Arranging him carefully next to her chest, he watched in silent wonder as they intuitively worked together, mother and child, in a way that never ceased to be mesmerizing to him. 

Pulling her robe to the side, he watched as Kai rooted and whimpered until he found his mother’s soft skin and began to suck eagerly. His little fist pulled painfully at her skin, drawing the milk down to drink. Tears tracked down her cheeks once more, Cassian smiling sadly as he watched his wife battle the emotion raging in her heart and mind. 

Looking up from Kai, Jyn caught Cassian staring and blushed. He was laying not a foot away, on his side, head propped up on his hand. 

“I know, I’m a bit of a mess,” she laughed deprecatingly, her lower lip trembling through her smile. 

Cassian brushed a hand through her tangled, damp hair, “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Jyn brushed Kai’s dark hair with a feather light touch and murmured a thought out loud, “I wish my mama was here.”

Cassian remained silent, willing her to continue speaking without prompt.

She smiled as she reminisced, “Mama was direct, so sure of herself. She always had an answer for everything. She wasn’t playful and silly like Papa. I always felt this need to please her, to show her I could dream like Papa, but still keep my feet on the ground.”

Cassian smirked at the similarities between herself and the woman she described, yet at the same time so different.

“She was very particular about the way she talked about him. Like she married him only because she wanted him, not because she needed him. She was clear as to her self-sufficiency. She knew how to detach herself from emotion.”

Closing her eyes, Jyn continued, “When we were running from Krennic on Lah’mu, I remember how tight she gripped my wrist. No matter how hard I cried or pleaded for her to stop, she continued pulling and dragging me behind her. She looked so calm because she had already made her decision.”

Cassian’s eyebrow’s went up as she continued, tucking each word away for safe keeping, as she hardly ever spoke of her childhood.

“A few days before Krennic arrived, I overheard them talking after I’d gone to bed. Papa was scolding her for being so hard on me.”

He gave her a gentle nod as she continued, “I heard her say, ‘Love wont save her, Galen.’”

“I think perhaps I internalized that, and it became the reason I closed myself off. Love couldn’t protect me, so why make myself vulnerable? I didn’t want love if it meant being left behind.”

Cassian knew that she was speaking not just of her mother, but of the same actions by Saw Gerrera. 

“When she said that, she had already made up her mind that she was going after Papa,” she whispered, stroking Kai’s cheek, “even after he told her to leave with me.”

Jyn caught Cassian’s eyes with a look that exposed the pain she kept hidden so well.

“I still get angry with her sometimes. They were going to take Papa whether she tried to stop them or not. But she chose to leave me.”

Kai chose that moment to cry out, unlatching from her sore breast and crying in earnest. Knowing Jyn couldn’t lay on her other side without intense pain, Cassian sat up, cradling his son, and positioned him at her other breast, helping her to get him to latch without a word, and bearing his weight so she didn’t have to.

“When Kai was born, I remember looking at him and thinking, I could never leave him behind.”

Jyn put her hand beneath Cassian’s as he held their son’s head so gently.

“But there are time’s I put myself in the same position as my mama, and I make the same choice. I choose you,” she whispered brokenly. 

“I’m not self-sufficient like her. I’m not with you only because I want you. I’m with you because I need you. But what kind of mother does that make me?”

Leaning in close to her face he replied, “I will do everything in power to make certain that is a choice you will never have to make.”

“Do you ever think that maybe the reason your mama left you on your own was because she had trust in you? She knew that you would obey her, that you could take care of yourself if you had to? At that moment your papa needed her more than you did.”

Her tears resumed once more, “But I was just a child, Cass.”

“I know, mi vida, I know,” he consoled her. 

Of course he knew. He had been even younger than she when he’d been left on his own. So young to have such responsibility heaped upon your shoulders.

Kai had fallen asleep, lulled into slumber by their soft conversation. Cassian lifted him to his shoulder, patting him lightly on the back before placing him back on his pallet. 

Kneeling close to her side, Cassian leaned in and kissed her chastely on the lips, wrapping the robe tightly back around her chest and lightly tying the sash.

She watched him leave the room, knowing the pattern of their routine. In confirmation, Cassian returned with a steaming bowl, much the same as she had done hours before for him. 

Rolling the sleeve of the robe up to her shoulder he began to massage the oily substance into her dry skin. He dragged his thumb along the harder ridges of skin where muscles underneath knotted in defiance.

Each time they tended to each others scars, Jyn couldn’t help but think back to events that marked their departure from the fight of the rebellion.

They’d left not a year after the final conflict on Endor. Both had suffered irreparable damage both physically and mentally over the course of their time under command. They had made the difficult decision to part ways, seeking solace in a star system in the Outer Rim. They would continue to fight the evils of the galaxy their own way, by becoming inhabitants and rebuilders of a planet that had been ravaged and mined in order to supply materials for the creation of the second Death Star. 

“Do you ever think we should have stayed?” she ground out as he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

Shaking his head almost imperceptibly, he offered a simple question in reply, “Are you unhappy here?”

Placing a gentle hand to still his own, she tugged him toward her and captured his lips with her own, answering his question the best way she knew how. 

Catching his breath he spoke softly, “There will always be war, and as one evil is dispelled, another will rise up in its place.” His hand settled on her hip, giving her a light squeeze.

“I am at the point in my life where I want to be able to look in the mirror and like who I see. I want Kai to be proud of his papa.”

Cassian’s eyes had grow misty and he hastily wiped at them to quell the emotion. 

Jyn pulled him down beside her, pressing his head to her chest, and ran her hand through his coarse hair. She knew where the emotion had come from. Neither of them were very proud of the things they had done in the name of survival, in the name of obedience to the cause.

She hadn’t known the loyalty of her father until he died, and Cassian’s father hadn’t lived long enough for him to judge him on that account.

If they could give Kai anything, it would be themselves.

Cassian tangled his legs between her own and pressed a kiss to the soft skin at her breast. 

Jyn drowsily whispered against his temple, “Don’t let me sleep too long, Kai will be hungry again soon.”

She felt the gentle hum of his chest against her own, affirming he wouldn’t.

Cassian’s gentle voice washed over her as she slowly began to wake. The bedroom was becoming dim, the shadows of the twin suns cast high on the stone walls. 

“Hush, mijo, Mama needs her rest. It’s alright.” Cassian pleaded with him to quiet his cries for a little longer.

Jyn could see their shadow cast upon the wall in front of her. Kai was cradled against Cassian’s chest, no doubt his ear pressed to his Papa’s heart. She watched as the shadow bounced gently back and forth, Cassian’s voice whispering a soft lullaby she’d only heard once before. It was the only precious memory that remained of his mother. 

Estrellita del lejano cielo, que miras mi dolor, que sabes mi sufrir. Baja y dime si me quiere un poco, porque yo no puedo sin su amor vivir.

Jyn smiled softly and turned to face them. Her eyes met his own, a silent promise shared between them. Kai would not be abandoned as they had been.

He would have a place to call home.

[fuckthisshitimin]

Spilled soup is the saddest thing on Earth.

It crashed on the ground, clattering and shattering. Red broth floods the floor, and for a moment, Keith considers not cleaning it up. For a moment, he thinks he can win this fight, at least this one, and he walks to the stove to help himself another bowl of noodle soup. He grips the pot tightly, keeping it in place as the floor tilts beneath his feet. It works for a sip. It works for two sips, and this time it spills on his shirt, burning and staining and sticking. It hurts.

Another crash as he throws the pot into the wall, another angry red stain on the dull white paint. It’s almost grey now, and as soon as the pot shuts up, Keith feels it rising from his feet to his stomach, from his stomach to his chest, from his chest to his throat, to his face, and somehow it burns harshly than the broth on his shirt, the shame.

In an instant his blood is boiling with it, and he leans on the wall. There is a grumble there. Beneath his fingers pressed against the stain. It used to be a reassuring sound, like a cat’s purring. He remembers Pidge told him cats tend to purr when they are anxious, too, to ground themselves, to ease the pain, she said it was just like stimming, now the apartment grumbles as the walls shrink and of course she was right.

“I’m sorry.”

Keith doesn’t know if it’s the weight of the emotions on his chest or if the apartment turned on the heating but his heart is pounding harder now, it’s heavy and the sweat on Keith’s skin is tepid. He wets a rag for the stains, but the coldest water he can draw from the sink is still uncomfortably warm.

And here he thought grief was cold.

Keith is used to the cold. Unforgiving wind against his jacket, dry winter air in an empty field. The crack of ice under his every step, his lips chapped and fingers painful. Walking on, alone.

This is different.

The apartment is cramped now, and he didn’t think such a small space could feel so empty. Maybe empty is the wrong term. Maybe it’s humid and too hot and heavy because there is something here. Not an absence so tangible it could hurt, not even the remnants of it.

Sure, he can see the cracks on the door she slammed when she left, and her peanut butter is still half-full in the fridge, her mug of coffee in the sink and her shadow on his bed, but it’s not…

The buzzing, the pounding, the headache, it’s. It’s moving. It’s fast and frantic, it’s furious and restless. It’s searching for her.

The rag in Keith’s hand is red now, burning his fingers as he puts it in the laundry machine. He can only wash the stains off with hot water, and when the floor tilts again, he fears he might fall. Pressure pins him down, and nausea starts to rise, brushing against his shame, poking at his regrets like a sharp nail tugging too hard on not-so-dead skin, chasing the promise of a fuller pain.

It is a slow walk to the window, and Keith isn’t that surprised to see he can’t open it. He sits on the windowsill instead, lights a cigarette as another kind of burning. He groans when the walls grumble again, and if the headache was but a mere shadow earlier it squeezes his head now, blood thicker in his brain, neck tightening as he struggles to breathe.

Pidge said once that spilled soup was the saddest thing on earth. She had just spilled most of her bowl, fingers burnt against the porcelain as she was retrieving it from the microwave. He gave her cream, and grimaced in disgust when he cleaned the floor, as she whimpered she was really looking forward to that soup. In the exact same spot, he took her hand without asking, and she was so surprised she let go of her peanut butter and jam toast. It landed perfectly, so she could grab it again and keep eating with one hand, the other holding firmly onto Keith’s fingers. She had looked at him, far too seriously, she said, Do you think I put jam on the wrong side?

Pidge talks a lot. She said many, many things, and he finds he remembers too much. It’s a lot of words for such a small room, for such a small body, sentences run through him without enough space to ever get out, his heart churns, and the memories bounce on the walls and back to him, ever faster, ever harsher.

The apartment is still mad at him. But when he says “I miss her, too,” he wonders if the rumbling might want to ease his aching as well as its own. The wall pressed to his cheek is hot with agitation, and his tears, too, burn when they fall.

Text: The apartment was angry with me. It tilted the floors when I sat down to eat, so if I wasn’t careful all my food would slide right off the table. 

[portscutie]

Things Fall Apart (Others Fall Together)

Group: BTS (Bangtan Boys) Pairings: Yoonminseok (Suga X Jimin X J-Hope) Word Count: 8K~ Rating: PG-13 Genre: Polyamorous Relationships, Little Space, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst Summary: With the bedroom door closed between them and a raging Hoseok, Jimin began really breaking down. “I don’t want daddy to be my daddy anymore!” Jimin’s eyes were squeezed tight, tears still somehow escaping and falling from his rapidly puffing eyes. His arms were wrapped around Yoongi’s middle, the little using all his strength to hold on to his boyfriend. “Yoonie, I don’t like Seokkie-daddy no—n-no mo’! I w-want you to be my daddy!” (A/N: Dedicated to @suga-peaches; I love you & enjoy, hun) Links: AO3 // Masterlist

"Jiminnie?" Hoseok called, voice drifting from the kitchen where he was hunched over cutting apples for snack time and into the adjacent living room. "Did you wash your hands?"

"Yes, daddy!" came Jimin’s answer, socked feet scampering across the hardwood as his body came colliding with the doorframe, little damp hands gripping the wood for balance. "All clean, daddy! Yoonie too!"

Hoseok smiled, placing the knife down on the cutting board before wiping the sticky juices from his hand with a dishtowel. He walked over to Jimin, a fond glow in his eyes. "That's my good baby." He pinched one of Jimin's chubby cheeks before bopping his nose, the yellow kitchen filling with the younger’s laughter. "Now tell Yoon-ah that it's time for snackie, ‘kay?"

"Okay!" Jimin ran off to deliver the message, Hoseok turning to collect the small plastic bowls decorated with Scooby Doo and spoons with SpongeBob handles before dishing the green apples and dollops of peanut butter. It was already eleven am and Yoongi was always a tad hungry for a snack after his morning playtime. The two never ate a heavy lunch; much preferring to save room for an elaborate home cooked dinner instead. Picking up the bowls and placing them on a tray, Hoseok moved to enter the living room.

The first thing he noticed was that Yoongi had commandeered the couch leaving Jimin to sprawl out on the beige carpeted floor. They both were dressed in knee-high socks, loose blue denim shorts, and their matching mini capsule shirts, a special request from Jimin because Hoseok’s boyfriends were “filled with love for our daddy.”

“What’cha got there, Minnie?” Hoseok asked, as he got closer to the younger little.

When Little, Jimin was prone to stim. Jimin had told Hoseok that in the early days of his entering into little space, he was more frustrated in his space than he was out of it. He would suddenly get these urges to rub objects together, put things in his mouth, shake or rattle tables just to hear the soothing sound of wood creaking. He slowly started collecting makeshift toys for when he was Little to assuage these urges, not really knowing why certain things made him feel better, less frustrated, than others. It wasn’t until much later (and meeting psychology minor Yoongi) that Jimin learned about sensory stimulation and just how good it felt to fill up a pot with soft rainbow suds to submerge his hands in. When properly stimulated Jimin found that when he turned Big again his mind was more relaxed, free of any blockage of his creative juices. Jimin felt that his need to stim made him more emotionally aware, closer to and in touch with the world around him. 

“Look, Daddy, I made p-purple! ” Jimin shook a plastic bag up for Hoseok to see the smeared and lumpy mess inside.

Years later, Jimin found his sensory niche in play-doh. His favorite thing to do was to put two different colors of play-doh in a Ziploc bag and use his lime green rolling pin and his fingers to roll and mush the colors together until they blended into a marbled masterpiece. When not focused on his play-doh, though, Jimin would opt to pull out the pack of pull-ups Hoseok stored in the closet of the littles’ playroom. Jimin loved playing with the pull-ups because the tiny characters on them never failed to make him smile and there was something just so exciting about stretching the elastic waistbands on them until they snapped back into place, the little’s arm muscles burning from his constant efforts.

“That’s beautiful, Jiminnie, the color matches your shirt so well. Can you please put it away for later, though? Snackie is here for Daddy’s little muchkins!”

Walking up to the coffee table in front of the couch Hoseok moved over Yoongi’s array of toy instruments with one hand and placed down the tray of food. The two boys jumped over to the table, crossing their legs, and began to eat. Hoseok, smile on his face as he watched Jimin smear peanut butter on Yoongi’s chin before giggling and trying to lick it off, started to absentmindedly press keys on Yoongi’s piano. The small model was the cuter version of its twin located in Yoongi’s studio.

When Yoongi was Big he spent his days and nights producing music for therapeutic services, mostly with classical instruments, which he recorded onto albums. When in his headspace, resting at home on is days off with his boyfriends, Yoongi was an altogether different kind of musician, one with far more freedom.

Yoongi prized his toy piano; it only had three keys on it—the primary colors—but he smashed them as if they were ivory and full of potential. Over the three years that Hoseok has been caring for Yoongi the little had assembled his own mini orchestra. Along with his piano he had vibrant trumpets, violins, a cello, clarinet, and a metal triangle in his percussion section, all seats manned by stuffed animals he borrowed from Jimin’s bed. Yoongi played these instruments horribly out of tune, off key, and loud—all to contrast the grueling, stressful perfection he set for himself in his therapist career. 

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Yoonie?” Hoseok reached his hand out to ruffle Yoongi’s blonde hair, stopping the two notes—do and re—from ringing in the air.

“Daddy play ‘iano too?”

Jimin stopped chewing, ears perking with interest. He knew Hoseok didn’t know how to play the piano but he still loved watching his two boyfriends mess around with music. Once, Hoseok had jokingly played the theme to Titanic through his nose on Yoongi’s yellow clarinet and it had Jimin doubled over laughing for what felt like hours. “Can Daddy play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?” Jimin asked through a mouthful of peanut butter, tongue almost stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Hoseok chuckled. “I don’t know how well I can but I can try if my baby wants me to.”

Jimin bounced in his seat, hands coming up to clap clumsily, SpongeBob spoon in-between. “Yeah! Jiminnie wants Daddy to play!”

Hoseok looked to Yoongi who was nodding delightedly, his forearms covered in light brown from his attempts at wiping off the mess Jimin failed to lick off. With an exaggerated rolling of his sleeves and a throat clearing Hoseok started to press down on the red and blue keys again, and sung. 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little boys, 

Daddy’s playing with your toys

Up above the world so high

Daddy searches in the sky

Twinkle, twinkle, little boys,

When he finds you he’ll find joy.”

When he was finished off with a rapid staccato of the yellow key Jimin’s clapping resumed, throwing his small body back against a pillow. “Daddy, that was better than last time!”

“Yeah, maybe one day Daddy can practice and get betterer enough to join my band… maybe.” Yoongi said this every time Hoseok tried to play a note—whether jokingly or seriously—but he suspected Yoongi wouldn’t hesitate to let him join if Hoseok asked. (The little enjoyed conducting and directing as much as he liked playing in the band—but he loved including his two boyfriends in the fun even more.) 

After the littles finished their snack Hoseok kissed them each on their cheek and sent them off to wash up in the bathroom and grab some more weather-appropriate pants. Meanwhile, he cleared the empty bowls and deposited them in the sink and wiped a wet rag over the small mess they had made on the table. Now, it was time for their afternoon walk.

Grabbing Yoongi and Jimin’s coats out the closet he waited for his babies to come out to the hall. Jimin was the first to emerge wearing jeans, tripping over his feet as he ran to Hoseok and collided into his chest, grabby hands reaching for his blue coat and red sneakers. Yoongi came out in thermos and sweatpants less enthusiastically but eyes still shimmering as he zeroed in on the extremely large scarf draped over Hoseok’s arm.

Yoongi reached around Jimin and grabbed the green and blue knitted scarf, made by Hoseok himself, and started twisting and winding it around his body—more of it on his waist and torso than his actual neck—before Hoseok steadied him with a hand to his shoulder. “Coat first, Yoonie, you know that.” With a small huff and prominent pout Yoongi let Hoseok unwind him, the little giggling as he spun in a circle and got dizzy, then stumbled over to put on his jacket near Jimin, Yoongi’s arms out to allow Hoseok to zip it up for him. When the two were all zipped and buttoned, a blue winter hat designed to mimic the shape of a mermaid’s tail to cover Jimin’s brown hair and a white and black panda one for Yoongi, then Hoseok allowed Yoongi to don his favorite winter gear.

The idea Hoseok had when creating the scarf was to mirror what he’d seen online as a “couple’s scarf,” except this one was lengthy enough for three people. Unfortunately, Yoongi’s penchant for long scarves in general made it nearly impossible for Hoseok to have any material left for himself so he’d had to accept his fate of watching the two cutest people ever share a three-person scarf, tassels hanging down nearly to their knees, while Hoseok cooed from where he walked behind them. The scarf was blended with colors they’d all chosen: white by Yoongi, green by Hoseok, and blue by Jimin. The scarf was striped and at the end Hoseok had tied the loose ends together to create a colorful fringe that swayed as the littles walked and knocked against their legs.

At first, when they learned that Hoseok couldn’t fit in the scarf (No, Jiminnie, I’m here to take care of your needs, so if Yoonie wants long scarves then he can have long scarves) Jimin was more than a tad upset. Yoongi, just as weak to a sad Jimin as Hoseok was, suggested an alternative. 

Leaving the house for their weekly walk through the park Jimin was all smiles as he wiggled his fingers in the overly big red glove engulfing his right hand. Behind him, Hoseok inconspicuously rubbed at the tight band of the blue mitten digging into his wrist. Jimin’s hands were way smaller than Hoseok’s but if it made his baby happy then Hoseok would be willing to wear both of his youngest boyfriend’s tiny mittens in exchange for his own. Luckily, his other hand was covered by the yellow glove that, every time, Yoongi would shyly extend for his daddy to take, the long-fingered glove a way better match for Hoseok than the one Jimin excitingly and forcefully shoved over his daddy’s cramped fingers. 

On Jimin’s left hand was his other mitten and Yoongi’s right wore the mate of his yellow glove. The two held hands and Hoseok resisted the urge to just hug them to his chest and squeal loudly about how adorable they were. Yoongi’s idea for them all to share gloves was the cutest solution he could ever come up with (but next year he’d make sure to knit an even longer scarf so he could get in on the warm huddles, too).

When they got to the park, sneakers crunching though frosted grass, Hoseok couldn’t be more thankful he’d thought ahead and dressed the boys in their thick teal woolen socks before they’d left. It hadn’t snowed yet so he didn’t think they needed to bring out the snow boots but it was getting more frigid every day as winter rolled in. The sky was a dusty gray as the dull winter ambiance settled in among the trees but the sun was fighting to burn off the mist. There were still a few scattered leaves blowing through the bushes that had somehow escaped the city’s landscapers and tiny wildflower survivors coated in white crystals. The cold air burned in their lungs and rejuvenated them from the past week cooped up inside. 

There weren’t many people out but they did get to stop and pet the occasional dog on a walk with its owner. Each time a puppy came along the path Jimin would drag Yoongi over to it by the hand and drop to his knees to hug it, the other little following after to press kisses between the dog’s ears. It got to the point where Hoseok would run ahead first to quickly ask permission of the owner before the littles could startle anyone (also to make sure the dog was safe for touching). Big dogs were slightly harder to handle because Jimin, when Little, was afraid of them and tended to hide behind Yoongi who still made it his mission to approach and kiss each dog equally. When this happened Hoseok would pick up Jimin and sit him on his hip so he could hide his face in Hoseok’s neck but, since the little was sharing a scarf with Yoongi, they couldn’t move away very far. After the third dog Hoseok also just had to accept that the knees of Yoongi’s and Jimin’s pants would just have grass stains that he’d have to deal with on washday. 

“Daddy?” They’d just circled the small pond in the middle of the park and Jimin had turned his head to call for Hoseok over his shoulder. “D-Daddy?” He started to move the arm connected to Yoongi’s, their hands swinging between them back and forth, higher and higher. 

“Yes, Minnie?” Hoseok picked up the pace, walking up beside Jimin and smiling down at him. “What is it, baby?”

Jimin motioned with the hand that wasn’t holding Yoongi’s, prompting his daddy to lean closer. Yoongi was distracted by a flock of geese skimming the surface of the water; the squawking loud and a good cover for a sudden secret conversation. Voice dropping to a whisper, gloved hand coming up to cup his mouth, Jimin said, “I think I like Yoonie, daddy.”

“Oh, really?” Hoseok grinned, voice matching the blushing boy. 

“Y-Yeah… When I grow up I w-wanna be Yoonie’s b-boyfriend.” His eyes shot over to the little beside him, visibly relaxing when he saw Yoongi fishing through his pocket for some crumbs to feed the birds.

Chuckling softly, Hoseok responded, “But aren’t you already Yoonie’s boyfriend, Minnie?”

“No!” he exclaimed, startling Yoongi who stopped walking and whipped his head to the other two. Panicking, Jimin just waved him of and tried to give a reassuring smile. It must have worked because Yoongi shrugged and continued walking and gapping at nature. When Big the musician hardly got to appreciate anything other than maybe a new stain on the four walls of his studio so Little Yoongi was more than thrilled to go back to looking at actual trees and semi-wildlife.

“No?” 

Jimin shook his head. ”No. L-Like… real boyfriend. I wanna k-k-kiss him.” Jimin stuttered when he was being shy and that, coupled with his voice tapering off on a breath, just made Hoseok giggle.

“Cute,” was all he said and pinched one of the little’s cheeks, deepening the red color of it. 

As they started turning onto the last bend of the park path Yoongi yawned loud and drawn-out. Hoseok resisted the urge to call him cute also. Instead, he asked, “Time for baby’s nappie?”

//

Yoongi always took a nap on his day off. It wasn’t surprising to see him curled up on a beanbag chair or the loveseat after their walk, catching up on some much needed sleep while he was in his headspace and able to relax fully. 

When they entered the house and Hoseok finished taking off their winter gear Yoongi sluggishly went over to his Little Drawer in their playroom and withdrew his naptime attire from the top left of the baby pink and gray furniture. Yoongi took afternoon naps in tiny shorts that allowed his bare legs to fully feel the softness of his fleece ducky blanket and with his sleep-time pacifier perched precariously on the bow of his lip, the hard plastic blue and yellow with a cartoon lamb.

He placed the objects on the changing table in the room and held his arms up. Hoseok came in and started tugging off the little’s clothes, pulling his mini capsule shirt over his head and replacing it with a loose purple t-shirt with a sleeping cow perched on a half-moon on the front and kneeling to tug Yoongi’s heels through the openings of his pants and dressing him in his red and blue sleep shorts. All ready, the sleepy boy popped his pacifier in his mouth and cradled his blanket in his arms before shuffling over to the window seat in the living room to look out the glass until sleep took him. Hoseok brought out his lullaby stuffy and placed it in his lap before placing a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek, forehead, and lips. He then dimmed the lights on that side of the room, the melody of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star bringing a smile to Yoongi’s face as his mind drifted on thoughts of his daddy singing him to sleep. 

Jimin, on the other hand, never took naps. 

While Yoongi was preparing for his rest Jimin went to his arts and crafts bin for his coloring book and markers. Hoseok preferred he used crayons because they made less mess but at the moment Jimin felt that the scratch, scratch, scratch of the markers across paper was the right kind of stimulation that he needed to start winding down his day. He opened to a page with a butterfly and used his teeth to uncap a hot pink marker. 

After sitting with Yoongi for a bit to make sure the little was comfortable and well on his way to a deep sleep, Hoseok rolled his sleeves up and got ready to cook dinner. Jimin waved at him, marker top still clenched between his teeth, as the caretaker passed by on his way to the kitchen. Hoseok blew his rising-artist-of-a-little a kiss before turning the corner into the hall. 

Jimin blushed, remembering what he’d said earlier about kissing Yoonie, but, in actuality, he didn’t mind kissing his daddy more in a boyfriend-y way either. He couldn’t get those kinds of big boy words out until he was Big again; it was hard enough confessing about Yoongi. He rubbed a hand over his burning cheek, managing to get pink marker all over the bridge of his nose in the process. 

Switching from pink to a vibrant green Jimin continued to color. The scratching blended into the background.

He colored for what felt like hours—at least long enough for Yoongi’s lullaby doll to turn itself off and for two of the butterfly wings to be filled in completely with an assortment of colors—and dinner still wasn’t ready. Jimin was becoming hungry, and bored. He tried rolling a marker over the wooden surface of the table to hear the noise it made but it just wasn’t as satisfying (and entertaining) as he’d like; he’d even chewed it some more before spiting it out. Balancing a marker on his pursed top lip he looked over towards Yoongi’s slumped body and whined in the back of his throat, long nails tapping against the marker box. The elder didn’t move. Jimin, too, slumped over in his seat at the table, but in minute frustration instead of relaxation. He wished he could nap as well but he was always so full of energy and curiosity while in his headspace he had difficulties laying down for a catnap. He tried whining once more but this time louder. There was still no response other than the shifting of the blanket. “Yoonie…” he moaned, a frown marring his features.

His gaze drifted across the room, over the couches and under the coffee table. He didn’t see his favorite stuffed peach anywhere or even his next favorite ball of yarn; he just wanted something to play with, someone to fill the silence before it turned into that annoying buzzing in his brain. With a disheartened sigh he threw the yellow marker in his hand across the room, getting no gratification from the sound of it popping off the wall and over somewhere behind the television. With Yoongi down for the count and no toys in sight he tried his next source of amusement.

“Daddy!” he cried. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Jimin was yelling so loud it would have woken up even Yoongi if the other hadn’t spent three all nighters at work in a row. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

In the kitchen Hoseok jumped a little at the sound of his name, jostling the measuring spoon in his hand and spilling flour all over the counter. “Yes, baby?” he called back in confusion, turning down the volume on his iPod speaker sitting on the windowsill.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“Yes, Minnie, Minnie, my cinnamonie?”

The little just kept repeating his name over and over. He didn’t sound in pain or scared but he was not really giving a reason as to why he wanted Hoseok’s attention either. 

Hoseok knew that Little Jimin needed constant companionship. It was one of the reasons Yoongi first slipped into little space himself. The two of them made the conscious decision to be Little together because Yoongi wanted Jimin to always have someone, to never be alone. “I know Yoonie’s asleep but daddy’s busy, sweetheart. Can’t it wait until I’m done cooking something delicious to fill your wittle tummy? I promise daddy will be right there to play with you, darling.” Hoseok swept the spilled flour into the sink with his hand, measuring again the amount he needed and slowly whisking it into the gravy he was making. 

Yoongi loved Jimin a lot, he really did—enough to be Little for the youngest and even more so to always be there for Jimin when he needed someone who understood his Little tendencies most—and he also trusted Hoseok to handle the adult tasks like cooking and cleaning while his two boyfriends were in little space. This trust, additionally, overflowed to Hoseok handling Jimin when Yoongi needed some down time to rest.

"No!” Jimin’s voice took on an undertone of slight panic. “Minnie needs Daddy, now!” Hoseok could hear the sound of Jimin kicking his feet against the hardwood floor and something softer, maybe the couch frame or a pillow. He stirred the pot faster, willing the gravy to just hurry up and thicken already. Then he heard the sound of multiple things hitting the living room walls, probably whatever Jimin had been working on before he decided he was too bored with it. The longer Hoseok didn’t stop what he was doing to go entertain the little’s tantrum the more Jimin wailed. “Daddy! Daddy! Now! Now! Daddy, nooow!” Hoseok’s eye twitched. He stirred in more flour, accidentally pouring in too much way too fast in his hurry, the concoction turning into a chunky goop right before his eyes. He stared at it in horror.

See, Yoongi trusted Jimin to be taken care of, either by himself or, more often, by Hoseok. He trusted that Jimin would be happy, content with Hoseok as their daddy, especially when Little Jimin required endless, reliable affection, constant reassurances that he wasn’t alone in trying to find peace from the stress of his daily life—

The sound of a frustrated Hoseok slamming a pot on the stove reverberated through the apartment followed by a scream. “Oh, my gosh, be patient, Jimin! Got damn!”

—Which is why it was no surprise that Yoongi was jarred awake, no matter how deeply asleep he had been, when Jimin cried because Yoongi was just that attuned with his youngest boyfriend and his need for someone. 

The sound of Jimin’s distress snapped an awoken Yoongi out of little space and he glared as Hoseok stormed into the room, hot pot handle still clutched in his oven-mitt hand. Before Hoseok could even get a dozen steps into the room Yoongi had jumped up—blanket and stuffed animal thrown to the floor, pacifier spit out and rolled away somewhere—and grabbed a sobbing Jimin by the sleeve of his shirt, dragging him out of the circle of spilled markers and ripped coloring book pages, past Hoseok, and away to the bedroom at the end of the hall. 

With the bedroom door closed between them and a raging Hoseok, Jimin began really breaking down. “I don’t want daddy to be my daddy anymore!” Jimin’s eyes were squeezed tight, tears still somehow escaping and falling from his rapidly puffing eyes. His arms were wrapped around Yoongi’s middle, the little using all his strength to hold on to his boyfriend. “Yoonie, I don’t like Seokkie-daddy no—n-no mo’!” 

“Shh, it’s okay, Minnie. Calm down.” He ran his fingers through Jimin’s toffee hair; upsetting the curls that Hoseok had spent hours putting in earlier that day.

  “I w-want you to be my daddy!” Jimin continued hysterically as if he hadn’t even heard Yoongi. 

Yoongi froze. He was pissed, like, really pissed at Hoseok right now for ever yelling at Jimin while he was in his headspace (and even more for coming at him with a hot pot, intentionally or not, like, what the fuck) but even he wouldn’t go so far as to say Hoseok couldn’t be Jimin’s caregiver anymore. He was even less likely to suggest he, Min Yoongi, a fellow Little, should be Jimin’s new daddy. He sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t mean that, sweetie.”

“Yes, I do! I don’t want him to be my—my daddy! He’s not my daddy no more! No, no no!”

Just as Jimin declared this Hoseok, on the other side of the door, was feeling downright terrible. He stood with both hands on the wood of the door, pot returned to the kitchen where it should’ve never left, and regret burning through his veins and sitting heavy in his bones. He’d come running to apologize as soon as he realized just what he’d done. There was no excuse for the way he reacted, no matter how bratty Jimin was acting. He was little, and sensitive, and Hoseok, as his caregiver, had gone too far. Now, even Yoongi was mad at him, the elder’s glare holding more malice than Jimin could verbally express on his own. Hoseok knew he didn’t deserve Jimin’s forgiveness but… hearing him say that Hoseok couldn’t be his daddy anymore hurt, even if it was a more than suitable punishment for his behavior.

Dropping to his knees—feeling as if his gut continued down through the floor without him—Hoseok bit his lip to keep in his despair and forced himself to listen through the splintering sounds of his world crumbling down.

“Jimin, Jiminnie, Minnie, really, I can’t be your daddy.”

“Why… not?” Jimin’s sniffling had caused his voice to become nasally and small hiccups started to pop up as he struggled with talking through his brisk breaths. 

“Because,” Yoongi ran a hand through his own hair before replacing it back in the little’s. He couldn’t believe he was going to do this. “Hoseok does so much good for you, baby.” 

“No, nuh uh!” The younger swiftly shook his head back and forth in denial. “Seokie mean.” It proved just how adamant Jimin was that he dropped all honorifics and titles for his boyfriend. 

“Shh, yes, I know he’s mean,” he took a meaningful pause, “right now, but what about all the other times?” Jimin refused to respond, pressing his face deep into the crook of Yoongi’s neck; it seemed like he didn’t like where this conversation was going. Yoongi looked up to the ceiling and wracked his brain. “Like, when he decorated the playroom for us? Or knit us that scarf with love in every stitch? Weren’t those such nice things that he did for us littles?”

Jimin whimpered, fingers tightening in the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt till the cotton creaked. 

“C’mon, I know you can think of a ton of things our daddy does that I can’t do. What about when he braids your hair when you’re sad ‘cause you like the feeling? I don’t know how to braid, sweetie. And how about tickle fights? Hoseok-ah loves seeing if he can out-tickle you. I’m not very ticklish at all so it’s an unfair advantage for me to play with you.” Yoongi started to rock softly side to side, murmuring his list into the crown of Jimin’s fluffy hair, nails scratching soothingly along his scalp.

“There’s also how, when your being especially little, he’ll run to the store and buy you new toys that are more age appropriate for how your feeling.” He chuckled. “I’m too selfish to share toys, baby, let alone drop everything to go to five different stores in search of a Fisher-Price crunchy fabric book for you to chew on.” He kissed his head to show that it wasn’t because he loved him any less. “Also, Hoseok-ah keeps all your pretty drawings in a binder that he brings with him when Namjoonie and Seokjin-hyung invite us to dinner. He just gushes about our wittle artist to all his daddy friends. I’m pretty sure if you drew a straight line he’d fork over a million won just for you to sign it and hang it in his office.”

As the list went on Jimin alternated between rubbing his face against- and nipping at Yoongi’s shoulder and picking at the elastic waistband of the elder’s sleep shorts, gently releasing it to snap back against Yoongi’s flesh but Yoongi didn’t mind; if Jimin wanted to use him to stim—to calm down—he’d suffer any discomfort, always. 

“When little Minnie is sleepy Hoseok makes him chocolate milk before bed and we all know how sucky I am at doing that. I always mix up the milk-to-powder ratio and you never fail to let me know it tastes like crap ‘cause you’ll spit it out all over the bed sheets. It’s why I’m not allowed to feed you, remember?” Yoongi stopped rocking, voice growing more wistful, getting Jimin’s attention. “But I think the most special thing our daddy does for us is always coming down to our level. He’ll play in my band and sing to us and teach us so much about being a kid and we’re supposed to be the littles. It’s amazing, really, how he even helps you come up with routines to your favorite Disney Junior channel songs, finding a way to incorporate your Big love of dance with your little headspace. It— Its really something how he makes us being little normal.” 

Yoongi took a deep breath to steady his voice before it could waver any more. “Seriously, Jimin. You may not want Hoseok as your daddy and I’m not saying his past actions should be used as an excuse for his current ones, but thinking I’m better at being your daddy isn’t a bright idea and has literally no evidence to show that it is. After one hour with me as a daddy you’ll definitely realize that, kiddo.”

A shuddering gasp blew across his neck and Yoongi swore he felt an almost imperceptible nod but he couldn’t be too sure. At least Jimin wasn’t crying any longer. 

“Also, Minnie, what…” Yoongi had his own fears connected to being Jimin’s only source of support. His immediate rejection of being Jimin’s caregiver only dealt with Hoseok’s superior experience only somewhat. “What if I… slipped into little space while taking care of you?” When Big, Yoongi could at least try to stumble his way through giving Jimin all the assistance and maintenance he needed but when he was Little? The little in Yoongi stirred, scared at how that would end for the both of them. 

That got a response out of Jimin. The little finally let go of Yoongi enough to pull his face back a few inches so that he could look into Yoongi’s vulnerable eyes. Just as he opened his mouth to speak there was the sound of a door creaking. 

Whipping both their heads around they spotted Hoseok, his face peering inside the bedroom through the crack in the door he’d made. His lips were swollen and abused, his nails digging into the skin of his palms as his chest heaved. The door opened up a smidgen more as Hoseok tentatively and silently asked for permission to enter the room. 

The first things Jimin noticed were his wet cheeks. The man on the floor was sniffling, pot long gone missing, apron too. Instead of a possible weapon, he gripped one of Jimin’s cat plushies to his chest as a shield. He looked nothing like the man who’d run out the kitchen after Jimin not even twenty minutes ago. Most notably, the look in Hoseok’s eye was different. They were red-rimmed, slightly downturned at the corners, and filled with so much self-loathing it stung to look at them. 

Jimin’s heart squeezed. He’d made his daddy cry. 

There was something like regret niggling at the lining of his stomach. 

“I’m sorry, Minnie,” Hoseok started from his place in the doorway when neither Yoongi nor Jimin indicated that he was welcome farther into the room. He sat on his heels, body too tense to even sit comfortably with both eyes trained on him. “Its just— Sometimes I feel stress, too.”

Jimin wasn’t expecting to hear that. It made sense, maybe, that daddies could get overworked at some point but his Little mind was having a hard time wrapping around the idea. His daddy was supposed to be levelheaded and caring and loving and patient with his little. What did a Big thing like stress have to do with Hoseok hating Little Minnie?

Yoongi snapped Jimin out of his befuddled musings. “Yeah,” Yoongi whispered, “that’s why we slip into little space. Being Big all the time, all day, every day, can drive you up the wall if you’re not careful.” 

Oh, Jimin thought, eyes widening a fraction, I see. Although Jimin was sure he wasn’t meant to hear that he was proud of his ears for catching it. He pursed his lips as Hoseok continued. 

“Can’t daddy have a bad day, too, sometimes? Does having a bad day once in a while make me a bad daddy, Minnie?” His voice was rising in pitch but the volume stayed low. It was a weird contrast that hurt Jimin’s ears a little. “If you really want I’ll—I’ll stop caring for you, let you find someone who’s better at this—at being a Daddy, a good caregiver—“ his eyes flicked over towards a stoic Yoongi before landing back on Jimin, “who doesn’t have issues that make him forget to be nice to his babies. I even cussed at you, Minnie, cussed! How—” His statement cut off on a sob but Hoseok didn’t dare move to even wipe the tears as they slowly welled in his eyes.

Yoongi had told Jimin that Hoseok was actually a pretty good daddy; Hoseok was saying that he wasn’t. Both Hoseok and Jimin thought Yoongi should be Minnie’s caregiver but Yoongi refused. Jimin was previously under the assumption daddies were always at ease, calm, and relaxed but now he realized that being a daddy meant being Big and he knew well just how much anxiety came with being Big. 

Conflicted, Jimin looked at Yoongi, whining for help. He was met with an expression that said, This is on you. You have to decide on your own. 

“Minnie—“ Jimin’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He didn’t know what to do and his daddy—ex-daddy?—was waiting. Knowing he’d made his daddy cry and actually seeing him cry were two completely different things. Jimin closed his eyes to the pain thudding in his heart at the sight, his head beginning to buzz distractingly. He wanted to run away, to get out of that room, to drink his warmed milk, to find his paci, to hide under his blankey and chew on some pencils and rip up some paper and roll out some play-doh and slap handfuls of pink foam between his fingers and knock two blocks together and—he needed to think. 

Facts. 

Hoseok was stressed. His daddy was having a bad day. Jimin had been acting up because he, too, wasn’t satisfied, purposefully annoying his daddy. Jimin went into little space when he couldn’t handle being Big. His daddy… what? Jimin didn’t know what his daddy did as an outlet for his stress. It would be hypocritical of Jimin to shun someone for caving under pressure when he did it all the time; any chance he could get, to be honest. Jimin hid behind his headspace; a part of him, even Little, couldn’t deny that when the temptation struck he would dive right in, even for small things like avoiding chores and just as an easier way to fall asleep at night. And Hoseok… his daddy, the man who giggled when he realized Jimin had slipped into his headspace, welcomed the little into his arms even if he were busy with work or school, was grateful for the opportunity and constantly thanked Jimin when the little relied on him to care for him. Hoseok actually thanked Jimin for letting Hoseok be his daddy. 

Hoseok didn’t have a headspace to escape to when life got too hard, when taking care of two grown men who trusted him to forever be a parent figure first and their boyfriend second became a secret burden. 

Who was Jimin to judge when he himself struggled with expressing and containing his negative emotions. Yeah, Hoseok had lost it and yelled but… Having a bad day, it’s not that big a deal, right? As long as he wasn’t hurting anyone, that is… 

Gulping, he screamed, “No, daddy!”

Hoseok jumped in his seat, a yelp bursting from his lips. “No?” 

“No, he can’t be your daddy?” Yoongi asked, just as disheartened and shocked as Hoseok.

“No, daddy can’t leave Minnie!” clarified Jimin, eyes popping open and glaring. “Daddy mean, why would daddy ever leave Minnie! No, No!” It was a replay of earlier all over again, the feeling of déjà vu not evading Yoongi. This time there was the opposite effect. “I don’t want Yoonie to be my daddy, I want daddy to be Minnie’s daddy.” 

Jimin ran from Yoongi’s side and down to the floor, crashing into the barely-ready arms of Hoseok who wasn’t ready for a crying Jimin. Hoseok had expected more yelling (especially from Yoongi), even being downright ignored. He didn’t know how the mood changed so out of the blue. 

He scooped the crying boy into his arms and sat him on his lap, handing him the stuffed cat that he’d almost forgotten. “Shh, Minnie, its okay, but… what?” He glanced up as Yoongi joined them on the floor, pushing the door fully open to accommodate all of them. 

Yoongi’s hands went back to Jimin’s hair, twirling a lock around his knuckles. “Did you make your decision?”

Nodding, Jimin unlatched an arm from around Hoseok’s neck and threw it around Yoongi’s instead, pulling him into a tight hug. “Minnie sorry. Da-Daddy sorry. Yoonie sorry!” Yoongi almost rebutted this, not sorry at all for his anger, but Jimin cut him off. “I wish daddy was a wittle, too! Daddy needs love a-and c-c-care, too.” He was starting to hiccup again and Hoseok was nearing tears yet again and Yoongi’s shirt was growing wet but he couldn’t help the tiny smile brushing his lips. At the sight of their crying Yoongi began rubbing a thumb over Hoseok’s knuckles and used his other hand to play with one of Jimin’s silver studs. He watched on, silently sending them strength to work this out. 

“I never want daddy to have a bad day never, ever again. Daddy scary when he stwessed! Minnie gonna make sure he’s always a good boy and daddy can’t be mad at him, right?”

“Of course, Minnie, Minnie, my cinnamonie.” The daddy kissed Jimin on the apple of his cheek, his own tears running together with the little’s. “But it’s not all your fault. Daddy promises to work on ways to relieve his stress so he can have the bestest playtime with his baby. He’ll try to be more understanding, too, okay?” he kissed the other cheek, smiling when Jimin’s long eyelashes poked him. “But, Minnie, daddy wants you to know just how proud of you he is.”

Jimin sat back some, confused. “Daddy pr— pa-pwoud of Minnie?” 

“Yup,” he rubbed a hand down the younger’s back, “for many reasons. Like, not letting daddy be mean to you, for starters. I try to stand up for my babies as often as I can but it makes me proud to know that you can stand up for yourself, too, and not let anyone mistreat you, even me.” Jimin blushed, hiding his face in Yoongi’s neck. “Also, most importantly, I’m proud of my cinnamonie for being understanding and forgiving. It takes a huge heart and great kindness to do what you did, baby. Thank you.” Even though he couldn’t see Jimin’s face he could still picture the shy smile he got whenever anyone praised him—in particular, one of his boyfriends.

“And you, Yoonie—“

“I’m not little, Seok-ah.”

“You, Yoonie,” Hoseok pressed on, ignoring his glowering boyfriend. “I’m proud of you.”

“For not kicking your ass right on the spot? ‘Cause it can still be arranged.”

Sniffing and giving a watery smile, he responded, “I believe you, and I am happy you decided not to but that’s not why I’m proud.” He wrapped an arm around Yoongi’s neck right along with Jimin’s, nearly choking the eldest. “I’m proud of how you handled the situation. You got Big immediately when Jimin needed you and calmed him down and talked it out with him. You— I wasn’t lying when I said there are people out there better suited for being a daddy than I.” 

Yoongi’s eyes fell to his lap, picking at the hem of his sleep shorts. “Yeah… if you say so.”

That was good enough for Hoseok for now. He knew Yoongi had doubts of his ability to care for Jimin and that’s why he’d rather Hoseok be tasked with it but today was not the day to convince Yoongi just how wrong and misplaced his misgivings were. 

“I do say so, Yoonie, and I’m still proud.” He smacked his lips against Yoongi’s cheek. “So proud.” Another kiss. “My baby is such a wittle fighter, standing up for his boyfriend!” More kisses, this time to Yoongi’s forehead and between his brows. “My baby, so brave, so cute, standing up for Minnie. Wow, its so cute seeing you mad, Yoonie. You’re like an angry chicken; my chickpea, my chicken noodle boodle, my chicken potpie. Yum! I could just eat you up.” 

It was like a switch flipped in Yoongi’s head. His eyes grew rounder, lips less tense and more pouty and droopy; his whole body relaxed as the little in him took over.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, my sweet dumpling?”

“Daddy!”

Jimin giggled, shifting so his legs were draped over both his boyfriends, arms still holding them close. He looked at Yoongi before breaking into a blinding smile, eyes scrunching closed, tears giving way to mirth. “Yoonie is back!”

“Minnie!” Yoongi surged forward, kissing Jimin on the mouth. Jimin squeaked before whipping his head over to Hoseok for his reaction.

Hoseok smirked. “You guys kissed like big boys do. I guess Yoonie is your boyfriend now, huh, Minnie?”

Jimin’s whole face turned pink and the flush ran down his neck. “Yoonie m-my boyfriend?” 

“I love you, Minnie,” Yoongi answered, clasping Jimin’s face between his palms before kissing him full on the lips again, this time longer. Jimin chuckled and wiggled in their laps, overwhelmed with happiness.

“Daddy! Kiss me! I wanna kiss daddy like the big kids do! Kiss Yoonie! We gotta all be boyfriends now.”

Hoseok didn’t point out that he’d kissed Jimin and Yoongi on the lips plenty of times while they were Little, and the even bigger fact that they’d all been dating for years now. If Jimin wanted to become “official” he’d gladly ask the two of them to be his over and over again. 

He kissed Jimin’s puckered, waiting lips then took a hand to turn Yoongi’s mouth towards him, the blonde trying to act coy but the look in his eyes saying otherwise. They tasted like candies and cookies and everything else sweet about having two babies to call his. “I love you, Yoonie. I love you, Minnie. Daddy loves his babies soooo much.” He emphasized this by squeezing them between his arms and shaking them from side to side. The giggles and shrieks in the air warmed his heart. 

He let go momentarily to stand before reaching down to pull them up with him. Jimin jumped up into his arms, repositioning himself to his place on Hoseok’s right hip, Yoongi following soon and sitting snugly against Hoseok’s left side. “Come, daddy can’t spend a second longer away from his boys. How about we skip the whole cooking step all together and order a pizza?”

They started up a chorus of “pizza, pizza!” before Jimin stopped and asked, “Can Minnie get M&Ms on his pizza, daddy?”

Hoseok started down the hall, trying to recall where’d he’d left his phone and if it were possible to have one of the littles dial the number for him seeing as his arms were full. “M&Ms?”

“I want pineapple!” added Yoongi.

“And strawberries!”

“C-Can Yoonie have buh-breadsticks, daddy? With cheese?”

“Cheese! Cheese! And brownies on the whole pizza!” Jimin went back to his toppings list, almost toppling them all over when he decided to throw his arms out in wide circles. 

“Yoonie wants ice cream, daddy! Strawberry ice cream to match Minnie’s strawberry pizza!”

“Yum!”

Laughing so hard he felt his stomach would cramp soon Hoseok shook his head. This pizza sounded pretty disgusting and he’d most likely have to order a personal pizza for himself at this point (and also stop at the store for ice cream) but he didn’t mind. If his littles wanted it, he would find a way to get it.

“Daddy spoils you guys way too much.” 

That stopped the rambunctious movements on his hips that would surely strain them for dance practice tomorrow. The two grew quiet before Hoseok felt his heart drop. He froze in his tracks.

Jimin pat the top of his head and said, “It’s okay, daddy. You spoil us but from now on we’re gonna spoil you too.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi added, “Yoonie and Minnie gonna spoil daddy with so much love daddy’ll never hate us again.”

“The first order of busy-ness is feeding daddy pizza! So his tummy will be filled with babies’ love! He’ll be our giant capsule, like our shirts.”

“Then Yoonie is gonna brush daddy’s hair till it sparkles like he does for Yoonie.” 

“Hey, Minnie wanted to brush daddy’s hair! No fair!” He folded his arms and Hoseok started walking again, dread disappearing. I was gently reminded that littles never stayed upset for long. “I call dibs on kissing daddy to sleep, then.”

“No fair! No fair! I wanted to kiss daddy and Minnie goodnight!”

“Aw, Yoonie wanna kiss Minnie again, huh?” A greasy look overtook Jimin’s face and it was such a weird mix with his cute little features that it almost floored Hoseok. He could feel sweat beading on his neck. Wh-Where was his phone?

As the mild bickering continued over which one of- and how the littles would keep Hoseok from “having a bad Big daddy day,” and their agreement that daddy couldn’t cook them gravy for a whole month because of it, Hoseok stewed in relief. He couldn’t describe the feeling of Jimin choosing him to be his caregiver the first time, and then Yoongi a few months later, and this time was a very similar level of emotional. He felt the stitches in his heart mending together with each step he took with his boyfriends trying to out prove their love for him.

  Little did they know, Hoseok would be the one showing the littles the most love and attention, from now until they didn’t need a caregiver any longer—

And for decades later, hopefully, as their husband.