#he just asks if she's okay and she says yes so he leaves it at that and assumes she's fine

[chuluoyi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?

genre/warnings: very suggestive, jealousy (a very jealous zayne, in fact), making out in his office, crack, fluff, hunter!reader, you and zayne have a daughter

note: inspired by that one kim min-kyu scene in business proposal :D this is actually an extension for nocturne of twilight and dawn's first light but can also be read as standalone

You hadn't seen your husband for two weeks.

There was a spring on your step when you entered Akso Hospital right after your long intercity mission. You had acquired some bruises and they weren't anything serious, so you figured you’d just have Greyson treat them. Besides, it gave you the perfect excuse to hand him some cookies as a souvenir.

And, of course, ask him to ring for Zayne to meet you once he had the time.

"Miss, do you need help?"

But a curious voice addressed you when you loitered around in the lobby, and you turned around to find a bright-faced young man with red hair and wearing doctor's coat.

"Ah, yes, I want to meet Dr. Zayne," you smiled. "Or Dr. Greyson will do."

The young doctor perked up at the names you mentioned. "Oh, are you a patient? Do you have an appointment already?"

"Hmm, no, actually I am—"

You halted mid-sentence before the words his wife slipped out, rethinking your choice. You knew of Zayne's infamous reputation in the hospital, and while almost everyone in his floor knew you, this new doctor didn't, and you thought it was best to leave it that way.

"Yeah, I already have an appointment," you nodded, plastering an thin smile. "Just tell Dr. Greyson that Y/N wants to meet him."

"Right, right, I'll page him now..." he mumbled, pulling out his pager and his phone. "I'll text him too..."

"Thank you."

"O-oh, Miss! Wait!" the young man called after you in a hurry when you turned around. "I've noticed it for a while, you have a cut on the side of your lips..."

"Ah, this..." Your fingers instinctively brushed the dried blood on your lips. You hadn’t thought the small cut was noticeable. "Yes, it’s from earlier—"

"Actually, I’m an ER resident!" he interrupted with a bright grin. "Let me treat you first!"

Caught off guard by his enthusiasm, you barely had time to react as he gently but firmly guided you towards the emergency room.

"Dr. Zayne! Dr. Zayne! Your wife is here~!"

Zayne had barely stepped into his office after a grueling surgery when Greyson barged in, all too casually, delivering the news with a grin. "She’s waiting in the lobby!"

He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh?"

You're back? He pulled out his muted phone, checking the notifications. Sure enough, you’d sent him a message an hour ago, letting him know you’d safely landed in Linkon.

His little, snarky wife. For the past two weeks you had been away, the house had felt lonelier. Sure, his daughter—who resembled you in personality, no less—was a bundle of sunshine and adorable beyond words, but without you, there was always that subtle void in the air.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house at all? Maybe it was just him—utterly, hopelessly whipped.

"Why isn’t she coming up to my office?" he asked suddenly, noticing the odd detail.

"Hmm, yeah, and it’s weird... why did the new resident say she’s asking for me?" Greyson mused, turning toward Zayne. "Don’t you want to meet her instead? Whatever she needs me for, I’m sure you could handle it."

Zayne promptly left his office and took long strides toward the elevator. As the doors started to close, he even half-sprinted, calling out to the person inside to hold it for him.

Okay, maybe he was a little too eager, but was it really so wrong to be this excited to see his wife again when the two of you had been apart for two weeks?

...then again, you didn't need to know. You would roast him to bits should you know he missed you this much.

Zayne got off at the lobby, expecting to find you there— only to find the usual flow of hospital staff and visitors. He was about to call you when he wandered past the emergency room and turned the corner—and that’s when he got his shock of the day.

There you were. But not alone.

With a guy.

Whose hand is touching your lips.

"It must be tough being a hunter, huh?"

The red-haired resident carefully tended to your bruised arm, wrapping it in a fresh bandage as you sighed, thinking back to the mission. "Yeah, there are definitely some hard days..."

"But despite all that, you still keep yourself in shape!" he remarked, eyeing your toned arms with a hint of admiration.

You let out a sheepish laugh, remembering those pull-ups sessions with Zayne. "Haha, that's because my husband makes sure I'm getting enough exercise..."

"You're married?!" His voice was filled with disbelief, and it caught you off guard, yet he grinned afterwards. "Wow! Is he a hunter too?"

You would've never guessed, boy. This resident doctor was cute, you thought, ever so curious at everything. You could only imagine the look on his face if you told him that the Dr. Zayne was your husband.

You were about to refute it when his fingers brushed against your lips. "Oh, sorry, let me apply some ointment here first..."

His touch felt cool to your lips and you were momentarily stunned at the contact— but then a gruff cough startled you so much you almost jumped.

The towering figure of your husband behind him. Zayne's dark gaze was fixed on the man in front of you, like he could murder the poor guy with just a look.

"Z-Zayne...?" you squeaked against the ointment on your lips, and the resident quickly turned behind him in surprise, hastily greeting him, "Oh, Dr. Zayne!"

Zayne shot the poor man a single, pointed look before his gaze shifted to you, clearly unamused.

He suddenly grabbed your hand and, without sparing the resident another glance, swiftly pulled you away. The other guy was left standing there, speechless, as Zayne led you off, leaving him in the dust.

. . .

"Zayne!"

Oh, how he actually missed his name coming out from your lips.

"Are you done with your schedule?" you asked as he pulled you into the elevator, confusion evident in the way you tilted your head. But when he didn’t answer, you glanced down at his firm grip on your arm, suddenly realizing something. "Wait, no... are you angry?"

Sigh. It irked him so much, actually. Because, how could you, after weeks—

No, he actually knew he was being irrational. He shouldn’t overreact like this just because someone else touched you. But why is he so annoyed, still?

"Wait, why?" you kept asking, wide-eyed, as the two of you stepped out and made way towards his office. "I'm not injured! I'm fine! It's just some bruises—"

Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his office, swiftly locking the door behind him. Before you could say another word, he cornered you against the wall, and you fell silent instantly.

It had been a while since he’d seen you this way—stunned, caught off guard, and utterly silent under his gaze. He studied your face closely, watching the way your breath hitched as the tension between you both thickened.

It sparked something inside him seeing you like this, a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite explain, but one he welcomed nonetheless.

That was when he saw the blood on your lips. "Did you get punched in the face?"

"Y-Yes, but— it's nothing severe!" you defended, trying to convince him. "It's such a small cut anyway!"

He frowned. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"What? Hey, I was about to ask Greyson, but—"

That got him frown even deeper, even irate. "Why Greyson? When you come home with any injuries, you come to me, not anyone else."

You let out a resigned sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. "Because I know you'll fuss over me, duh."

"I don't fuss," he retorted.

"You do," you shot back, pursing your lips. "You try to act like this cool, calm robot all the time, but you always drone on and on whenever you patch me up. You're worried, it shows."

Zayne huffed, shifting his gaze away from you as he felt his face burn. Was he that obvious? How could he not, though, when you managed to get hurt so often and yet acted so innocent about it?

Then as if inspired, you caught on immediately. Your eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smirk tugged at your lips. "Wait, just now... don't tell me... Are you jealous?"

Damn.

"Heh, Dr. Zayne, really?" Your voice was playful now, mocking him. "Whoa, how can this be?"

How had you figured him out so easily?

You continued in a sing-song voice, putting both hands on your chest, "Ah, my heart flutters! My husband is apparently—"

Enough. This time, his patience snapped.

He didn’t hesitate even for a moment. A low growl escaped him, and in one swift motion, he crashed his lips against yours, silencing you with the most effective method he could think of.

"Mmph!" You gasped in surprise, the teasing words at the end of your tongue completely forgotten. His gray eyes gleamed. Been too long, he thought, and now he was making sure you knew just how badly he craved this.

The kiss was searing as he deepened it, his tongue seeking yours with urgency. "Hngh!" You let out a feeble whine when he teased you by biting your lips.

Zayne held back a snort. One of his hand then strayed inside your hunter uniform, unclasping your bra with a flick.

"—?!" Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening, and before you could process it, he pulled away. But you were far from right in thinking it was over. The dangerous gleam in his eyes kept you tense as he swiftly removed his glasses...

...before he pulled you back towards him and claimed your lips once again.

With a swift, commanding motion, he guided you toward his desk. His papers scattered at the sudden movement, but he had you bent over it regardless, forcing your body to arch. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, while his right hand fondled your breasts, repeatedly squeezing, palming and switching between them.

"Mmm...!" You let out a strangled moan, instinctively holding onto his shoulder, feeling the way how he groped you ignited your core. "Ahh..."

Your body was tantalizing as always. Hardened and sometimes bruised from your work it may be, but to Zayne, you were still beautiful as ever.

When you gasped for air, he decided he was done with your swollen lips. His lips then trailed down to your neck, sucking hard on it, creating a squelching sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"W-what's... gotten into you...?" you breathed out, tangling your fingers in his hair, hyperaware of his hands still roaming over your nipples.

In response, he nibbled at your skin and flicked your breasts at the same time, causing you to freeze and draw a sharp, hitched breath. "Haah...!"

Unbeknownst to you, his lips curled wickedly at your reaction, and he continued to pepper your neck with series of wet sucks as if to mark you altogether. You writhed under him, whiny and sighing, relishing his hot breath on your skin.

You were utterly at his mercy, pliant and helpless in his hands. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who could bring you, his lawfully wedded wife, to this state—

Still, he wouldn’t allow you to be indecent in a place like this. When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, eyes dark with lust, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of your jaw. "Don’t tempt me," he muttered, voice low and raspy.

You gazed up at him, your heart pounding. "Zayne..." you whispered, a whine broke through the heat on your flushed face.

His expression softened just enough, a flicker of tenderness cutting through the intensity. Pretty. That’s what you were, undeniably so. How he had missed out on you so long once was his greatest regret.

Carefully, he helped you sit upright, his touch gentle as he clasped your bra and began buttoning up your uniform, disheveled from his earlier ministrations.

The gentle way he touched you was a stark contrast to how it was earlier. "Is that a new way to treat busted lip?" you nudged his collar, feeling a little braver now.

"For bad wives, yeah."

"I'm not a bad wife! Just disobedient on some occasion."

Zayne's fingers brushed your face as he finished with your uniform, his dark-gray eyes steady on you. You pouted.

"You're the one who's bad," you accused with slight resentment, not missing a beat as the heat between your legs started to dissipate. "Leaving me unfinished like that."

"Hmm? Am I?" he murmured, the faintest amusement in his tone.

"You have to take responsibility tonight, you big meanie," you mumbled, your pout deepening as you avoided meeting his gaze.

Zayne snorted at the sight of you—so precious in his eyes, his thumb lightly grazing the corner of your lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart skip, before whispering in your ear:

"Well, if your voice won't wake our daughter, that is."

Epilogue

Not long after, just as you had gathered yourself and were preparing to leave the hospital to head home, a sudden knock at the door of his office startled you both.

Quickly, you moved to sit on the patient’s seat, feigning nonchalance as you braced yourself for whoever was on the other side. Zayne reached for the door, but before he could unlock it, a familiar voice called out.

"Excuse me!" the resident's voice sounded a bit hesitant but firm. "Dr. Zayne, the miss left her handbag earlier!"

Zayne let out a low, irked sigh. You glanced at him curiously, watching as he opened the door and came face-to-face with the redheaded resident.

Without a word, he extended his hand, and the resident blinked before handing over the bag.

"I-is the miss still here?" the young doctor asked, almost intimidated by his unfriendly gaze.

"Ma'am," Zayne corrected, his voice flat.

"Huh?"

"Call her ma'am. She's someone's wife."

"O-oh, and her husband is—"

"Me. I am her husband."

Your eyes widened in surprise at the matter-of-fact exchange, heat rising to your cheeks as Zayne’s words hung confidently in the air. He curtly thanked the poor resident before slamming the door shut in his face.

Your jaw practically hit the floor. "Zayne!" you gasped, staring at him as he turned back towards you, entirely unbothered.

Your husband was as cold as the snowman he often made, but somehow the way he boldly declared he was your husband was just so him that it made you so giddy.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms with a playful smile. "You’re really jealous, huh? How?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, most definitely trying to save his dignity.

You chuckled softly, stepping closer to him with a teasing sway. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, turning him to face you, and you winked at him mischievously.

"Well, I’m all yours. But if it makes you feel better, maybe I’ll stay away from any ER residents for a while~"

[demonic0angel]

Things that happened at Thanksgiving today, but I make it DPxDC

Damian: … Richard? What are you doing?

Dick: *standing on the lawn and staring into the distance* I’ve been watching Danny try and struggle to park for the past fifteen minutes.

Damian: Oh. *also stops to watch* Have you seen Danielle and Jasmine come in?

Dick: Tbh, no. I’ve been watching Danny this entire time. And oh— oh! He stopped. Ooh, he turned around. He’s leaving. Damn, he gave up entirely and decided to park on the grass. Oh, he ran over Alfred’s bushes.

Damian:

Dick:

Damian: He won’t make it past the gates without Alfred sniping him.

Dick: Damn, you’re right.

————

Damian: *after Jason did something* what do you think you’re doing, Todd?

Jason: Lol, your mom

Damian: Actually, my mom only used you for her own goals. In fact, your mom abandoned you. Twice.

Jason:

Dick: Now, Damian, that’s not—

Damian: People who have had their mothers die in front of them should not speak.

Dick:

Damian: *pointing at Tim* And you! You may have had two parents at one point, but they definitely don’t consider you as their child! That’s why you had to stay with your neighbors so long! You’re an inconvenience!

Tim:

Stephanie: Hey now—

Damian: I don’t even want to hear you. Does your mother know you go out and fight crime? Does she even care?

Stephanie:

Damian: *looking at Cass* You too, Cassandra! But mommy issues wouldn’t be the least of your problems with your daddy issues as well!

Cass:

Damian: *turning around to Danny* And I didn’t forget about you, Fenton! No wonder you fit right in, your abandonment issues, raging teenage angst, and appearance makes you just at home, doesn’t it?!

Danny:

Tim: …. What about Jazz?

Jazz: *who’s been silent the entire time*

Damian:

Jazz:

Everybody else:

Damian: No, she’s a guest here. Why would I do that?

————

Dani: Pfft— Tim, Tim, can I— *can’t breathe from laughing too hard* can I touch your hair? It just looks so soft! *still laughing*

Tim: …?

Jazz and Danny: *also laughing their guts out*

Dani: *tries to reach for Tim but she keeps laughing and can’t focus on asking him* Your hair looks so soft— keheheh! C-Can I touch it??

Dani: *eventually swipes her finger under Tim’s nose and falls off of her chair from cackling so loud*

Tim: …..

Jason: *also bursting out in laughter* YOUR FACE!! BWAHAHAHAH

*Dani then proceeded to do this four more separate times with other people*

————

Dick: You know how Harley is back together with the Joker?

Dan: Yeah?

Dick: He cheated on Harley again.

Danny: *whirling around, flabbergasted* HUH?!

————

Dick: *carrying several bottles* Alright! Time for alcohol!

Jazz: Uhhh, Dick? Damian is right there—

Dick: He’s getting drunk tonight too!!

Everyone: ????

Damian: Yes! Alcoholism! *takes a plastic cup and takes a big gulp*

Dan: *looking at the bottle* This says sparkling apple cider?

Dick: Shhhh, just watch the show.

————

*dramatic screaming from other room*

Bruce: ….? What’s that?

Dick: Is that Jason? He sounds like he’s in pain

Bruce: *standing up* is he okay? Does he need help? Should I go and help him?! What’s happening—

Tim: Jason is playing ping pong with Dan and Danny. And losing really badly while Jazz is watching.

Bruce:

Dick:

Tim:

Bruce: oh.

[sinofwriting]

Insane Person - Max Verstappen (I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Words: 667 Summary: Max wants to be sure he can give Pan kids. (Part of the I ❤️ MILFS verse) Note(s): Takes place during the original I ❤️ MILFS fic, before Max finds out Pan’s age. Max is insane btw, this has been a blurb idea since I wrote the original fic and finally it has been written so enjoy, lol.

Masterlist | Support Me! | I ❤️ MILFS verse

“I’d love to give Logan a sibling or two.”

The words so soft had made his heart speed up as soon as he heard them and now thinking about them, letting them play on repeat.

It’s early in their relationship, though they haven’t yet talked about it yet, no matter how much Max is dying to do so. But Max wants to be the one that she gives Logan siblings with.

Which is why he’s sitting in front of his computer and looking at medical studies.

A lot of it is going over his head. The most schooling he sat through was the first four or five years of it. He can grasp engineering, anything to do with cars and their data, but medical terminology goes over his head.

He powers through, he doesn’t know Pan’s exact age, his mother would smack him over the head if he even thought to ask her age, but she’s got to to be mid to late thirties if not early forties considering Logan is twenty.

The studies say she’d be fine getting pregnant, shouldn’t have trouble conceiving, and his cheeks burn at the word, at the image it puts in his mind. They haven’t quite got their, but they’ve gotten close. They throw out the term geriatric pregnancy which makes him flinch because forty wasn’t old, at least not if you weren’t a driver and to see it be called something like that felt harsh, rude. Another one calls it advanced maternal age which really isn’t any better, but it’s just relieving to see that’s still possible. And then a study mentions that if people are having trouble conceiving that not only does the person birthing need to get checked, but both do and a new panic takes over his brain.

What if when it came time to try, he was the problem? It would really be his luck. Things had been going very well for the past few years, it would be his luck that he couldn’t give the woman he loves more kids.

And Logan wanted siblings, the panic grows as he remembers Logan chiming in that he’d love some siblings. Oh god, what if he failed in giving Logan siblings? He wanted the younger driver to like him, to really like him.

His fingers act quickly, wanting to know how he can know if he can have kids and the results make him blink because it couldn’t be that easy.

He just had to provide a sample in a cup?

Max’s brain struggles to compute that after just reading everything that women have to go through to get their fertility checked.

His hand goes to his phone, he rarely if ever called his doctor, but this was important.

He goes through the motions of confirming he is who he is, wondering how weird it must be for other people to do this for him before he finally gets asked why for the purpose of the appointment.

“I want to check to see if I can have kids.”

“Okay, are you and your partner having trouble conceiving?”

His cheeks burn, “We aren’t trying yet. I just want to make sure that it’s possible on my end.”

“Okay, it’s a simple procedure at our clinic and we could see you in the next three days if that works for you at any time we are open.”

“That’s perfect.”

“Alright, we’ll see you in a few days, Mr. Verstappen.”

He gets the results back five days after his appointment, an email sitting in his inbox, and he forces himself to take a deep breath before finally opening it.

There are words he doesn’t know, ones he doesn’t really want to think about, but there at the end, a note from his doctor that says everything looks great, and he shouldn’t have troubles getting someone pregnant and his fist goes in the air, a quiet but excited yes leaving him.

He could give Logan siblings and Pan more kids, thank fuck.

[chrysthemiss]

His name is Thor, short for Thorium, a malleable metal. Telekinesis is simply a matter of being able to control your thoughts, focus them and think of something else, to form what you're focused on of moving. Malleable to change, and being able to change what you're using your Telekinesis on. (I hope this is okay @aerequets )

While he is a bit weak with his telekinesis, he soon grows far too powerful, and can lift Loid, but doesn't. He soon catches on that if anything were to happen, Yor, his loving owner, would most likely kick him to the curb.

Anya filled his head with that, because Bond had growled about it at one point, and Thor now lived by the rule of keeping his powers hidden unless needed. He hated the rule, of course, rules were dumb. But he respected his family, except Loid.

"I swear, that cat always looks like he wants me dead." Loid mutters, lowering his newspaper.

"Awh, he's just a baby." Yor coos, rubbing her fingers together. "Come here my little Prince."

Thor purrs, hopping up the counter and over to Yor, nuzzling against her hand when it is presented. Bond sits with a thump, head lowering, eyes flicking upwards at Yor. 'Bond though he was Prince.' He whimpers softly, gently pawing at the floor.

"I'm detecting jealousy from you, Bond." Loid flicks his newspaper back up. "How unlike you."

Yor steps away from the counter, kneeling down and patting Bond's head, "You are my king, Bond. You have nothing to worry about." She kisses his head. "Would a walk make you feel better?"

He jumps up, licking her face, barking. "Anya wants to go too!" Anya scurries out of her room, scarf and gloves already on.

"Loid, would you like to join us?" Yor giggles, brushing back Bond's fur as he nuzzles her cheek.

Loid hums, Anya's eager face quickly turning to a deadpan. 'I have to keep up appearances, the neighbors haven't seen us out as a family in weeks..I'll have to bring this up to Handler, and clear a schedule solely for family.' Loid smiles. "I'd love to join you, we could make this a family brunch too."

Yor beams at him, Anya gazing at Loid, 'Papa's such a workaholic.'

Thor mews, gazing at the family with expectant eyes. "Yor, I don't think taking Thor with us is ideal. We don't have a harness for him, nor would he stay with us in this busy city." Loid says, nearing the family, offering his hand to Yor.

She takes his hand, being pulled up, nodding, "Yes, but he might cause a ruckus in our absence. I could hold him til we shop for a harness?"

Loid hums, "I..Suppose so.."

Bond growls softly, his growl turning into a soft whine, the dog dragging himself to the coat rack. The family readies, and then leaves the house, Thor comfortable atop Yor's shoulders.

Loid and Yor go inside the pet shop to quickly measure Thor for a harness, and get him a matching gold leash. Loid is in charge of him, because Bond wanted Yor's attention, and wouldn't follow if Loid was holding his leash. Thor mews, hopping to the curb, swatting at a lizard that quickly scuttles off, hissing. "Mama, do cats eat lizards?" Anya asks, looking to Yor.

"I think so." Yor replies, gently squeezing Anya's hand. "But Thor is domestic, so he really shouldn't be eating them."

Thor perks at her words, ceasing his hisses, walking alongside Bond who cowers. 'Cat scary. Cat wants to hurt Bond.'

Anya gasps softly, releasing Yor's hand and skipping forward. "Mama, cats don't like dogs!"

"That's a common stereotype, Anya." Loid utters. "It's not entirely true. Cats are naturally cruel though, they're the ones who initiate fights the most."

Thor glares back, glancing to Loid's shoes, turning proudly as the knots is undone. Loid steps forward, soon tripping over his own shoelaces, muttering softly as he kneels down to tie his shoes and continue walking.

Bond stills, Anya looking to him, perking. 'Papa's going to fall into mud? But it hasn't rained!' Anya hardens her gaze. "That's all!?"

Sneezing, Bond borfs, tail wagging as Anya caresses his face. She sighs, "It's okay Bond, it's not hurting anyone!" Anya hugs his muzzle. "Mama! Can we go play at the park?"

Yor smiles and nods, "We're nearby, we can go."

After a peaceful walk, they arrive to the park, Bond being unleashed and allowed to hop around with Anya. Thor stares, eyes widening for a second, Bond toppling over nothing. He doesn't allow it to affect him and he jumps right back up, Anya squealing as he chases after her.

"Shall we walk around too, Yor?" Loid smiles.

"Yes, let's!" Yor smiles back. "I heard that Bondman is getting a new show, a spin-off, I believe."

Loid perks, "Oh yes, it'll follow the women he's lead on over his journeys." Loid nods. "It'll start off in chronological order."

Thor narrows his eyes, frowning, "Mrrrp?"

"You seem to know plenty, Loid. Are you sure you're not watching it because you do enjoy it?" Yor grins, gently bumping him.

"No- What an absurd accusation." Loid fumbles, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. "I watch it so Anya knows I value what she does."

"Then I guess, the Manga collection I bought of Bondman can go to her." Yor shrugs.

"You– Bought the collection?" Loid softens. "For me?"

Yor flushes red, "You're my husband. I'm supposed to indulge in your hobbies too.."

Thor gapes, Yor is supposed to be his! He glares at Loid's shoes, the laces raising and tying to the other shoe's laces. At Loid's next step, he falls forward, sprinklers going off nearby. Yor gasps in suprise, raising both hands to cover her mouth. "Loid!!"

He pushes himself up slightly, Thor glaring at his laces, tying them back up and stepping closer to Yor. "I have two left feet today.." Loid sits up, wiping his face. "Forgive me, Yor–"

"No no!" She waves her hands, reaching into her pockets and squatting down. "Loid, are you alright? Here, let me—" She wipes his cheek, gentle with the cloth against his skin.

He thinks about protesting, that he is able to do it himself, but can't find himself saying so. He sighs, leaning towards the cloth, somehow content with how things turned out. "Thank you, Yor.."

Thor rolls his eyes, turning and growling a meow. He should've stuck to bullying Bond.

the forgers get a cat (it has telekinesis)

it probably like, snuck into radioactive waste or something that project apple left behind and came out with telekinesis

not enough to do serious damage but just enough for tomfoolery and shenanigans

yor found the kitty. it immediately loved her. yor is its favorite

bond is terrified of this cat 1/8th his size

bond is sad when anya shows this cat love, but also can't do anything because aforementioned fear

it likes to mess with loid because why not? make his life harder. go kitty

doesnt have a name yet 🤔🤔

[marauder-misprint]

Ahhh congrats on 200!!! For the prompt list requests could I get a fic with James x fem!reader for #95? I could just see him doing something so mundane like polishing his broom and she’s just drooling over his arms haha

My first James Potter for this account ♥︎ Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! (reader is a bit more gn! than fem! but I think it's implied enough?)

Broom Polish

James Potter x reader

1.1k words

cw: fluff

You had half a mind to open the window. The smell of the broom polish must be getting to you, you thought. You can’t stop staring at his arms. The way the muscles flex as he rubs the polish over his broom handle. He’s been at it for at least fifteen minutes and you’ve been unable to look away since he started. The book in your hands is long forgotten.

You and James were just hanging out. You had originally been hanging out with all of the boys, but each left to do something else, leaving you and James. Remus had prefect duties, Peter had study group and Sirius had detention. So you were on the window’s ledge, holding a book but not reading it, and James was on the floor, not too far from you, with his broom, a cloth and the pot of polish.

“You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to,” James says, still working the polish into his broom’s handle. “They can’t stand the smell of the polish so I have to do this when they aren’t here.”

You swallow thickly. Your eyes flick up to his face and then back to his arms. “I, erm, don’t mind it.” Lies. The smell was enough to make you feel light headed. But maybe it was James’ arms. God, that made you feel pathetic. That you were even considering that idea. 

“Really?” James asks, looking up at you and noticing that you’re staring. “You don’t mind the smell?”

“It’s like how some people don’t mind the smell of petrol,” you say and then immediately remember that James won’t understand that, being pure blood. 

“Uh,” he says, not getting it. 

“Never mind. It’s a muggle thing,” you say quickly and offer him a smile, hoping he just goes back to polishing his broom and you can return to your not-so-discreet staring. 

While James does go back to work, he periodically looks up and sees you staring each time he does. He doesn’t even remember the last time he heard a page turn. It wasn’t like the dorm was loud with just the two of you. He should’ve heard pages turning. 

“Are you watching me?” he asks with a smirk.

“What? N-no. I’m not watching you.”

“Yes, you are.” The smirk widens into a grin. “You’re watching me.”

“I am not watching you,” you say more firmly.

“Is this really turning you on? I’m not doing anything.”

“Who said I was turned on?” You feel your face begin to heat.

“You did, when you denied watching me.”

“I-I am not…” He gives you an amused look. “Okay, fine. A bit. It’s not my fault you got nice arms.”

He sets down his broom and polish and looks down at his arms, as if trying to see what you meant. He flexes, relaxes and flexes again.

“Hmm, I suppose I do.” He looks at you again, the widest grin you’ve ever seen adorning his face. “You like my arms,” he says teasingly.

“I appreciate what Quidditch has done for them.”

“You like my arms.”

“Shut up, James.” Your blush is growing slightly as he doesn’t drop.

“But it only begs another question.”

You cross your arms and lean backwards. “What?”

“Do you like more than my arms?”

“Wha-what?” you stutter. 

“Do you like more than my arms?” he repeats. “Or, do you like more? Of me.”

You’re blushing furiously. “James, I-”

You’re cut off by him moving closer to you. You feel your breath hitch with him so close to you. 

“Do you?” he breathes. 

“I-”

He keeps moving closer. At this point, his face is only a few inches away from yours. You can smell his cologne, it finally breaking through the thick scent of polish. You could see the tiny flecks of gold and brown in his hazel eyes. You felt an urge to run your hand through his mess of hair, to move it away from his face. You don’t dare move though. 

“Do you like me?” he asks, sounding more serious this time, almost vulnerable and curious. “Do you like me as more than a friend?”

You’re having a hard enough time breathing that the thought of answering his questions is forgotten. Not that he had let you answer his last few questions. You try to take a deep breath. You can taste the broom polish in the air; it probably doesn’t help that it’s all over James’ hands and some of his clothes. 

“James, I-”

“Well, darling, do-” 

You muffle his voice with your hand over his mouth. 

“Would you let me answer?” you nearly snap.

He nods. He lets you keep your hand over his mouth, not attempting to lick or bite you as he might’ve if you had done this at any other time. You take another deep breath; your heart is pounding in your chest. You know your answer. Now that you have him quiet though, you’re having trouble getting the actual words out.

You’re not sure when it happened. When all the platonic touches didn’t feel so friendly. When you swore the stolen glances began to linger longer. When you started to feel your face soften when you looked at him. When you started to treasure the alone time you had with him more. When you started to wish that he would see you as more than a friend, because that’s how you were seeing me. 

“I do,” you whisper. Panic takes over your heart. “Like more than your arms.”

You feel him smile under your hand, which he slowly reaches up to remove. 

“Do you like me?” he asks, his voice just as quiet and sincere as yours.

You can’t lie to him now.

“Yes.”

“Oh thank Merlin.”

Your eyes are wide in surprise at his response. You weren’t expecting that. And you weren’t expecting him to lean forward just enough so your lips touched. It’s the gentlest of kisses, tainted only by the stench of broom polish. Maybe those stolen glances and lingering touches hadn’t been as one-sided as you had tried to convince yourself. 

When James pulls back, he’s smiling just as widely as before, but there’s something different. Maybe a more content look? More satisfied? More happy? You’re not entirely sure what your own face is doing as a reaction as you’re too focused on trying to read his. 

“Feel free to stare at my arms all you want, sweetheart,” he says smoothly. “As long as I can kiss you all I want.”

You nod, a smile coming to your face. 

“Please,” you say encouragingly.

Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s a bit more forceful than when he kissed you, but you know it’s welcomed. And you know that you’ll be getting more time alone with James in the near future. 

[hannahssimblr]

On narrow, shaded streets we amble among the crowd, past at all the little souvenir shops hawking bags and t-shirts, postcards and beaded bracelets. I grin at a magnet of a little fat faced chef, riding a vespa with a pizza in his hand. Something about his expression reminds me of Jonas.

“My stepdad used to buy magnets like that all the time,” Astrid says when I show her. “He thought they were so funny, but my sisters and I hated them. Their faces are creepy. They leer at you. The day he broke up with our mother, we threw them immediately into the trash.”

I buy it anyway. 

Outside a craft shop, she plucks a ceramic jug from a shelf to scrutinise. It is hand-painted in with delicate foliage in blue paint. “I think I could make something like this at university, don’t you?”

“Well, maybe this trip will inspire a collection of work for your pottery class,” I say, and she lifts it up to the sun, glinting upon the glaze. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

“Would you like it?”

She smiles. “I would. It’s so unusual.”

I get it for her, then carry the little package, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, around as she flits from store to store, finding inspiration in the art she sees. Inspiration comes to me, too, in the colours, the shapes, the slash of sky in negative space between buildings. I photograph it all. The fruit stands little dogs sleeping in doorways, bougainvillea cascading down whitewashed buildings, and laugh with delight as a little yellow car squeezes a path through a crowd of pedestrians. I marvel at this little town, and all the pockets of the world that still cling to so much charm.

“This is exactly what I needed,” says Astrid, on the terrace of a cafe overlooking the sea. 

“Coffee?”

“Yes, and all of this. The sun, the air. I have been so tired of Berlin lately, and the sky being so grey.”

“You’ve been bored.”

“A little, yes.”

We order coffees. Ristretto for her, Americano for me. The server eyes me with some savage combination of amusement and contempt. I imagine his thoughts. “Of course you would order this, American boy,” the man in my head says, and I force myself to smile at the real one. “Thanks”. 

“Grazie.” Astrid hisses.

“Oh, alright. Grazie. Sorry.”

As he returns with our order, he says something to Astrid in Italian. She responds, then him, and in front of me they have an entire conversation I cannot understand. I sit, sip my coffee, and wait for them to finish. Whatever he is saying, he’s very enthusiastic about it, gesticulating, hands moving passionately. I try not to be bothered when he points at me, and Astrid laughs at whatever he has to say, even though the heat of embarrassment rises to my face. If he’s saying something about me, I can’t defend myself. How frustrating it is not to understand another language being spoken right in front of you. Eventually, he leaves, and she simply straightens her dress underneath her and takes a dainty sip of her coffee. 

“What were you two talking about?” I say, after several moments. 

“Oh, nothing really. He was just asking me where we are from.”

“Right.” I trace the rim on my cup with my fingertip. “Just I think I understood something he said to you.”

Her brows rise in dull surprise. “Oh?”

“Bella,” I say, “As in, beautiful.”

“Oh, yes, he was talking about the weather. ‘Una giornata bella’, he said. ‘A beautiful day’.”

“What did he say about me?”

“About you?”

“Yes. When he pointed at me.”

“He said you don’t look Danish, and I agreed, because you aren’t.”

“Oh.”

“You’re self conscious?”

“No, just, I didn’t know what he was saying. I didn’t know if he was flirting with you in front of my face.”

“Italian men are very passionate about a lot of things. Perhaps it looked like that, but he was being friendly.”

I exhale a laugh. “Giornata bella, huh?”

“If he said ‘bella’ regarding me, it wouldn’t be okay?”

I pause. “Well, I don’t know. Calling another guy’s girlfriend beautiful in front of him is kind of on the line between okay and not okay, don’t you think?”

A shrug. “What if it’s true? Shouldn’t we allow people to appreciate beauty? To see it, and say something? What if I like to hear it? Would you prefer to see me locked away from the world?”

“Of course not,” I scoff. “I’m not one of those weird boyfriends that only wants you for myself.”

“I’m glad you said that,” she gazes at a lone seabird, whirling, spiralling above the bay. “Because I could never handle that. That will never be how we are.”

I smirk. “Yes, ma’am.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[huaidanta]

Analysis: Why I think Fuuta was actually wrong to make his post about the university professor in Bring It On

[Originally a Twitter thread so it may read a bit clunky]

I've been thinking a lot about this sort of belief that Fuuta only really went wrong in the case of Miss Magic/Killcheroy and it got me to consider the other targets in Bring It On.

In particular, I was curious about how people viewed the second case (Rypirotes). Compared to the other subjects, this one had a clear victim and a much more serious offense. The university professor committed sexual harassment which definitely calls for some sort of action.

I made a Twitter poll asking if Fuuta was justified in making his tweet outting the university professor for sexual harassment and the overwhelming majority (78.4%) said yes.

However, I don't agree with Fuuta making the post and I'll explain why:

Fuuta taking a photo of the scene is represented by 3 different texts appearing in front of him. "SHUTTER", "chance", and "盗撮".

Wait... "chance"? To me, "chance" makes it sound like Fuuta sees this as an opportunity, rather than as something genuinely horrible.

Even worse, the kanji that appears here is specifically used to describe non-consensual photography like upskirt shots and peeping photos. They've directly correlated Fuuta taking a photo of the situation as something perverse and violating.

Like... just think about it. Fuuta took a photo of a woman in an incredibly vulnerable situation and put it on the internet for everyone to look at, without ever getting her consent.

As a man, Fuuta has more social power to directly intervene and stop the harassment... We also know he's a coward. Even so, couldn't he have tried reporting it to other authorities at the university? Or at least checked to see if that woman was okay?

We can infer that Fuuta never directly did anything because he was walking the university hallways at 12:25, witnessed the scene and left (we see him leave!!), made a tweet at 12:46, posted the photo at 12:58, and was checking the post at 15:01 (?) from his seat in class.

In his post, Fuuta asks for the others to report this to the university. Why didn't Fuuta do it himself?

Instead, one of the first things he does is tweet "I found a bad guy". He isn't horrified this is happening, he's EXCITED that he gets to broadcast it.

Fuuta and the repliers don't actually care about the wellbeing of the woman. No one expresses real concern for her, they just want a bad guy to take down.

As Es says in Fuuta's T2 VD, this is a game—entertainment—to them.

I also want to point out this comment in particular, because it shows that Fuuta didn't even blur her face out!!!

There's an irony in that by publicly calling out the professor for violating a woman's boundaries and consent, Fuuta's violated those very same things.

It's the only "fight" in Bring It On with a real tangible victim but she's treated as insignificant.

In conclusion, I don't think Fuuta was right to make that post because he never bothered to truly help the victim. The post only further violated her boundaries to serve Fuuta's own selfish interests.

It's easy to get swept up in the desire for retribution and miss that there are real people that were—and continue to be—hurt.

(MV text translations are from Rochisama)

[gretagerwigsmuse]

oh my gosh did we grow up in the same family? do we have the same life? i feel so seen reading this like duchess is so sooooo much like me! i absolutely loved all the specific details of not only her kitchen, but the food, the prep work, the bit about the hope/‘hopeless’ chest (i get one grandma’s china and my sister gets the other’s), the parade, the bread, her cute lil cocktail dress, the apron, the speciality cocktails, buying tupperware for the guests to take leftovers (more people need to do this)!!! and her callsign is so perfect from what we see, miss absolute hostess with the mostess! i also like how duch thinks of his as ‘bradley,’ but calls him rooster in the beginning? so perfect! more below 💕

“And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. - i have this same headcanon! i think bradley is really extroverted, but at the same time he’s really solitary?

And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. // Friends. - oh 🥺 this is hurting so good

Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders. - YESSSSSS ugh i know that absolutely does it for him yup! 🫡

But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. //  Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing. - oh 🥺 why is she me?!? like trying to make everyone else happy and be a good hostess and looking cute in her cocktail dress and being in her comfort zone, but still being a little insecure about the other girl and feeling frumpy or prim? like i know this exact feeling 🥺

Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. - this is the best feeling about entertaining like that moment of yes i did all this, yes it was worth it

“You okay, honey?” - oh im blushing 🤭

“When I was drunk?” “When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.” - oh my god i would simply start crying?!? i gasped reading this part

“As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” - i knew it! i keep saying the man has a raging housewife kink (in a completely non regressive way of course!)

“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” - many many thoughts

Rooster wasn't for you. You were opposites in so many ways - he was an extrovert to your introvert. The center of attention to your wallflower. You weren't interested in a one night stand, and he couldn't offer more. So his volunteering to help with Friendsgiving was just a friendly gesture after you returned from a deployment...right?

Word count: 7.8K

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

“Just a minute!” you called, swiping a strand of hair from your face. The knocking stopped, and you quickly washed the flour from your hands, drying them on the towel thrown over your shoulder while heading to the door.

And there, standing on your front step as the sun started to rise, was Bradley. His normally styled curls were sleep-mussed, his grey t-shirt clinging to his arms and untucked from his Navy PT sweatpants. The smile on his face grew as he took you in - sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt dotted with flour, fuzzy socks, and not a stitch of makeup. The difference from your normally put-together appearance was stark. “Morning, Duch.”

“You’re late.” Laughing, he held up a bag of microwavable frozen corn.

“Had to turn around when I forgot my contribution.” Rolling your eyes, you stepped back to let him in, watching to ensure he removed his shoes before following you into the kitchen.

“The turkey’s already thawed and in the sink. I just need you to clean it out, and I can take it from there.” Bradley nodded, tossing you the corn before going to the kitchen. You put it in the freezer and walked to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands before resuming your spot at the counter, picking up your bread lame and staring at the unbaked loaf. A part of you wanted to do a simple score, knowing that it would just be eaten, but the hostess in you demanded a more intricate design. The indecision tore at you. To buy time, you sprinkled the top with more rice flour. 

“Can you get me the trashcan?” Bradley asked, and you nodded, quickly abandoning your project. After you set it beside him and pulled off the cover, he tossed the netting and plastic. You couldn’t help but notice his biceps flex as he shifted the turkey. But you shrunk back when he reached into the cavity and pulled out the giblets and gravy package, shaking your head at his raised eyebrow. He discarded them as you braced yourself, nose scrunching when he removed the neck. “You alright there, Duch?” he teased. 

“Gross.” 

“It’s just a turkey neck,” he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.

“I will throat punch you if you touch me with that.” He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.

“Didn’t take you for being squeamish.” 

“You would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.” At his barked laugh, you shook your head. “I told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isn’t attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isn’t.” 

Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. “Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ‘floppy dick,’” he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash. 

Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. “You’re right. Bob probably has a pretty one.” A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didn’t want to hear that you were thinking about Bob’s dick. “Put it in this afterward, and I’ll dry it.” After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.

Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. “Thanks,” he murmured. 

“Thanks for taking care of the turkey.” Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. “Are you looking for something?” 

“Coffee mugs.” Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. “What are you making?” Bradley asked.

“A marinade since I didn’t brine the turkey.” 

“You want a hand?” 

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. “I’ve got a schedule.” He didn’t need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didn’t need to know that you’d only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, you’d insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didn’t give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt. 

Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest. 

“You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you’d just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.”

That made you snort. “I just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.” It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadn’t been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you weren’t there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and you’d jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldn’t wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later. 

“It looks good, Duch,” he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasn’t for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didn’t seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. “Alright, what can I do?” 

“You don’t - ”

“Lemme help.” His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed. 

“Fine. The meat injector is in here,” you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. “And I’ll need the chicken stock from the pantry.” Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. “You want to - ”

“Ah!”

“The breast and thighs - ”

“I’m doing it, Duch,” he cut you off. 

“Well, remember that if it turns out dry.” The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. “You can tap out at any time, Rooster.” Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldn’t help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. “Don’t put turkey germs all over your face,” you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels. 

“Now you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didn’t pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head. 

“Wash your face with soap to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Cyclone’ll kill me if you’re out with food poisoning.” Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey. 

“What’re you doing?” Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face. 

“Taking over.” You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. “Bradshaw! What the hell?”

“Told you I’m doing it,” he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk. 

“Fine, but if you waste more of my marinade, you’re out of my kitchen.”

“Deal.” 

Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread you’d baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. “Thanks, Rooster. I guess I’ll see you later?”

“What else can I do?” 

“You don’t - ” 

“I want to help. I haven’t…” his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. “I never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.” 

Everyone on the squad knew that Bradley’s parents had passed when he was young. He didn’t mention them often, but you noticed he’d get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes. 

“Don’t look so happy - you’re doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.” 

And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldn’t cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies you’d prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.

Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasn’t too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy ‘oh god.’ 

He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. “Now what?” he asked, turning to look at you. 

“Now we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,” you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. “I guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.”  

“Did you make these?” he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.

“I did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?” At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth. 

An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. “I’m glad you're back, Duch,” he said, voice slightly raspy. 

Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. “Everyone misses the mom friend of the group when she’s deployed.” Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didn’t see it, you nodded to the living room. “The parade is recording if you want to watch it.” 

Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. “What else do you have to do this morning?” he asked after a moment.

Mentally running through your list, you sighed. “I need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. I’ll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.”

“What do you need from the attic?” 

“My nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.”

“What’s a hope chest?”

“You know, stuff you’d need once you get married?” When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. “They weren’t really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, they’d buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.” Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, “Mine’s more of a ‘hopeless’ chest,’ though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured I’d get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes it’s been in for over two decades.” Something passed over Bradley’s face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing. It’s just another Thursday.” When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. “A couple of times, I went to the Officer’s Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?”

“If I’m not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. “So I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.” 

“It’s a lot of work.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth it.” Bradley’s fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. “Do you want another one?” Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate. 

“Do you?” Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had been…different… since you’d gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.

Friends. That’s what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat. 

Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.” 

“I’m happy to help if you want me here. I’d just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.” 

Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. “Don’t think this gets you out of the dress code,” you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. “I’m serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.” 

Laughing, he snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.” 

The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity. 

Bradley’s hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs. 

Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.

His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside.  

The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.

His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.

Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant. 

Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. “Wasn’t sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,” he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong.  “You look… you’re fine.” Chuckling, he shook his head. 

“Turn around, Duch.” After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.

“There’s a hook and eye at the top,” you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist. 

“You look fine, too,” he said softly. Your hands itchied to move to his chest. Bradley’s eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets. 

“I came early to see if you needed a hand,” Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and she’d also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” you smiled, hoping that you weren’t blushing. Nat’s eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Same as you - seeing of Duch needed help.”

“He’s been here all morning,” you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. “He’s taking care of the turkey.” 

“The guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?” Nat smirked. “Probably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.”

“He’s being supervised,” you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. “I haven’t had a chance to put any drinks out, but there’s some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but there’s also soda and flavored water.” The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. “I need to do the last basting, right?” 

“It’s about that time,” you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders. 

You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. “Looks like you guys have it down,” she said. “Don’t need my help at all.”

“Nope,” Bradley said, drowning out your, “You can feel free to relax.” 

“Might as well do something since I’m here,” she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. “What can I do?” 

And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread you’d made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.

The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated -  and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.

Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didn’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. You’d replied with, “The more, the merrier,” just like you had for everyone else’s requests to bring a guest. 

But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while she’d adhered to the dress code, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress. 

“You need anything, Duchess?” Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon. 

“I’m good,” you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Turkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.” 

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what you’d hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain. 

“I’m happy to, Payback,” you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. “Beats having a quiet house for the holidays.” 

“Want me to get the turkey out for you?” 

“I’ve got it covered,” a voice said behind you, and you couldn’t help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug. 

“Got it,” Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Duch.” Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile. 

“I’ll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then we’ll let it sit for half an hour.” 

“Then it’ll be done?”

“Then you’ll have officially made your first turkey,” you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work. 

“Does it look right?”

“Yes, relax.”

“Did you make it?” a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradley’s eyes dart between you.

“He did,” you answered, smiling at the woman. 

“I just followed her directions,” he replied. 

“It looks great!” Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.

After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing. 

Not that you were trying to grab anyone’s attention.

A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, “Who is it?”

“Rooster.” Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.

“Get it together,” you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.

“Your phone was going off,” he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sister’s voice.

“Guess what?” she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, “Looks like Mom won!”

The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradley’s interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didn’t always give you the flexibility to be with them.

“Looks like a fun group.”

“They are. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with them.” He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Mav’s already told me I’m spending it with him and Penny.”

“Sounds like fun.” You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didn’t want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And that’s when you recognized the look on his face - longing. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. “Holidays kind of suck when you don’t have family.” 

“I’m sorry, Bradley.” Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed.  

“Hey, there’s a timer going off,” Bob called down the hall. 

“Be right there,” you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradley’s chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. “I need to go, or something will burn,” you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you. 

You’d already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze. 

When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley.  “He earned it,” you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware. 

Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Dinner’s served!” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. “Thank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor. 

Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family. 

Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. “You’re not gonna eat?” Bradley asked. 

“Just waiting for the line to clear,” you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head. 

“Come on, Duch.” His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. “Jesus,” he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.

“Mmmm,” you agreed. “You did a good job.”

“Who would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,” Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face. 

Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow. 

Which left only Bradley. 

The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. “I can take care of that,” you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.

“Relax, I’ve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?”

“They can go in there.” Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, “Did you want any of this?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a plate.” Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad you’d had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep. 

The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers you’d portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.

When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking. 

Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. “You okay, honey?” 

The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradley’s cheeks. “Honey?” you echoed, quirking a brow.

“Duchess,” he corrected. 

“Rooster.” Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. “What?” 

“Just waiting for something to interrupt.” At your questioning look, he chuckled. “Been trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.” 

“What?” you breathed, shock written across your face. 

“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.” 

“T-the Hard Deck?”

“Yup. Before you deployed.” Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh.  

“When I was drunk?”

“When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.” 

“Roo - ”

“I am. A relationship guy,” he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “For the right woman.” Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. “I was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.”

“I… you messaged me.” 

“Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to say over email,” Bradley chuckled. “I like you too.” 

“What about Georgia?”

That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. “The bartender?” 

“Yeah. She… I mean, she’s clearly interested. And more your type.” Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Honey, I’m not interested in her. And she’s not… ask Nat. She’s been on my case about my” - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - “‘hoe phase’ since I got out here.” That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. “Gimme a chance, Duch.” 

Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile. 

Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. “As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. “This alright?” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and - 

“Fucking Christ,” he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Nat’s name before he sent the call to voicemail. 

Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher. 

From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, “What’re you thinking that’s got you red?” 

Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper. 

Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. “Hi,” you said softly.

“Hey.” 

“You like me?” 

“Yeah. You like me?” 

Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. “Drunk words,” you said between kisses, “are sober thoughts.” He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth. 

“Shoulda said something earlier,” he chided, gripping your ass tightly. “Coulda been doing this for a long time.” 

“Blame the tequila.” The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile. 

“Thank god for tequila,” he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. “Nuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.”

“What?” 

“No more ‘hoe phase.’” 

“Maybe just one more night?” That made him laugh again as he shook his head.

“No, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.” 

“I’ve heard the stories. I know you would.” When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.

“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. “Can I stay over?” You didn’t hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. “Go get ready for bed while I lock up.” 

When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. “Where are those sweats from this morning?” 

“You want me to wear sweats to bed?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen me in less at the beach.”

“Trying to do this right, honey.” Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. “Still too damn sexy,” he murmured against your lips. 

“Housewife lingerie does it for you?” you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight.” 

And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night. 

Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while you’d taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, “Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.” 

You couldn’t help but agree.

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

Author's Note: Do I think that Bradley has a raging domesticity kink? Possibly.

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[maxdibert]

Hello!! I love your blog so much, super enjoyed your Snape analyses 🫶

If I may ask, what is your opinion of the notion of "Snape didn't love Lily enough to give up dark arts for her"?. It's something I see a lot when people take badly about Snape, and especially, with JKR (👎) having said that Lily would've loved if he wasn't so enamored with dark magic.

Thank you very much! 😊🫶

I find this utterly ridiculous. I don’t understand all that nonsense about “dark arts are horrible.” So many things in the lore require dark arts, many solutions come from dark arts, and, in general, dark arts are necessary in that society. Sure, maybe in the context of the ’70s generation, dark arts were seen as a red flag, but Lily literally downplays the bullying Severus suffered just because “at least the Marauders don’t use dark arts.” Like, what kind of argument is that? Does abuse hurt less depending on the weapon used? Is it less of an issue if I shoot you rather than stab you? Honestly…

Look, no one should have to change who they are or what they like to be loved—that’s utter nonsense. You don’t have to change for anyone; love doesn’t work like that. Obviously, there are limits—if you’re an alcoholic, for example, then yes, it’d be good to go to rehab. I’m not talking about extremes like that. But when it comes to personality, no one can demand that you change. No one has the right to tell you how you should be or think and then reproach you by saying, “if you don’t change, it means you don’t love me enough.” That’s trash—it’s control, it’s trying to mold someone into your image, and that’s not how it works. Either you like someone for who they are, or you don’t. But this “oh, if only they were this way, maybe…” Well, then you don’t like that person; you like a completely different type of person—and that’s fine, but let’s not make excuses.

“If Severus hadn’t liked dark arts, maybe Lily would have loved him.” Okay, well then, there was no way Lily would’ve ever loved him because Severus is who he is precisely because he liked dark arts. He liked them before he got involved with future Death Eaters, he liked them when he allied with Voldemort, and—most importantly—he still liked them after leaving Voldemort. It’s part of his personality and identity, regardless of his life stage or what side he’s on. A Severus who didn’t like dark arts wouldn’t be Severus; he’d be someone else entirely.

The issue with how love is often perceived stems from this toxic, traditional ideal of romantic love that we’ve been conditioned to accept. It establishes patterns of behavior that involve losing or giving up our individuality for the sake of our partner, and that’s not how it works. If Lily didn’t like the dark arts, then she and Severus were never going to have a future. He can’t demand or expect her to tolerate something she despises, and she equally doesn’t have the right to expect him to give up something that’s important to him. Similarly, Severus didn’t need to stop being himself to win over Lily—he needed to find someone who didn’t care about his interests or who was compatible with them.

Love isn’t about giving things up; it’s about finding someone who is compatible with what you bring to the table—whether because they have no issue with it, share those interests, or have their own qualities that balance yours. That’s it.

If you have to change or mold your personality for someone else, then what you have isn’t love—it’s a farce.

[peppymintdreams]

Sakuverse Daycare: Thanksgiving Celebration

Hello my children this is peppy (pre break) I just want to say happy thanksgiving to all whom celebrate the holiday I’m extremely grateful for all of you, with the love and support you give to me for simply writing I wish you all a happy holiday and I will see you all soon

-Mama Peppy

The daycare room was buzzing with excitement, filled with crayon-colored turkeys and paper leaves taped to the walls. A big "Happy Thanksgiving!" banner hung lopsided over the snack table, where the smell of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pumpkin pie made little noses twitch in anticipation.

In the middle of it all, a kid-sized table stood ready, with brightly colored plates and plastic forks. Each chair had a wobbly nametag written in messy crayon. At the head of the table sat Xanthus, who somehow always ended up in charge, even though he never asked to be.

Elias was already squirming in his seat, his legs swinging wildly under the table. His eyes kept darting to the cookies on the counter. He had a plan. A very sneaky, not-at-all-obvious plan to get one before everyone else.

“Do we have to do the thankful thing?” Elias groaned loudly, flopping forward onto the table like a very dramatic starfish. “Can’t we just eat already?”

Across the table, Isaac adjusted his tiny glasses with a sigh that was far too grown-up for a four-year-old. “Yes, we have to. It’s a tradition, Elias.” He said tradition like it was the most important word in the whole wide world.

“But it’s so boring,” Elias whined, flopping his arms for extra effect.

Andrew, sitting perfectly still beside Isaac, crossed his arms. “You can sit still for two minutes, Elias. You’re not gonna die.”

“I might!” Elias shot back, sitting up and clutching his chest. “Two whole minutes! That’s like…forever!”

Luca, at the far end of the table, giggled softly into his stuffed bunny’s ear. He liked watching Elias be silly. It made the room feel a little brighter.

The teacher clapped her hands. “Alright, kiddos! Let’s go around and share what we’re thankful for before we eat.” She gave Elias a pointed look. “Then we can have cookies.”

Elias perked up instantly. “Cookies?” His eyes sparkled with renewed energy. “Okay! I’ll go first!”

He didn’t even think for long. “I’m thankful for… recess! And cookies! And not having to take naps anymore!” He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Very important stuff.”

Elias stuck his tongue out. “It is!”

Isaac went next. He sat up straight, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I’m thankful for books. And for my mom. She reads with me every night.” His voice got quieter when he mentioned his mom, and he glanced at Andrew, who nodded like he understood.

Andrew’s turn came, and he didn’t need any time to think. “I’m thankful for quiet. And… organizing things.” He paused, sneaking a look at Isaac. “And friends who help me with puzzles.”

Elias leaned over to Luca, whispering loudly, “He means Isaac.”

Luca giggled again, squeezing his bunny tighter.

When it was Luca’s turn, he looked down at his bunny, then up at everyone else. His cheeks turned pink. “I’m thankful for… Bunny. And… everyone being nice.” His voice was soft, but everyone heard him.

Elias reached over and patted Luca’s arm. “We’re thankful for you, Luca. Especially when you share your snacks.”

Luca smiled shyly, his heart feeling warm like his favorite blanket.

Finally, it was Xanthus’ turn. The table got quiet as everyone waited. Xanthus didn’t speak right away. He sat with his hands folded, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking about something way bigger than Thanksgiving.

“I’m thankful for… stars,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but everyone listened. “Because they stay up there, even when you can’t see them.”

Everyone was quiet again, even Elias, who looked like he was actually thinking for once.

Then Elias broke the silence. “Stars are cool,” he said, tilting his head. “But cookies are cooler.”

Everyone burst into giggles, and the serious moment disappeared like bubbles popping.

The feast began, and little hands grabbed for mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Elias stacked his plate as high as he could, sneaking a cookie when he thought no one was looking. Isaac carefully scooped small amounts of everything, making sure none of his food touched. Andrew cut his turkey into perfect, tiny squares, like a little grown-up.

Luca took small bites, occasionally offering his bunny a pretend piece of pie.

Halfway through the meal, Elias leaned over to Xanthus. “Hey. Do you really think stars are better than cookies?”

Xanthus didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Elias gasped like Xanthus had said something completely outrageous. “No way! Cookies are way better. You can’t eat stars!”

Andrew smirked. “You have no taste, Elias.”

“I have great taste!” Elias said, stuffing a cookie in his mouth for proof. “See? Delicious!”

Luca giggled so hard he almost dropped his bunny. Isaac shook his head, a tiny smile on his face.

As the teacher brought out pumpkin pie, Elias reached for the biggest slice before anyone else could. “Thanksgiving is the best,” he declared, crumbs already on his face.

Isaac looked around the table, Andrew sitting quietly, Luca hugging Bunny, and Xanthus watching the group with that faraway look.

“Yeah,” Isaac said softly. “It really is.”

Xanthus looked up at the ceiling, thinking about stars and cookies and friends, he thought, Maybe it’s not just the stars that stay. Maybe it’s friends too.

[nightlark100]

Consequences (Pt 10)

Me: Time for some Steph!

Steph: Noooo please don't drag me into this

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

Stephanie was making breakfast when the doorbell rang. She frowned. After the initial flurry of activity when her dad was declared missing (if she never had to see their lawyer again it would be too soon), she'd mostly been left alone. The only person who came to the house regularly was Peter and he had a key.

She eyed her plate longingly, trying to decide if she could ignore the visitor. When they rang again, she sighed and brushed her hands off on her flannel before heading to investigate.

She opened the front door and leaned against the frame. Outside were two people who looked far too perky for the time of day, a man and a woman both clad in bright t-shirts bearing the slogan 'Virginity Rocks'.

"Can I help you?"

"Miss Lauter?"

"That's me."

"Hi! It's great to meet you. I'm Jerry, and this is Jeri. We're youth ministers at the local church and we run the abstinence summer camp."

"Sorry, all my charitable donations are reserved for animal welfare charities."

Steph saw something flicker across Jerry's face for a moment but he quickly smoothed it out and carried on speaking.

"Oh we're not here for money. A member of our church asked us to come. We were hoping to speak with Grace?"

"Her parents sent you."

"Her mother. She's very concerned about Grace's wellbeing and we've always been close, she comes to our camp every year," Jeri explained.

"I can see your teachings really worked," Steph said snidely. A little unfair to Grace, yes she knew, but she couldn't resist the dig. Once again Jerry's expression faltered.

"You've got a bit of an attitude problem."

"I've been told. Although not usually by people who want to come in my house."

Jerry opened his mouth to say something but girl Jeri grabbed hold of his wrist, silencing him.

"Please, we just want to know Grace is okay. Her mother is worried and so are we."

Steph bit her lip. The woman at least seemed sincere.

"You can come in. I'll see if she's up for visitors. And if she's not, you go. I won't have you stressing her out."

"We understand."

Steph eyed them warily, before stepping aside and letting them inside.

"If you can just wait here for a minute," she told them before disappearing up the stairs to Grace's room. She didn't particularly want to leave them alone in her house but given how erratic Grace's moods had been lately (for good reason), it was best she check on her first.

She knocked and heard Grace's cheery voice from inside. Ahh, a good day then.

"Hey Grace. How you feeling today?"

"Pretty good! I didn't throw up this morning,"

"That's great. Think you can stomach some pancakes?"

"That sounds lovely Stephie!"

"We also have... visitors. To see you. Said they're called Jerry and Jeri?"

"Oh!" Grace paled. "Wh... why are they here?"

"Your mom asked them to come. I can send them away if you want?"

"No... I... Jeri is really sweet but... Jerry... boy Jerry can be... a lot."

"How about I send girl Jeri up to see you on her own?"

"Thank you," Grace gave her a grateful smile and started tidying herself up. Steph patted her shoulder and headed back downstairs. The two Jerries were lurking in the entrance hall, standing very close to one another. Like... weirdly close.

Steph cleared her throat, drawing their attention and sending them skittering apart. It was honestly kind of amusing.

"She said she'll see you," she told Jeri. Both of them made for the stairs but she intercepted boy Jerry. "Sorry, I don't think it's appropriate for a man to be in her bedroom. You can wait down here."

Boy Jerry looked more than a little annoyed but allowed her to lead him into the kitchen where she resumed making breakfast, moving silently as he watched her intently.

He looked poised to say something when the sound of the front door opening diverted his attention.

"I have returned from my quest!" called Peter. "Bearing the jam that my fair lady has requested!"

He entered and presented her with a jar of fancy jam in a dramatic fashion.

"No more fantasy TV shows for you," Steph told him as he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I thought it was just Grace and yourself living here?" Boy Jerry's voice was icy and Peter stiffened, half turning.

"Jerry."

"Peter."

"What's he doing here?"

"They stopped by to see Grace."

"They? Oh... right."

"I can see that Mrs Chasity was right to be concerned about her daughter's wellbeing if you're... cohabiting."

"What, you think I'm going to get her more pregnant?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow. "Besides, we're not 'cohabiting'. I just have a key. And... wait, why am I justifying myself to you? This isn't camp."

"You actually went to their camp?"

"Yeah. Ted made me."

"Doesn't seem to be the kind of thing Ted would be in favour of."

"He's not but he had to go when he was a teenager and he thinks if he has to suffer, I should too. They confiscate my emergency chocolate and I always end up finishing the summer with a serious hand cramp."

"Peter!" Steph laughed. Peter flushed, realising what he'd accidentally implied.

"From making wallets!"

"Well it looks like you could use a little bit more wallet making Spankoffski, it doesn't seem like you've taken our lessons to heart."

Pete made a face and slumped into a seat next to Steph, resting his head against her shoulder. She smoothed down the side of his hair, drawing a sleepy smile.

"You not sleep well?"

"Bad dreams."

"That's your guilt for your sinful ways manifesting," Jerry said snidely. Peter narrowed his eyes.

"Well at least my sins only manifest as dreams and not as eight foot tall hatchet wielding woodsmen or piles of dead bodies."

"Huh?" Steph asked. Boy Jerry had gone pale and his expression was flicking back and forth between the pleasant neutral mask he put on and barely supressed rage.

"We're leaving. I'm going to inform Mrs Chasity that she should retrieve Grace at once."

"Grace is eighteen. She can't be 'retrieved' like a package," Steph said. Jerry scowled and went into the entrance hall, calling up the stairs for girl Jeri who appeared quickly. Her face was creased, clearly distressed by his shouting, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears when he forcefully steered her out of the house.

"You know the lords said about Grace killing 'dirty dudes'?" Steph said after silence had once again fallen on the house. "I vote him."

Peter laughed softly, before pausing and sniffing.

"Steph, I think your pancakes are burning."

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

Boy Jerry is hard to write :(

Consequences (pt1)

In which the Lords in Black aren't fully satisfied with Grace's sacrifice (or, the pitfalls of an abstinence only sex education)

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

She hadn't wanted to kill them, Grace thought numbly as she stared down at her dirt streaked hands, unable to shake the image of her latest victims from her mind. Yes, she believed that the behaviour she'd witnessed from the young couple, drunk and making out in the park, was dirty and perverse but she didn't want to kill them. And yet when she had gotten near, it was as though she was seized by a terrible hunger and she just couldn't stop herself.

She slipped to the ground, resting her head against the side of her bed and felt tears burning her eyes. It had been a few months since everything with Max... since she had given in to the primal temptations and sacrificed her chastity to send him to hell. She should feel... something. Relief? But her insides felt like they were rotting. She'd done so many terrible things and she didn't even have her unwavering faith to fall back on anymore, not after what she'd seen in the school gym. She didn't know if the colourful figures had been demons or if they truly were gods but it felt like jagged claws had slashed apart the fabric of her soul, leaving jagged doubts behind. Doubts and hunger.

At first she'd been able to ignore it but it had gotten stronger. It would rise in waves, crescendoing down onto her when they peaked and leaving her scrabbling for purchase as her mind crumbled.

Even the brief moments of peace she usually got between the waves had been lost to her now as she found herself battling daily with nausea, sometimes barely making it from her bed to the bathroom in time. She had tried to hide it as best she could but she knew her parents were concerned, had heard them whispering while she lingered in doorways. If it continued much longer they'd want to take her to the doctor, but she knew medicine couldn't help her. Her soul was sick, that was the cause. She would just have to pray harder. Maybe she could ask Stephie and Petey for help? Surely her friends would agree to pray with her when they saw how bad things had gotten.

Struggling to her feet, feeling her stomach twist painfully as she did so, she retrieved her phone from her bedside and sent Steph a text asking to meet up.

Her friends would help. They had to.

[girlivealwaysbean]

sometimes my bestfriend is like an angel in disguise istg

[tardis--dreams]

Some of those doctors make hating oat milk their entire personality. I hate them. Cannot pretend to find them funny or like i give a shit. Fucking pretentious assholes

[cannibalisticskittles]

i'm imagining a scenario where amity's dad got swept up by the nautiloid instead of her and. god. what a misadventure.

i can't decide if he and gale would be fast friends, soulmates, or mortal enemies. they have a lot of similarities, insofar as being wizards who LOVE magic and magical research and various special interests, and they both can be reckless in pursuit of this, and this could work Very Well or their differences could turn their similarities into contempt

plus symon is more... well... he's only partly a wizard. he's also a warlock, because he was bored to tears by the idea of continuing to study things that didn't interest him, so he made a deal with an archdevil for magical power so he could fake it and pretend like he was doing great at wizard stuff instead, and just focus on his experiments. so he's not as dedicated to the True Art, he just wants to be left alone with his lil projects.

still, i think in general, he and gale would get along. they could talk for hours about various magical subjects, the properties of the alchemical compounds he's currently collecting, the latest magical theorems they've read about. (i think they're close in age, too; i imagine gale is mid-30s at the youngest, but more likely, late 30s, early 40s. symon was a fairly young dad; he was 19 or 20 when amity was born, so he's ~46, 47 now)

he Would Not question shadowheart At All. oh, some mysterious business in baldur's gate? that's nice! he won't pry, that would be rude. a lady deserves to have her secrets :)

he would have endless questions for lae'zel, both about gith in general and about the astral plane. what a sight! what an honor to be born amidst the tears! he would not be put off by her whatsoever. every morning he would just have new questions for her.

he would try to fucking study astarion, that's for sure. he'd let astarion bite him, if asked. but then he'd want to run tests. is the taste or quality of blood impacted by diet? by location bitten? hold on, let him get his notebook and jot down the time of day and the date and contents of his last meal, for comparison; you'll have to be detailed when describing the taste. and please hold still; he'd like to sketch those fangs, if you wouldn't mind. it would be highly off-putting for astarion.

since symon is on the council of four, he's definitely familiar with wyll's dad, tho symon probably wasn't present enough in elbow-rubbing a decade ago to have ever met wyll. he also isn't, uh, very focused on other people most of the time, so he wouldn't be able to tell wyll much about what his dad is up to. he could tell him some, though! wyll reminds symon of amity quite a bit; the youthful enthusiasm, the drive for heroics. what a nice boy :) symon would also, like amity, devote quite a bit of time to wyll's predicament with his pact and with mizora, and try to find loopholes or ways out.

karlach also reminds symon of amity; he's not, uh, dadly enough to take anyone else under his wing, really; but he's very quickly fond of her because of this. he thinks she and amity would be friends, and tells her so. once again, he would want to study her and her heart; he'll also start pulling alchemical ingredients from his pockets and start musing about what can be done to modulate temperature and make her ticker run a bit better here. potentially helpful! very meddlesome tho.

i also. think he might consume a tadpole or two. for science. for research.

his imp familiar, ekil, would be distraught. tugging at his elbow, trying to get him to put down the tadpole jar, protesting loudly (if squeakily). but symon would not be deterred. "ekil my old friend, have no fear, this is all in pursuit of knowledge! :)" and then he shotguns that tadpole down.

symon being abducted also means that at some point, amity will find them. a wild-eyed tiefling on a white horse bursts into their campsite hollering "WHERE IS MY DAD" in the fucking shadowlands

[muppetbyers]

mlvns are very lenient towards mike and how he treats other people (like lucas in s4, max in s2, will in s3 and 4) that aren't el (but theyre also lenient w how he treats el when they’re dating) until he might be queer and have feelings for someone else, or if he simply doesn't love el anymore. then that extreme leniency is out the window and he’s actually the devil incarnate and completely unforgivable bc you cant just date someone and then break up with them when ur a teenager unless you were "using" or manipulating them.

[inkskinned]

she's singing in another room and my dog is asleep at my feet. my grandma asked me why i haven't found a man yet and i laughed. oh, you know. i like my house clean.

my girlfriend is also my man is also "my partner" if i'm in a professional setting. yesterday we went to a ren faire and a man mimed at me - you're together? and at my delighted nod, his baffled, you're gay? made me laugh. a woman with rainbow hair said i love the two of you together. you're both so beautiful it's absurd.

my dad introduced my partner as my "..... friend. or whatever" the other day. he knows we're dating. in the same way, i was never able to get my sister's husband to stop saying that's gay like it's 2008. he still uses the word fa***t, and my sister's defense of him has always been well, he's just kidding.

my lover and i dance to old music in a tiny kitchen. we judge new music together and take food critique very seriously. we watch love is blind before we fall asleep and agree that if they had a queer season, it would be bloody but also make for excellent tv. of fucking course queer people would know someone for only 2 weeks and agree to get married. what are you saying.

at a bar with friends, a man puts his hand on my wrist. got a boyfriend? and yes, i do have a boyfriend, she's amazing. i am texting her while i wander around a gas station named after geese. i am visiting a swing state for a wedding. in the candy aisle i overhear: she's actually like a lesbian it's disgusting. two teenage girls with packaged sandwiches in their hands, giggling. no literally, like. i'm not, like. okay with her being there while we're all, like, naked and changing.

my girlfriend and i tailgate, drink gin and cider out of cups. from the frat group beside us, a man corrects himself with one of his friends: bro, i mean, nonbinary entity, and it makes everyone around him laugh, myself included. he razzes his friend the same way i would have killed for at 19 years old - like nothing happened, he continues: you apply sunscreen like an alien. he does a little sassy (and fairly accurate) dance interpretation of the motion. his friend is laughing so hard they're crying.

i am lucky, i live in a safe neighborhood in a safe state. my masc passenger princess comes up from DC. i drive her for an hour to where all the leaves are a violent arrangement of color. we walk along the trails, letting autumn into our blood. in this part of the state, there's a lot of pickup trucks and trump signs. when we chastely kiss before getting into the car, i accidentally make eye contact with a woman holding her child's wrist. she looks disgusted. she looks fucking pissed.

two hours later my girl and i are eating dinner on a patio, soaking in the last warmth of new england sun before the chill of winter sets in. we are giggling and trying to talk through plastic vampire teeth. at another table, i see a young woman sit up straighter. i watch her watch us. she blushes and takes her partner's hand from across the table. shy, like the taste of evening has just become something deeper.

it's worth it for this moment, i think. my lover is still humming the same song she's been singing for four days straight and i don't want to kill her for it. her guitar is beside my bed. her toothbrush is in my bathroom. in a few moments i will make us lunch. we are lucky enough to have found each other. it is lucky enough to be in love.