#he's just absolute gender goals

[littleshopofhorrors-confessions]

My cosplay/Halloween costume of Seymour was the first and only so far male clothing I've owned and I'm pretty sure my mom got rid of it for that reason considering that I couldn't find it anywhere

For that and other reasons I get viscerally embarrassed about the fact that I used to have him as a transition goal to the point that it affects my viewing experience/experience while writing for him, and the fact that I relate to him a lot doesn't help

Y'all are right Orin makes way more sense for a... gender envy blorbo? There should be a term like blorbo for a character you get gender envy towards. I propose 'dently' as like a riff on 'skrunkly.' Anyway

---

[moeblob]

Ringleader (Fake) : I'm just so cute and tiny! Who can say! Ringleader (Real) : ...wait, he's not bisexual? Fake: what? Real: what?

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 32: September 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Victoria Verstappen

Emilie: So I’ve decided i’m planning Belle’s baby shower. You in?

Victoria: YES god yes i thought you’d never ask

Emilie: i knew you were my people

Emilie: we are going to destroy her with love

Victoria: as it should be

Emilie:Belle said the nursery will be jungle-themed But like classy jungle. not neon animal prints. think: baby Tarzan but with better lighting

Victoria:So tasteful jungle. Earth tones? Greens? Wood accents?

Emilie: YES. I was thinking “woodland safari” vibes like if Paddington Bear took a gap year in Tanzania

Victoria:I know exactly what you mean

Emilie:We do green and gold

maybe some dried eucalyptus and baby’s breath??

wooden signs?? one that says “A little wild one is on the way” and makes me cry in public???

Victoria: That’s actually adorable. Okay: green, gold, maybe ivory or beige accents. Nothing with leopard print unless it’s ironic.

Emilie:Sent

 also we are getting little elephant sugar cookies

and a cake topper that’s a baby lion wearing a crown

and we’re doing a “write a wish for baby” station or i riot

Victoria: You know Belle’s going to sob, right?

Emilie: that’s the GOAL she deserves the most beloved jungle baby shower in history

Victoria:No jungle noises sound machine. I draw the line at simulated monkey shrieks.

Emilie: coward.

Victoria: Okay, next item: guest list. How big are we going?

Emilie: Small enough to keep it personal. Big enough to make Belle cry at the sheer volume of love.

Victoria: So like… emotionally intimate but logistically bold.

Emilie: Exactly. Also: I vote no gender rules. Men are absolutely allowed. Max is not escaping this with a handshake and a gift bag.

Victoria: Agreed. If she carried the baby, he can carry a platter of mini quiches.

Emilie: Yes. It’s 2025. Equal opportunity baby shower sobbing.

Guest List: First of all, Belle and Max. Obviously. 

Victoria: Obviously. Me, you.

Emilie: Oscar’s Lily? She will cry and also judge the dessert table with me.

Victoria: Oscar too. 

Emilie: oh definitely he and Belle have a weird soft sibling vibe.  Also he’ll bring snacks and quiet competence. I’m counting on him to make Lando behave.

Victoria: Speaking of: Lando?

Emilie: I don’t care if he pretends to be cool and unfazed. He’s coming and he’s writing a wish for the baby. But he must be emotionally supervised.

Victoria: GP + wife?

Emilie: 

He brings emotional calm. And probably good wine. But he has to promise not to bring team merch as a gift. This is not a Red Bull onboarding event.

Victoria: So… the Leclercs?

Emilie:

😬

Emilie:

I’ll message Alexandra and Charlotte and say they’re absolutely welcome—if they can keep their boyfriends leashed and emotionally housebroken for the duration of the event. 

Arthur is easy. He’s scared of me. 

Victoria: Reasonable.

Emilie: If Charles tries to do a grand gesture apology in the middle of Belle unwrapping a swaddle set, I will throw him into the dessert table.

Next name on the landmine list: Pascale.

Victoria: 

Easy. I’ll just have my mom deal with her. She’ll smile, say something cutting, and suddenly Pascale will be quietly eating a macaron in the corner reflecting on her parenting choices.

Alternatively:  And we’ll simply seat my dad near her.

Jos won’t say much. He’ll just… exist.

Stoic. Imposing. 

Any Leclerc who tries to stir up drama will get one look and remember their mortality.

Emilie: Jos Verstappen as emotional bouncer. I want that printed on a T-shirt.

Victoria: Exactly. You want passive-aggressive guilt spirals? Not with Jos around. He has no time for emotional mess unless it involves lap times or tire degradation.

Emilie: He’ll stand there like a wall of paternal disapproval and every problematic relative will instinctively behave.

Victoria: Perfect. Now back to the important question: Do we get little wooden animals as name cards or is that too cute?

Emilie: I’m literally crying. She’s going to feel so loved.

Victoria: That’s the point. This is her village. And it’s feral, organized, and absolutely ready.

Victoria: I’ll draft the invites. Do we want them printed or digital?

Emilie: Printed. On seeded paper. That turns into wildflowers. Because I’m an emotional menace and Belle will cry.

Victoria: You’re unwell and I love it. Okay, I’ll message the stationery girl I used for a friend’s baby shower. Prepare to be impressed.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie, Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Emilie:

Ladies 💚

so: I’m planning belle’s baby shower

You’re both invited

But

If you want to bring your boyfriends, please keep them on emotional leashes

Charlotte: Oh my god

Alexandra: Understood short leash or retractable?

Emilie:

I don’t want belle opening tiny socks while Lorenzo gazes into the distance like he just read a tragic poem, Charles makes it all about himself and if Arthur even thinks about giving an unsolicited speech, i swear—

Charlotte:

we’ll drug arthur with complimentary cupcakes

Alexandra:

I’ll sit next to him and kick him under the table if he starts twitching

Emilie:

Thank you. you’re doing the lord’s work.

Charlotte:

Where is the shower, btw?

Emilie:

Scouting locations

But probably… the restaurant where she and max had their first date

And also had their wedding reception 

Charlotte:

NO

Alexandra:

wait

ACTUALLY?

Emilie:

Iconic, right??

She won’t expect it

It’s sentimental, it’s beautiful, and Max won’t get lost trying to park

Charlotte:

You’re such a menace

I love it

Emilie:

Thank you

Now go warn your men.

This is not the time for family therapy. this is the time for jungle plushies and emotional overwhelm.

Alexandra:

Copy that.

I’ll handle charles.

May god help us all.

Charlotte:

I’ll handle Lorenzo. 

Arthur will be given a cupcake and a babysitter.

I’ve got this.

Emilie:

You two are the real MVPs

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lily Zneimer

Emilie:

tell your boyfriend he’s babysitting Lando at Belle’s baby shower

Lily:

Excuse me???

Babysit Lando yourself.

He’s your boyfriend, Emilie.

Emilie:

He’s not my boyfriend. 

I’m on belle-duty

Full emotional concierge service. I don’t have time to stop Lando from stealing baby cookies or making jungle noises

Lily:

Honestly fair

But Oscar’s not a zookeeper

Emilie:

He’s calm. He’s emotionally balanced. He’s got that soothing energy that makes toddlers and unstable drivers relax

Lily:

You make my boyfriend sound like a sentient weighted blanket

Emilie:

am i wrong?

Lily:

No. Which is the annoying part.

Fine. I’ll let him know he’s on Lando-watch.

He’s going to ask if that includes snacks

Emilie:

it absolutely includes snacks.

preferably ones he can throw at Lando if needed

Lily:

God help us all

Let me know if you need any help. I am surprisingly good at calligraphy. 

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Emilie Abadie

Oscar:

So.

Apparently I’m your boyfriend’s designated babysitter at the baby shower?

Emilie:

Not my boyfriend. But yes. You are Lando’s designated babysitter. 

Level 3 supervision.

You may use snacks and Max glares as reinforcement tools.

Oscar:

Why me

Emilie:

Because he listens to you.

And you’re calm.

And I trust you not to join him if he tries to tape a “future world champion” sign to Belle’s bump.

Oscar:

You’re assuming I won’t be too busy hiding behind a fern.

Emilie:

You have won two Grand Prixs. You can handle one emotional jungle-themed social gathering.

Oscar:

Lando has already texted me a design for baby-sized racing boots. They have wings on them, Emilie

Emilie:

Do NOT let him give those to Max. Max will use them

Oscar:

He also wants to “casually mention” naming the baby after Senna. I told him to stop texting and go hydrate

Emilie: 

You see? This is why you’re perfect for this job

Oscar:

I hate how right you are

Emilie:

You love it. You love being the responsible one. you love keeping all of us feral little gremlins alive

Oscar:

I tolerate it.

Because I love Belle.

And because if Lando breaks something during a baby shower I will never emotionally recover

Emilie:

This entire event is going to be a mascara massacre and we are going to LOVE it.

Oscar:

I’ll bring tissues. And a tranquilizer dart. For Lando, not Belle.

Emilie:

I’m putting you on the spreadsheet as “handler: Norris, L.”

Oscar:

Add hazard pay.

Oscar:

Also, you should maybe tell Lando that he isn’t your “boyfriend” because he sure acts like you are his girlfriend. 

***

The Singapore humidity clung to everything like a second skin. Belle had given up on pretending her hair wasn’t frizzing and was now sitting with her feet up on a second chair, aggressively sipping her iced bubble tea and watching Lando Norris spiral.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, “if he sighs one more time like the ghost of heartbreak past, I’m going to throw this at him.” She held up the tapioca pearls at the bottom of her cup as evidence.

Lily looking far too put-together for how disgustingly warm it was, raised a single brow and followed Belle’s gaze.

“Oh. He’s doing the walk again.”

It was the third time Lando had passed the hospitality tent in the last twenty minutes. No pit stop. No purpose. Just dragging his feet like a heartbroken protagonist in an indie film. Sunglasses on. 

Hoodie in this weather. Hands in pockets. Pout firmly in place.

Belle deadpanned, “This is the emotional equivalent of when he lost that podium.”

“He’s not even trying to hide it,” Lily added, stirring her drink. “Oscar told me he’s been playing Emilie’s old voice notes like he’s crafting a scrapbook of despair.”

Belle just sighed. “He’s been like this since after Baku. He asked Max yesterday if emotional scurvy is a real thing.”

“I—what?”

“Apparently he thinks he’s developing ‘separation-related vitamin deficiencies.’” Belle mimed air quotes, then rolled her eyes. “Max offered him a banana. He said it wasn’t the same.”

Lily cackled. “That’s so dramatic.”

“He stared out at the water this morning like he expected Emilie to emerge from the mist on a gondola,” Belle muttered. “I can’t keep doing this. Max is getting secondhand annoyed.”

“Should we… check on him?”

“No,” Belle said flatly, pulling out her phone. “We’re escalating.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I’m saying this with love. But your boyfriend is wilting.

Emilie: ??? What are you on about

Belle: Lando. He’s stomping around the paddock like someone took away his favourite toy. Or like he hasn’t been hugged in a week. Which, coincidentally, tracks.

Emilie: It’s been 8 days, actually. Not that I’m counting.

Belle: Well he is. By sulking in the motorhome and making Oscar fetch him snacks like a Victorian child in mourning.

Emilie: I’m— 😭😭😭 Not the Victorian child

Belle: He told Oscar he had a phantom pain in his chest when he saw a girl with blonde hair at breakfast.

Emilie: NO

Belle: Yes. Oscar nearly choked on his toast. Then offered to print you out and tape you to the door of Lando’s driver room.

Emilie: I hate this paddock so much 💀

Belle: Anyway. Come to Singapore. Save us from the sadness. And I want bubble tea.

Emilie: This feels manipulative.

Belle: It is manipulative. I learned from the best. Also I’m hormonal and pregnant and will cry if you say no.

Emilie: You weaponized your unborn child. Wow. I knew you’d be dramatic.

Belle: I prefer theatrical. You in?

Emilie: ...Send me your hotel info. I’ll book the flight.

***

Belle knew exactly what she was doing.

She sipped her mocktail with the air of someone completely innocent, despite the look Max kept shooting her over the rim of his glass. It wasn’t her fault Emilie’s flight had landed early. It also wasn’t her fault that Lando had spent the last week moping around the paddock like a Victorian poet with a tragic case of unrequited love. Honestly, Belle was doing the world a favour.

Max leaned a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”

She smiled, eyes following the familiar silhouette weaving through the crowd just outside the McLaren hospitality. “Maybe.”

Max chuckled. “Should I be worried you’re this good at scheming?”

“You should have been worried ages ago,” she said sweetly.

From across the terrace, Lando appeared — animated, arms waving in some exaggerated retelling of his qualifying lap to Oscar and a few mechanics. His curls were damp with sweat, his cap backwards, his smile wide. But Belle noticed the way it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not like it used to.

Max caught the shift too, the smile slipping into something softer. “He misses her.”

“I know,” Belle murmured. “So I fixed it.”

Max huffed a laugh. “You really are dangerous.”

“Only when I care.”

Then, like clockwork, the front entrance of the hospitality tent shifted open — and there she was.

Emilie.

Hair pulled back into a low bun, sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a linen jumpsuit that somehow made airport fatigue look chic. She scanned the terrace quickly — eyes darting past engineers and drivers and sponsors — and then landed on them.

Belle gave her the world’s smallest nod.

And Emilie moved.

Belle barely contained her grin as Lando caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned—

And froze.

His whole body stiffened. Like seeing a ghost. Or a miracle.

“Holy—” Lando started, voice strangled.

Emilie reached him in a few strides and before he could say anything else, she threw her arms around him.

Belle watched as his whole frame seemed to melt. As if someone had taken the tension and twisted it loose. His arms went around her, one hand cradling the back of her head like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

“Hey, idiot,” Emilie murmured. “You didn’t think I was missing night race dumplings, did you?”

Lando made a sound that could only be described as emotionally overwhelmed baby giraffe. Belle saw Oscar smirk in the background, muttering something to a nearby PR rep that made them both laugh.

Max looked down at Belle, his voice warm. “That was very kind of you.”

Belle rested a hand on her bump, heart full. “They needed a win.”

“And what about you?” he asked, gently nudging her side.

She tilted her head up at him. “I’ve already got mine.”

Max’s smile softened, eyes flicking to her belly, then back. “You’re going to be a terrifying mother.”

Belle grinned. “I can only hope.”

Across the terrace, Lando and Emilie stood wrapped in each other, oblivious to the world. And Belle allowed herself a rare, smug moment of satisfaction.

Mission: Get Lando to Stop Sulking – complete.

***

It was the kind of heat that stuck to your skin like honey. The kind that lingered long after the engines had gone quiet and the fireworks had faded.

Singapore at night always felt like a fever dream. And tonight — with Lando Norris standing on the top step the podium for the third time this season, champagne-soaked and shining under the floodlights — it felt almost mythic.

Belle watched from the edge of the paddock chaos, tucked just behind the barriers near Parc Fermé, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. Max had pulled off a brilliant second place — not a win, not what he always wanted, but tonight it hadn’t mattered. Because Lando had driven like a man possessed. Like a man who had something — or maybe someone — to fight for.

And Belle had seen it happen in real time.

The checkered flag. The scream over the radio. The disbelieving, almost frantic way Lando had leapt from the car and paced like he didn’t know what to do with the adrenaline. Then — like gravity had found him again — he turned.

Emilie was already there.

She’d made her way down with the mechanics, badge flashing, heart in her throat. Belle didn’t know if someone had told her to go or if she’d just known. But the second Lando spotted her, the world shrunk.

No PR officials. No cameras. No team principals. Just her.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

One stride. Two. And then he was in front of her, grabbing her face like a man starved of touch, of home, of her. And kissed her.

Right there. In Parc Fermé. Helmet off, fireproofs half-zipped, shaking with emotion — he kissed her like she was the trophy. Like the whole damn weekend had led to this.

The crowd exploded. Screaming, cheering, wolf-whistling. Someone from McLaren hooted so loud Belle actually jumped.

And Belle?

Belle smiled.

Because Max had just pulled himself out of the RB20, sweat-slick and grinning like a man with no regrets. He walked toward her slowly, soaking it all in — the cheers, the chaos, the way Lando and Emilie were still wrapped around each other like teenagers in a romcom.

He reached her, pulled his cap off, and kissed her forehead.

He slid his hand over hers, resting it gently on the swell of her belly. “Think he felt that?”

“The baby?” Belle asked. “I think he just learned about true love and strategic PR in one go.”

Max chuckled. “Good. He’s ahead of schedule.”

Lando was still laughing, still breathless as he lifted Emilie off her feet and spun her once, like he didn’t care who was watching. And maybe for the first time all year, Belle thought he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t just a win.

It was his win.

And maybe — just maybe — it was the beginning of something more.

Belle looked at Max, his face glowing in the floodlights, proud and unbothered, hand still holding hers like he’d never let go.

Yeah. She thought, not for the first time that season, this is a good life.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaDaily 🚨 BREAKING: Lando Norris WINS the Singapore Grand Prix!!! 🧡 Also Lando Norris KISSES A WOMAN IN PARC FERMÉ AND IT’S NOT HIS MUM OR HIS DOG?! More at 11.

@/gridgossipgirl lando norris just kissed someone in parc fermé. I repeat. HE KISSED HER. ON THE MOUTH. this is not a drill.

@/dannyricssmile lando norris kissing someone in parc fermé with the confidence of a man who has been Wifed™ someone check if she’s wearing a ring I’m begging

@/padockcryptid don’t get me wrong I’m happy he won but WHO THE HELL IS THAT GIRL AND HOW DO I BECOME HER

@/emiliesarchive hi yes the girl lando kissed is named emilie and she’s been seen around the paddock Spain, and she hangs out with Lily and Belle and once max verstappen handed her a juice box while glaring at lando. I knew something was up.

@/mrsoscarpiastri lando: wins a race lando: immediately turns into a fanfic boyfriend honestly it’s disgusting. i’m obsessed.

@/alexdoesmemes lando norris kissing his gf like they’re at the climax of a 2000s romcom while max just chills in p2 like a supportive older brother who knew the whole time cinema

@/BelleLeclercUpdates the way belle verstappen SMILED when she saw them kiss 😭 mother knows mother approves

@/sunshinef1girl i don’t want a boyfriend. i want a lando norris singapore gp 2024 parc fermé kiss.

@/quadrantclown lando: “I don’t talk about my private life” also lando: plants a cinematic kiss in front of three thousand cameras and god himself 🧍‍♂️

@/F1FictionReal so you’re telling me:

he wins

he kisses the girl

she wore a sundress

belle verstappen plotted this

max just smirked like he knew all along this isn’t a race. it’s the finale of season 3 of a netflix romance.

@/F1Girlie999 Lando Norris winning Singapore and then KISSING HIS GIRL like he's in a damn romance movie? Yes. Inject that into my veins.

💥💥💥💥💥

@/padDOCKwives every time i think f1 can't get more cinematic... lando wins. the lights. the heat. the sweat. the kiss. and in parc fermé?? someone call netflix.

@/F1StatManiac i don’t know what’s more impressive — Lando’s racecraft under pressure — or the grip he had on his girlfriend’s waist post-race 👏👏👏

@/bitchyforboveralls that was not a kiss that was a statement that was a thesis that was a roman empire

@/mclarenmediaarchive i will be studying the footage of that kiss like it's the zapruder film frame by frame. hand placement analysis. full body language breakdown.

@/f1fanatic89 lando. norris. won. and then kissed a girl like he’s the lead in a wattpad fic. is this growth???

@/gridgossip THE WAY HE JUST— HE JUST— DROPPED THE HELMET AND WALKED STRAIGHT TO HER THIS IS A ROM-COM I AM NOT OKAY

@/softverstappen someone said he kissed her like a man unburdened by poor strategy and I haven’t stopped laughing

@/wheelsemotions lando norris. won a race. kissed the girl. looked like a movie. and you want me to act normal about it????

@/gridwivesanonymous is this the lando norris arc where he finally gets the girl and the trophy?? oscar and max fewtrell better be flower girl and ring bearer

@mclarencultleader I just know Max looked at Lando and said “about damn time” and Belle clapped like it was the season finale someone confirm pls

***

The city outside still buzzed with post-race energy — horns in the distance, neon lights flickering against the windows. But inside their room, it was quiet.

Belle sat on the bed, one hand resting on her belly, her other tracing the condensation down a glass of water. Max was sitting at the edge, still in a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower, staring at nothing in particular.

“They said it on the broadcast,” Belle said softly. “That this might really be it for Daniel.”

Max didn’t respond at first.

He just nodded, slowly.

Then: “Yeah.”

Silence stretched again.

Belle watched him, her thumb brushing slow circles on the curve of her stomach. “Are you okay?”

Max exhaled through his nose. “He was my favourite teammate.”

There wasn’t any hesitation in the way he said it.

Not the kind of fondness people say in hindsight. But the honest kind — the kind with real warmth, buried under everything else that had changed since 2018.

Belle tilted her head. “Why?”

Max’s lips curved slightly, a quiet little thing. “Because he made the team feel lighter. Like… we could actually have fun. Even when the car was bad. Even when the pressure was worse.”

He paused. “He used to laugh in the briefing room just to make the engineers smile.”

Belle smiled too, just a little. “That sounds like him.”

“He was fast,” Max added, almost defensively. “Like really fast. People forget that. But he made it look easy because he was always joking. Like it wasn’t costing him anything.”

“And was it?” Belle asked.

Max hesitated. “Yeah. I think it was. But he never let it show.”

The baby shifted under Belle’s hand — a tiny kick, gentle but certain.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked.

Max looked over at her. “I think he’ll be loved. And I think that’s better.”

He reached across the space between them, hand warm over hers, where their son stirred.

“He made F1 better,” Max said quietly. “For all of us. And I don’t think people say that enough.”

Belle leaned her head against his shoulder. “Maybe it’s your turn to be that person now.”

Max snorted softly. “I don’t think I’m the new Ricciardo.”

“No,” she said. “But you’re someone else’s favourite now.”

He looked down at her — at her hand over his, the baby beneath — and let the silence settle again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Belle: Hey. I just wanted to say — thank you.

For everything.

For being kind to Max when he was 19 and furious at the world. For making him laugh when no one else could. For being a teammate, but also a real friend — the kind that sticks.

I don’t know if you realise how much of an impact you had on him. But I see it every day.

(Also: thanks for not killing him when he was an arrogant teenager with a death wish. I know it was close sometimes.)

He’s really going to miss you. We both are.

Belle: Also. Don’t disappear off the face of the earth. You’re not allowed.

You still owe this baby hundreds of Max Verstappen stories that will one day horrify him. Preferably with impressions and questionable accents.

The baby needs to know the full lore of 2017 Max, and I feel like only you can deliver it properly.

Belle: You’re family. You always have a place with us.

Daniel: 😭😭😭 Mate you’re actually gonna make me cry right now. I love you guys. So much. Tell Max I’m not gone. Just… onto the next corner.

And tell the little Verstappen I’ll bring the snacks and the stories. Even the embarrassing ones. Especially the embarrassing ones. 😎

***

[kittenintheden]

When I Think About You

surprise jorkin it PWP fic drop lol. enjoy.

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Astarion/Reader (You) Word Count: 1550 Content: 18+, jealousy, voyeurism, masturbation, mutual masturbation (sort of?), pillow humping, gender-neutral Tav/Reader

AO3 Link

You went to bed early tonight.

Well, earlier than you typically do. Not that Astarion has been paying you much attention. Hardly any, really. You’re just easy to miss.

Notice. You’re easy to notice. Because you’re so obvious.

Obviously annoying, obviously infuriating, obviously determined, and obviously infatuated with him. True, that had been his goal, but hells, you could blush a little less at his come-ons. Even if it does look cute on you.

Not that he thinks you’re cute. Not really.

The others are packing up their gear and turning in for the night. Astarion will take first watch like he typically does, have a quick trance, and get up in the early morning hours for a hunt. Easy. Routine.

So what if he’s falling into a routine with these people. It makes things simpler.

He should check on you. Just to make sure you’re not ill. For his health more than yours. These days, a headache could mean a rapid onset of calamari face. He’s doing everyone a favor, honestly.

When he approaches your tent, his steps slow to a stop as his ears pick up noise from inside your tent. You aren’t asleep.

And by the sound of it – and it’s a sound Astarion knows well – you aren’t alone.

He huffs an irritated breath through his nose. Gods damn it. He really thought he had you in the bag. There’s a shard of something sharp lodged beneath his rib. Annoyance, probably. Disappointment that he’s back to square one. Bitterness that he lost another competition, even when he’s doing what he does best.

Astarion turns to walk away. Takes three steps. Stops. Turns his head back toward the sound.

Who is it?

Who are you with?

He has his suspicions, but might as well take a quick peek to verify. His steps as he approaches are catlike. Not that you’d notice anyway, preoccupied as you are. He won’t look much. Only enough to see who stole his prize.

His mark. Who stole his mark.

Astarion pauses at the far side of your closed tent flap and finds a gap in the cloth. He leans in, eyes keen in the dark, and his mouth goes dry when he sees your hips grinding against someone, the length of your body pressed tight to theirs while you move over them. A blanket covers you both, but it doesn’t hide the passion of your movement.

He jerks his head away, a ball of tension aching in his gut. Ridiculous. He should go kill something. He walks toward the woods.

And stops with a sigh.

Astarion hates himself for it, this burning curiosity to know exactly who you’re riding so enthusiastically. Steeling himself, he creeps back and peeks once more through the split in the fabric.

You’re sitting up, now, showing him the long line of your spine in the center of your bare back as your hips continue to work. Every puff of breath through your lips is desperate, occasionally lilting up in a breathless moan.

Astarion worries his lip between his teeth. The muscles beneath your skin ripple, your blood thrumming so close and smelling so much of you, sweetened with the scent of arousal. If you’d just lean a little one way or the other, he could see who’s working you so… so…

There’s a flash of heat in his core followed by a sparking current of electricity, setting everything alight. He’d been doing his best to ignore the steady swell of his cock, but ignoring it is no longer an option as he goes hard as stone, the length of him straining toward his hip bone. Subconsciously, he cants his hips into the empty air and finds absolutely no relief. He has to swallow back a soft moan of his own.

The rolling globes of your arse are shaped perfectly beneath your thin wool blanket. Sharp, rocking thrusts against your playmate, against whichever lucky wretch currently feels the sticky heat of you while he watches.

Astarion lets his hand drift to the front of his breeches and sucks his breath in through his teeth when his palm grazes firmly over the covered head of his cock.

 You run a hand up your side and feel your own chest, maintaining your rhythm as you whimper.

Astarion’s fingers move to loosen his laces, lips parted as he begins to softly pant.

Your hand moves back down and you’re… yes, you’re putting your fingers between your legs, and you throw your head back with a gasp.

His fingers dip below his waistband and he curls in on himself with a huff as he takes himself in hand and begins to pump. Once, twice… ah, gods, that’s nice.

Though being under you would be even nicer.

Lucky sod. Who is it?

The blanket slips down over the curve of your arse, falling to one side and his breath catches as he realizes he’s about to get his answer.

Fabric falls aside and your incredible arse is grinding back and forth. You’re riding yourself to absolute delirium with…

A spare bedroll.

Astarion’s hand stutters to a stop and he doesn’t even breathe as realization hits him. You weren’t with someone else at all. The whole time, you’ve been furiously fucking yourself, grinding needily against your bedding for relief.

And somehow, some way, that makes him even harder. He mouths “oh, fuck” and goes back to stroking himself with renewed vigor. 

You’re desperately aroused, no longer trying to quiet your whimpers as you work your hips in circles against the bedroll while you rub yourself at the same time, your shoulders flushed with need. Your body undulates in wave after wave and Astarion feels quite certain that if he were inside you right now, he’d have come already. He puts his free hand over his mouth, pressing his palm to his lips to keep quiet.

You make a frustrated noise and swing your leg off the bedroll, and for a brief alarming moment, Astarion thinks you’re about to give up, and there’s no way he could let that stand. For either of you.

But then you shove the bedroll away with a huff and flop onto your back without opening your eyes, which is good news for Astarion, since you’d almost certainly see the silhouette of him outside your tent if you were paying attention. Instead, you spread your legs wide and give him a glorious view as one hand returns to its place between your legs and is quickly joined by the other.

Astarion shudders out a breath, the sound thankfully masked by your own rapid pants as you stroke yourself with one hand and trace around your entrance with the other. When you push two fingers inside and begin to pump in and out, Astarion’s knees threaten to give out as he picks up his pace. The tide of pleasure in his core rises and threatens to crest.

Gods, gods, he isn’t even fucking you and you’re still going to make him come before you do.

Your pretty little moans are too much. Your furrowed brow, your flushed cheeks, the way your thighs twitch and your belly shivers with the pleasure you’re lavishing on yourself. What a beauty you are, what a treat, what a-

“-arion,” you whisper, so quietly that he nearly misses it.

“Hah,” he breathes, his pleasure shuddering right on the edge of its peak. His mind must’ve filled that in. There’s no way you said what he thought you said.

He presses his face to the split in the fabric and leans against the tentpole, jerking himself firmly as he watches you arch your back up off the ground, lifting your hips into the air again, again, again, until your hands slow.

“Oh, Astarion,” you whisper just before you slam back down to earth and groan out your release, your slick making your skin shine in the low light.

“Sh-”

Astarion slams his hand over his mouth and ducks to the side, sinking silently to the ground around the corner of your tent just before he creams himself, a pulse of spend striping the ground beneath him, followed by another, and another. His head hangs heavily before him as he catches his breath and dazedly tries to piece together what the fuck just happened.

He sits back, chest heaving and ears ringing.

Then whips his head to the side when he hears you stir inside the tent and tentatively say, “... Hello? Is someone there?”

Astarion holds his breath, which does not help with his current state of floaty lightheadedness.

Then you say, “... Astarion?”

And the sound of his name on your lips sends another ripple of pleasure through him as his cock pulses and drips one last time for good measure.

It takes a minute, but you eventually convince yourself you were hearing things and settle down to sleep, presumably in a more relaxed state than when you first retired. Astarion waits until your breathing slows before he sneaks away, silently tucking himself back into his clothes.

He holds his breath the entire time.

On the other side of camp inside the safety of his own tent, he releases it in a rush, running his unused hand through his curls as realization finally catches up to him.

“Oh, no,” he whispers.

[transgendz]

Making this short, heavy details below the cut: household is 3 disabled people, I'm the main provider. I do art stuff. Extreme medical costs coming up, no insurance for 2/3 of us, cancer for the person who is insured, recent surgery for me and struggling to get back to work, behind on bills, we are a queer family, and one of us is intersex and needs a legal gender and name change to maintain safety and get access to more resources in an increasingly fascist state.

Dm for proof, vetted by @kyra45-helping-others who does scam busting on here, again below the cut, including details about the goal of this post

My kofi is set up with monthly tiers, and my art blog is @theartistrans examples above

$C--V--PP--kofi

The oldest of us has a cancer diagnosis, which, they're not sure it's cancer anymore but they're not sure it's Not cancer, so they're doing a lot more tests and either way she's going to likely need chemo, as that's the next major treatment option for her disability either way. It's Be Ready For Chemo purgatory.

M recently got his proof of citizenship and related documents from abusive adoptive parents, and needs a name and gender change. He frequently encounters discrimination as a result of not having this already. He may need to drive cross country to get that done, things here are changing quickly it's already very difficult to get a name change here in these situations. He is intersex and needing medical treatment relating to that, but the appointment coming up in a few days will be $500 because he doesn't have insurance. He needs an epi pen and doesn't have one. We both severely need new glasses, that in particular affects my ability to work.

Not being able to get insurance has meant extreme costs, some of them monthly bc of monthly prescription refills, which we increasingly just haven't been able to cover

If/when we can get his name changed (and that is kind of priority atp) we will get married which will provide us the peace of mind of being eachothers next of kin, but also enable us to have insurance and have our income rightly seen as joint in the eyes of our state.

We may need to leave our state. We need to building an emergency fund, but this isn't about this, this is about enabling us to just get stable.

The lack of stability has badly worn on my mental health as the main provider. I am constantly afraid of us becoming homeless again. I struggle often to levels I am not comfortable discussing here. Poverty has caused us to lose a concerning amount of weight, M and I weighing about what we did when we hit puberty. Things are going badly.

Our total goal is unclear right now, it all sort of depends on how quick things go, and how much Ms abusive adoptive parents help. We will absolutely need almost 2k just to get the immediate medical stuff and most urgent bills taken care of though. As mentioned before M's upcoming appointment is $500

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 lay on the horn to prove that it haunts me | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; ! i love you, i'm sorry ! NEVER have a soulmate as an immortal. written by amphoreus men 🤦‍♀️

love mail — trend made me sad. decided to make it EVERYONE ELSES PROBLEM!!!!!!!!!!!

soulmated so hard, i couldn't live without you. anaxa knew his goal; to fuse with the titan cerces. but when he knew it was time, and he held his hand over his chest, his mind raced with a thought of one possibility. that maybe if he sacrificed his mortal body, that at least his consciousness could meet yours again. in a kinder, softer life.

anaxa was no fool, the possibilities of life after death were endless—absolute nothingness, a 'heaven' and 'hell', or maybe he'll be reborn. with a family who won't leave, and a lover he does not have to mourn early.

and as he holds out his coreflame to the sky, it feels like offering his heart to you all over again. everyone thinks he smiled because he fulfilled his duty as a chrysos heir, but it was in fact that in the 2 minutes and 11 seconds of him realizing he had passed the trial of reason; he had just enough time to replay his memories of you, and was ready to go home.

soulmated so hard, i couldn't make your favorite dish without feeling sick. mydei's love language was always cooking, he adored seeing that smile on your face whenever he made you his favorite dish, laughing at how fast you would eat and warn you to slow down. now he can't even smell the aroma of it without wanting to throw up.

it isn't his fault, he knows it isn't. but he can still smell the blood whenever he tries to. he can't smell a dish; he smells a battlefield. it makes him feel so weak but he isn't even mad about it, he's just a man in mourning. a husband mourning his lover who had gone far too soon.

call it silly, he doesn't care. but he kept the leftovers he made for you the night prior to your death still left in the freezer. it's like keeping a piece of you, really. he can't afford to lose anything else or it'll feel like you're really gone.

soulmated so hard, i'm yours in every universe but you can't be mine. phainon feels like he's just doomed for some kind failure and hardship in every universe, but the one consistent heartache will always be you. it's stupid, really. he'll see that smile he won't forget, fall in love with every version of you, only to have you taken away right before he can tell you how he feels. the worst part is that he knows you reciprocate, he found the unsent letters you wrote for him and he still keeps them in his jacket pockets. reads 'em whenever he feels hopeless because a new death means a new life, and even if he can't have you, he'll at least know you. even if his love will have you doomed forever. for who is phainon if he does not love you unconditionally through every rebirth of you?

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[neverendingford]

.

[altruistichellhound]

Beastars Boyfriend Head cannons!

I’ll be doing a separate post for the shishigumi. Let me know if you want anyone added to this.

I made this as non specific and gender neutral as I could. I wanted everyone to read this and imagine themselves as whatever person/animal you see yourself as.

Legoshi

Legoshi cannot control his tail around you. Smile at him? furious wagging. Laugh in the sweetest of ways? furious wagging. Kiss him? He’s taken off like a helicopter with how fast his tail is going.

Absolutely loves being close to you! Cannot get enough of your scent, breathes it in more than the air around him.

Territorial of you, anyone looks at you and he’s pissed. Not that you can tell, or anyone else really. Isn’t outright jealous/confrontational unless you are out right disrespected. Absolutely not afraid of getting in fights for you.

When Legoshi is comfortable he will go on and on about his interests. He is so incredibly smart, especially when it comes to bugs. At this point you’re pretty much an entomologists.

Teaches you about the way of the sea and some of the seas language. (You’ll probably be pronouncing it wrong the same as him..)

At the beginning of your relationship he found it hard to communicate his feelings, now he fully able to express his wants and needs. It works very well for the both of you as he is an incredible listener.

Very oblivious…

Loves taking you on dates, especially private ones like picnics and star gazing.

You>Anything else

Louie

If you don’t come from a deer family of high value you’ll be his secret.

He might not show it with words but lord does this man love you.

Endless, and I really mean endless gifts. You offhandedly mention something you like? Oh what’s this, he bought it for you! He’s out and he sees something that reminds him of you, bought it. “Oh that’s cute!” Boom he bought it.

Secretly likes it when you give him massages. Poor man is so stressed out he needs that extra care. He wants a quiet life with you. One where he can be the beastar but come home to your little cozy home where it’s soft and quiet.

Knows you guys simply cannot exist together but pretends like it’s not reality…

Openly jealous, “I don’t like him”. Tells you when he thinks someone has bad intentions. Tries his best to protect you but sometimes it’s slightly misguided.

Acts like he needs to be the dominant one in the relationship but really likes it when you take control.

A balance of all out luxury dinners and simple little cafes you two like to frequent.

If it comes to it he would give up everything, including his relationship with his father; for you.

Gohin

Works out in front of you totally not on purpose. Flexes his muscles when you just happen to be looking at him.

Gohin is such a tease! Doesn’t matter what it is he’ll make fun of you for it. If you don’t like it he’ll tell you it was just a joke but he takes it very seriously and makes sure not to tease you like that again.

Tries his best to keep you away from his work. If you want to help he will tell you no until you persist so much he caves. While he loves you he cares about your safety more, so much training. He will run you until you colapse; he would never forgive himself if something happened to you.

Tea after training/work. He enjoys making you two a drink then sitting and talking about your day between sips.

Even if it doesn’t feel like it I promise you he listens. If he is busy or stressed he will respond with simple, hmm and mhms. However, he heard everyone word and won’t forget what you’ve told him.

At first he’s an awkward kisser, but he’s a quick learner and you’ve never had a better kisser in your life.

You remain the light of his life.

Bill

Childish. Not necessarily a bad thing but sometimes you want to beat him with a stick.

PDA to the max, you’re his and he’s yours. Why shouldn’t the people know? Hold his hand and steal quick kisses please.

Not the best at planning things but he’ll try his best. His goal is to make you happy and have something that will last.

Doesn’t really think about a serious future that much. Not that he doesn’t want to be with you, just that he hasn’t planned ahead enough to really put thought into marriage and a possible family.

This man makes you late to almost everything. Unless it’s the club, he is not on time.

You basically aren’t ever not laughing. He loves to see you smile and squirm around while you laugh so hard your stomach starts to hurt. Surprisingly his jokes are actually funny and land quite well.

All his friends know you very well, all he does is brag about how amazing and hot you are.

Jack

The sweetest man to have ever existed.

Had a crush on you for thee longest time before he either got the courage to talk to you or you finally went up to him.

Wants you to be happy, in his mind he can never do enough for you. He doesn’t want you to be happy, he needs it. If you are sad or angry he tries his darnedest to make cheer you up in a way that suits you the best. Listening, taking you out, leaving you alone, really whatever you need he will give.

Snores. Not loud though, sweet little snores and huffs throughout the night. At this point you can’t sleep without hearing him.

Always smells weirdly good. Like it’s unnatural how he always smells the same and it’s never bad. He could sprint three miles and still smell insanely good. When asked about it he just shrugs.

Constantly blushing! He can’t help it around you, doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together.

Collot

You trim his bangs. He lets you but in all honestly doesn’t trust you after you cut them way too short last time. He won’t tell you that though.

Suspiciously calm, makes him a good listener but sometimes it’s frustrating when he doesn’t get mad with you.

Speaking of anger he hasn’t really gotten mad with you. Maybe a few spats here and there but he has never once raised his voice at you.

Worst sleeper in the world! Moved, kicks, loud sleeper, talks. How did he kick you in the face? You don’t know and neither does he. Scares the crap out of you, “He’s coming.” You proceed to violently shake him until he wakes up and reassures you back to sleep.

Really likes playing video games with you or just doing things quietly next to each other.

Riz

Tries his very best to control himself around you after what happened. Really doesn’t matter to him what species you are he’s constantly afraid of hurting you. Cannot let go of you even if he’s afraid.

You on the other hand aren’t afraid of him. He told you what happened and you understood him. He would never hurt you, or so you think.

Protective as hell. Does not matter who it is no one will ever get to you.

Practically worships you. Would kiss the ground you walk on if he could. Lives to serve you, you want something it’s already been done.

Constant cuddles, he always wants to be the big spoon unless he’s sad. Being around you makes him feel powerful knowing in that moment you are untouchable. When you hold him he feels vulnerable, he hasn’t decided if he’s okay with that feeling yet but he knows that it feels good to be the one being protected for once.

Really likes cooking with you and for you.

Pina

Best way to describe him is annoying, but in the best way possible.

Can, and will, talk your ears off. Constantly yapping about something and expects you to listen. He’s offended if you ask him to give you even a second of silence.

Really loves it when you touch his horns.

Best lashes in the room, better than you and he will constantly brag about this. He tells you he’s joking (he’s not).

He’s just a little bit of a freak, “Eat me.” Doesn’t matter if you’re a carnivore or not. “What the hell Pina?” You can’t tell if he’s being serious…

He knows absolutely everything about you. Some things you didn’t even know about yourself! Not only does he know you but he knows everyone else. Tells you all the best gossip and keeps you up to date with rumors even if you don’t care.

Definitely needs someone to keep up with him.

Melon

Crazy but that’s okay!

Would kill someone if you asked him to. Neighbor pissed you off? Gone. Boss is being a dick? Gone. You tend to abuse this fact.

Okay he does not know how to express his love for you. He’s not even sure if what he’s feeling his love. He knows he oddly doesn’t want to hurt you but is that love? Who knows he’s just going with it.

This relationship is pretty much the definition of playing with fire.

You get to see such a different side to him, quiet and maybe even a little soft. Sad maybe? Is it an act? You don’t know but you’ve decided it’s okay not knowing you. Even when you have that nagging feeling that you should care.

Potentially likes you so much because you are very similar to him.

Won’t ever tell you or anyone this but he likes it when you hold him. He also enjoys that you aren’t afraid of his fangs. Will bite you if you let him.

Would both love and hate you even more if you were a hybrid.

Gosha

Biggest softy with you. Would do absolutely anything for you, to him, you are nothing less than the universe.

Thinks you are the most wonderful thing to have ever graced this world. He loves to show you it too. Random gifts, always brings you fresh flowers before your last ones die.

Evening walks are the best with him. As the sun turns the clouds orange and pink he’ll tell you about his adventures as a youth and his previous dreams of becoming the beastar.

The best support you’ll ever have. He whole heartedly believes that you can do anything you set your heart to. Encouraging your passions and making sure whatever you need to meet your goals is there for you to use.

You’ve never felt so safe than right by his side, and rightfully so. No one would even think to mess with you with him around.

Everyone knows you too are together, he’s made sure of that the way he runs around bragging about you.

Yahya

Tries his best to keep you and work separate. This is not only for your safety for also for him. He never expected or wanted a relationship because of his goals but when he saw you he just couldn’t let you go.

Manages balancing you and protecting the world pretty well. Though, he is in fact just a man like everyone else.

Missed dinners often which turns into arguments which ends in mutual apologies and making up.

He is so tired. Needs you to rub his shoulders and lightly scratch his back.

Can’t really sleep but if you tell him stories or hum softly while playing with his mane he knocks right out.

Keeps you out of the public eye because he knows that if he didn’t you’d have a target on your back. Constant security watching you from afar.

Makes sure to provide a good life for you first and foremost, but also is very focused on changing the world. It is a relationship based on understanding on both ends. Compromises have been made.

You are the closest thing to his heart and constantly on his mind.

[leviathanxprincess]

Introducing The Kings to Your Plushies

me and my bestie have a joke about my faves showing up to my place for sex and i would not realize and just start talking about my plushies based on this dumb post we saw once, thought it'd be funny to turn into an actual scenario lol might do this for the other devils, angels, minhyeok if the ppl are interested lol notes: mildly sexual - not really anything deeply insane, gender neutral reader !!!

Satan

On one hand, he thinks you're really cute. On the other hand, he's here to fuck so.

He's going back and forth so much in his head for a moment he's not even paying attention to you talking oops.

Gets so frustrated and angered from trying to decide what to do it ultimately ends with him just jumping on you.

Cut you off mid word with an incredibly heat filled kiss from rage.

Honestly you might not even 100% be certain what happened but you're not complaining!! You can always talk about the rest of your plushies later!!!

Well. If Satan doesn't fuck you until the point you're resting for the next couple days.

Once he actually pays attention to you talking about them he'll remember some names here and there, but he will get them wrong on purpose to try and see you angry lol.

Mammon

The reality is he probably got you most of these plushies.

He adores seeing how you cherish them and the lore you've decided for them!!

Will remember every single detail you tell him about them!!

He thinks it's super cute and will humor you for the moment.

However, Mammon will get what he wants eventually. But for right now you're so adorable how could he tell you no?

He is DEFINITELY teasing you later once he does get to sleep with you about how cute you are.

This man lives to see you embarrassed and shy from his compliments.

Is probably buying you even MORE plushies now, hope you're prepared for that!

Leviathan

I think it depends at the point in your relationship, if it's early on he might just toss the plushies aside and get to the point of what he wants.

Later on I do think he genuinely listens, even if he's impatient and pretends like he doesn't care. If it's important to you he does care, just doesn't always show it.

Especially if you use the plushies as a form of comfort due to trauma or any other issues.

You won't even realize how much he paid attention until he refers to your plushies by their names if you accidentally leave them laying around.

However he does still get jealous so so easily so maybe try not to spend too much time at once focusing on them rather than him.

He tries so hard but eventually the jealousy will overtake him and he will just get straight to the sex.

For what it's worth, he still found you cute! He just can't help himself.

Beelzebub

I'm not gonna lie, you might be able to successfully distract him for a good bit.

Dude's invested in the names and lore and anything you have created for them!!! He likes hearing about it !!!!

He isn't gonna be able to remember every single bit of these details but he might remember some of it here and there. Either way he likes listening to how you talk about them!

That being said he can only sit still for so long so maybe introduce him a little at a time lmao.

Especially because once he DOES start to get distracted he's gonna remember the original reason he was here.

And well. Yeah just like that it's time to fuck!

Because you successfully distracted him for a bit you might be in store for an extra long session this time so! Good luck!

Lucifer

He listens fully. Wants to hear everything you have to say about them.

He finds the plushies super cute, so he enjoys listening to your ramblings, even if he had certain intentions when he arrived.

But most importantly, he's so endeared, you're so absolutely adorable to him. The way your face lights up when you talk about them, he can't get enough!!!!

So he lets you have your moment.

And when you're finally done is when he's actually gonna fuck you lol. Yeah, that was still happening he had a goal.

And if he's teasing you extra specially tonight, don't even worry about it (whether it be from compliments or degradation who's to say!! just know you're gonna be crying extra hard this time he's so worked up from how cute you are!).

Of course, he remembers every single detail you tell him, he has that shit committed to memory. Asks you questions sometimes to see that adorable look on your face again!

Belphegor

Goodnight.

He tries to pay attention but he's ready to fall asleep apologies.

He showed up for sex and when it wasn't happening his brain turned off.

That being said the second you realize he's asleep and start trying to wake him up he's on you!!

Like okay conversation done we're fucking now right?

It's just easier to give what he wants and lecture him in the process.

It's fine he tries to listen later. That being said if he invites Beleth to listen too don't worry about it. He totally didn't tell him to memorize details for him because he's probably gonna fall asleep again.

Asmodeus

Sorry there's just no way to distract this man from sex.

If he's showing up for sex he's here to for sex !!!!

And he WILL get it!!!

If anything he just starts fucking you while holding up the plushies to you and asking you details about them.

Unfortunately you're kinda too fucked out by that point to truly answer them.

He's a fucking menace apologies.

And he cannot be stopped I fear.

That being said any information he does manage to get out of you he does fully remember!!

It's his own weird way of showing affection, ya know?

[tom-foolery-incorporated]

Stumbled upon your blog, and Lord!! I was wanting to request slashers reactions to s/o squirting(I've recently become oddly interested in how each of them would react)

If you're uncomfortable with the concept please ignore!! Have a great day!

Oh I love some squirting!

NSFW MDNI 18+, gender neutral AFAB reader, racially ambiguous, Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers (any), Brahms Heelshire, Bo Sinclair, reader gets eaten out, overstimulation, lingerie, mild bdsm

Jason Voorhees

This man had already made you cum twice before he had his dick in you

The first time, he was fingering you on his lap and the second time he had you ride his face

Now he was deep inside your spent pussy, taking whatever he wanted

One hand stroking your cheek as you moan and whine his name while the other toyed with you clit

The whole time, Jason has maintained eye contact with you

His piercing gaze as he fucked into you like it would be the last time he had you beneath him made you absolutely lose yourself

You arched your back up from the mattress screaming his name

A jet of liquid splashed against his pelvis the entire time you came

Dripping down between your bodies and onto the sheets below

While Jason had stopped fucking his throbbing cock into you, he did rub your clit through the entirety of your squirting orgasm

The only time his eyes left your face was to watch the spray of fluid erupt from your pussy

He didn't know you could do that

And now that he did, he needed to have you do it again

Bo Sinclair

It was his goal the first time he got you under him

Fucks you senseless then has you ride him until you're crying from overstimulation

The sound of your sopping cunt plapping against his pelvis is music to his ears

He'll put you in every position known to man

Could probably add a couple chapter to the Kama Sutra with how he handles you

You always come out of his room wobbly and needing to sit on a donut pillow

Bo loves using toys on you just to see your reaction

Your pretty wrists bound to his headboard, vibrator on your clit, as he slowly pumps his cock into you

He's in no rush and just wants to watch his pretty little thing come undone for him

Bo places the vibrator onto the very tip of your clit making you scream out his name and sob from the intense pleasure

His thrusting picked up a bit excited to see how you reacted to the toy

Then you felt wetter

A lovely stream of squirt erupted from your pussy and onto his pelvis

Bo bit his lip holding back a low groan

Now he had you right where he wanted you

Michael Myers

You are pretty much his fleshlight

His main goal is to use your pretty little cunt as his own personal cum dump

If you get off on that then that's a happy accident on his part

Michael will pretty much take you anywhere at anytime

Your pussy is pretty much free real estate and Michael is ready to move in

Fat cock bullying your pussy open while he pushes you into a wall

He had already came in you once today, his previous load now getting fucked further into you

You were practically boneless and only being held up by Michael's hands on your hips and cock buried deep inside you

After he had made you cum this morning, you ended up playing with yourself a little bit using the cum he left in you

Your mind felt fuzzy and pink like you were sat in a cloud of pure bliss

You couldn't even be bothered with how your own squirt sprayed out of you and onto the floor in a puddle

But Michael noticed

And he knew that once he was finished in you he was going to make you lick your mess up off the floor

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms had you dressed up in some lacy white lingerie

Something you'd expect to hidden underneath a wedding dress as a surprise a bride had put on for the groom on the night of their wedding

He had pulled your garter off with his teeth and practically shoved his face into your pussy after

For a while he just laid between your legs mouthing at your clothed cunt and inhaling your scent

When Brahms wanted more, he practically ripped the panties off of you and dove into your cunt like a man starved

Sloppy and loud was the best way to describe it

But he made you cum anyway

Juices trailing down his chin being lapped up by his tongue

Again he needed just another taste

Then another

And another

His strong hands kept you legs pinned to the bed so you couldn't kick him away from your drooling pussy

Your orgasm felt like a kick to your stomach as juices erupted from your body

Brahms happily lapped up everything he could

Now he had to get you to do that again

[inseobts]

Bet

sabo x gn!reader

you meet your childhood rival and crush again after thinking you've lost him forever.

words count: 1.2k

tags: spoilers about sabo(?), rivalry, childhood crush, romance, humour, angst, gender neutral

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The wind rustles through the trees of Dawn Island, carrying the scent of salt and adventure. You stand at the edge of the forest, hands on your hips, glaring at Sabo. He glares right back, that infuriating smirk on his face.

“You’re gonna lose” he taunts, tossing an apple in the air and catching it effortlessly.

“Tch, in your dreams, rich boy” you snap, crouching into position. The goal is simple: first one to reach the river and back wins. But to you and Sabo, this is war.

Ace and Luffy sit on the sidelines, watching the two of you like a live-action play.

“Why do they always do this?” Luffy mumbles, stuffing his face with meat.

Ace snickers “Because they’re stupid kids. And because Sabo’s trying to impress y/n.”

Luffy tilts his head “I thought he hated them?”

Ace shakes his head “Nope. The other day he told me he’s gonna marry y/n one day.”

Luffy almost chokes “What?! But they’re always fighting! And where was I??”

Ace grins “You were sleeping like the baby you are. Anyway y/n has no idea, so it's a secret”

You, of course, don’t hear this conversation. All you hear is the count.

“Three… two… one—GO!”

You and Sabo take off, kicking up dirt. You’re fast, but he’s faster. He always is. It infuriates you. But you push yourself harder, determination burning in your chest. For a split second, you think you might actually win...

Then Sabo’s hand grips your wrist, yanking you back just enough for him to sprint ahead.

“YOU CHEATER!” you shriek.

“Work smarter, not harder!” he calls back, laughing.

He reaches the finish line first, arms raised in victory. You arrive seconds later, seething.

“You’re the worst” you growl.

Sabo winks “And yet, you keep challenging me.”

You huff, turning away. You’ll beat him next time.

Sabo is dead...

The words shatter something inside you. First, he went missing. Then he was gone. Just like that.

You sit on the shore, watching the waves crash against the rocks. You don’t cry, not in front of Ace and Luffy. But at night, when no one can hear, you let the tears fall.

He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to grow up with you, to keep annoying you, to keep winning. You were supposed to beat him at least once.

But now you never will.

So you make a decision. You can't lose another one of your friends, so you’ll fight for Luffy. You’ll help him reach his dream. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to at least try fill the hole in your heart.

The world shifts beneath your feet.

You stare, mouth slightly open, heart hammering against your ribs.

Sabo.

Alive.

He grins at Luffy, ruffling his hair, and your chest tightens. This isn’t real. It can’t be. But then his eyes find yours, and the grin falters.

“y/n…”

Your breath catches. He looks older, stronger, but those blue eyes are the same. And they’re looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You don’t think. You act.

With a sharp inhale, you march up to him and punch him square in the face.

Luffy cackles. Koala gasps. Sabo stumbles, rubbing his jaw “Ow. Okay. I deserved that.”

“You’re damn right you did!” you snap, fists clenched “You let us believe you were dead, you absolute asshole!”

He has the audacity to chuckle “Well, technically, I didn’t know I was alive, either.”

You glare “That’s not funny.”

His expression softens “No. It’s not.” He hesitates, then steps closer. “I… I missed you, y/n.”

You swallow hard “Yeah, well. You have a shitty way of showing it.”

Luffy slings an arm around both of you “This is great! Now we can all hang out again!”

Your eyes narrow “I don’t think I want to hang out with him.”

Sabo smirks “Holding a grudge? Come on, I thought you’d grow up by now.”

You scoff “Oh, please. I can still kick your ass.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow “Wanna bet?”

And just like that, it begins again.

It starts small.

An arm-wrestling match at the bar.

“You’ve got noodle arms, Sabo.”

He grins “And yet, I still win.”

A stupid dare.

“I dare you to flirt with the next person who walks in.”

You do. Sabo sulks the rest of the night.

And then the others get involved.

Koala, amused by the whole ordeal, makes a bet with Luffy “I say one of them confesses first.”

Luffy tilts his head “Confess what?”

Franky laughs “About their feelings”

Luffy’s eyes widen “Oh! Sabo’s gonna lose, then.”

Everyone stares.

“Wait” Nami leans in, hoping he knows something that can make her win that bet “why are you so sure?”

“Yeah,” Luffy shrugs “He’s been saying he’d marry y/n since we were kids.”

Silence.

Then, chaos.

You and Sabo, oblivious, continue your stupid challenges. But now, the crew is watching closely, waiting for one of you to slip.

And maybe, just maybe, one of you will.

Sabo leans against the railing of the Sunny, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips “Admit it, y/n. You can’t win anything against me.”

You scoff, tightening your grip on the barrel of sake in front of you “You wish, rich boy” you glare at him, cheeks already warm from the last round “Next bet.”

The crew has gathered around, eagerly watching as you and Sabo go head-to-head once again. This time, it’s a drinking contest, and things are getting interesting.

Luffy, sitting cross-legged beside Franky, grins “Sabo’s totally gonna lose.”

Nami chuckles, taking a sip of her own drink “You think so?”

“He might win the challanges buy he always loses when it comes to y/n, I don't think that changed” Luffy says casually.

Robin smirks “You mean when it comes to his feelings?”

Luffy tilts his head. The crew groans.

Meanwhile, you slam your cup down, staring Sabo dead in the eye. “Still standing.”

He raises an eyebrow “Barely.”

You roll your eyes and gesture toward him “Your turn, hotshot.”

Sabo picks up his drink, but instead of drinking it right away, he grins “Let’s raise the stakes.”

You narrow your eyes “I’m listening.”

“If I win, you do whatever I say for a day.”

You scoff “Please. And if I win?”

His smirk falters for a split second before he recovers “Same deal. I’m yours for a day.”

The crew collectively gasps.

Zoro chokes on his drink. Sanji drops his cigarette. Nami leans forward in delight.

You blink, caught off guard. But then your competitive nature kicks in, and you smirk “Fine. You’re on.”

You both down your drinks at the same time, and for a while, the match is even. But then you see it, Sabo’s fingers tighten around the glass. His eyelids droop for a second too long.

He’s reaching his limit.

You grin triumphantly “You can't win this one, I've trained with Zoro for years... And looks like you’re about to pass out, rich boy.”

Zoro, now at your side smirks.

Sabo felt a feeling of jealousy but he tries his best to stay composed and chuckles, setting his cup down “Nah. Just taking my time.”

But Koala, standing off to the side, shakes her head “He’s done.”

Sabo groans “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

The crew erupts into cheers as you throw your arms in the air “Ha! Suck it, Sabo!”

Sabo sighs, rubbing his temples “Alright, alright. A bet’s a bet. What’s your request, oh mighty victor?”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. Then, with a mischievous grin, you say, “You have to compliment me every time you speak to me tomorrow.”

The crew howls with laughter.

Sabo groans “You’re evil.”

“You love it” you tease.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, and for a split second, you swear his smirk softens.

“Maybe” he murmurs, too quiet for you to catch.

The next morning, you wake up to the best sound in the world... Sabo suffering.

“Good morning, Sabo!” you chirp, stretching.

He groans from where he’s sitting, nursing a cup of coffee “Good morning, y/n… my shining spirit of the seas.”

Luffy bursts out laughing “You sound so weird.”

Sabo sighs “I hate this already.”

“Oh, come on,” you say, grinning “That’s not very enthusiastic.”

Sabo pinches the bridge of his nose “You’re breathtakingly annoying.”

Nami snickers “That counts.”

All day, Sabo follows through with his punishment.

“Wow, y/n, your swordsmanship is as graceful as a swan in flight.”

“You’re incredibly skilled at eating three plates of food in record time.”

“I have never met someone as stubbornly determined to make my life miserable as you, and it’s truly awe-inspiring.”

By the time the sun begins to set, he’s exhausted. You, on the other hand, are having the time of your life.

“Admit it” you tease, nudging his shoulder “You’re enjoying this.”

Sabo rolls his eyes, but his smirk is back “You’re impossible.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

But before he can respond, Sanji appears with drinks, and the moment passes.

The crew finally make the bet official: who will confess first?

Koala places her money on Sabo “He’s been head over heels since they were kids.”

Zoro shrugs “y/n’s just as bad.”

Luffy, grinning, throws in his input “But I told you that Sabo already kinda confessed years ago! When we were little, he told Ace who told me that one day, he’ll give y/n their favourite candy ring and make them his spouse!”

Meanwhile, you and Sabo continue your rivalry, completely unaware of how obvious your feelings have become.

But one of you is bound to crack first.

And when that happens?

Well.

The real fun begins.

The next few days on the Sunny are torture.

Things between you have shifted. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the way his gaze lingers on you a little too long, the way your heartbeat picks up whenever he’s near. And, of course, the infuriating way your crewmates won’t stop watching, waiting for one of you to slip.

Sabo, to his credit, acts like everything is normal. You? Not so much.

“Oi, y/n, you okay?” Zoro asks one afternoon, watching you repeatedly stab a piece of meat with your fork.

You blink “Huh? Yeah. Why?”

“You’re massacring your food,” he deadpans.

Sanji, setting down a fresh plate, grins “they’re just distracted. I wonder why~”

You shoot him a glare “Shut up.”

The cook winks “Don’t worry, my beauty, I support you.”

You groan, dropping your fork. Across the deck, Sabo is laughing at something Koala said, and you swear she catches your eye on purpose before smirking.

This is a nightmare.

“Alright, it’s time.”

Nami’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. She and Robin sit around a small pile of gold, each with amused smirks.

“Time for what?” you ask warily.

Koala arrives and grins putting some gold as the others, “Final bets.”

Luffy perks up “Oh! We’re picking who confesses first!”

You freeze “Excuse me?”

Robin chuckles “Come now, y/n. Surely you’ve noticed.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny it, but then Zoro speaks.

“You like him.”

Sanji nods “And he likes you.”

Franky grins “It’s so obvious!”

You sputter “I—what?! No, he doesn’t!”

Nami raises an eyebrow “Luffy literally told us Sabo planned to marry you.”

Your face burns “Luffy told me after we thought Sabo died, but that was years ago! We were kids!”

Brook chuckles “Love has a funny way of surviving, even through death.”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

Even through death.

For a moment, you say nothing. The memory of seeing his boat burn, of grief so deep it drowned you, flashes through your mind. The nights spent staring at the sea, whispering his name into the void. The years spent forcing yourself to move forward, never allowing yourself to dwell on what could have been.

But now, he’s here. Alive. And the feelings you buried long ago are clawing their way back to the surface.

“…I need some air.”

Without another word, you turn and leave.

You don’t realize Sabo follows you until you hear his voice.

“Running away from a challenge? That’s not like you.”

You sigh, not turning around “Not now, Sabo.”

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps closer, leaning against the railing beside you “Alright. Then let’s not talk about their bet.”

Silence stretches between you. The ocean glows under the moonlight, waves lapping softly against the Sunny’s hull.

Finally, you break the silence.

“I thought you were dead.”

Sabo stiffens. You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on the horizon.

“For years,” you continue, voice steady but heavy, “I had to live with the idea that you were gone. That I would never see you again. And it hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you keep going.

“Do you know what that kind of pain feels like?” you whisper “To lose someone without a body to bury? To stay up at night, wondering if maybe, just maybe, for some miracle, they survived, but knowing you're just to yourself about it?”

Sabo’s hands tighten into fists “…I do.”

That makes you finally look at him. His face is shadowed, but his expression is raw “I didn’t remember my past before the Revolutionaries,” he admits “Not until I saw what happened to Ace. And when the memories came back…” He swallows “I realised many things. I realised I couldn’t save Ace, that I couldn’t help you and Luffy… that I had left you behind.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t have an excuse,” he says “But I know this... When I got my memories back I realised that I missed you like crazy, y/n. More than I can ever put into words.”

His voice shakes, and suddenly, the air between you feels different. He isn’t teasing, isn’t smirking... he’s serious.

You take a slow step forward “Then why didn’t you say anything? From the start, you acted like nothing happened.”

Sabo meets your gaze “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Your heart clenches “That’s stupid.”

He laughs, but it’s soft, almost sad “Maybe.”

You exhale sharply “You should have told me.”

“I know.”

“I hated you”

“I don’t blame you.”

You take another step “But I also...” You hesitate, then shake your head “Dammit, Sabo.”

He smiles faintly “That’s my name.”

And suddenly, you’re done. Done with the games, the teasing, the bets.

You grab his collar and yank him down, pressing your lips against his.

Sabo freezes.

For a moment, everything is still. Then, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and he’s kissing you back, desperate, relieved, alive.

When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his. “You’re mine now, rich boy” you murmur.

He grins “And you’re mine. I've dreamed about this since we were kids”

"Oh I know... I want that candy ring one day"

"OMG WHO TOLD YOU?!"

"Ace told Luffy and Luffy told me... but to his defense he just wanted to make me feel better"

A loud whoop makes you both jump.

You whip around to find the entire crew watching from the deck.

Luffy, grinning like an idiot, throws his fists in the air “I WIN THE BET?”

Sabo groans “Of course they were watching.”

You bury your face in your hands “I hate all of you.”

Koala winks “No, you don’t.”

Luffy bounces excitedly “Hey! Does this mean Sabo’s finally gonna marry you?”

“LUFFY YOU TOLD THEM! YOU CAN'T KEEP A SECRET”

The crew erupts into laughter, and as embarrassing as it is, you can’t help but smile.

Because for the first time in years, your heart doesn’t ache.

Sabo is here.

And this time, he’s not leaving.

[noira-l]

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: You were a prodigy, destined for greatness, until one mistake cost you everything- your powers, your legacy, and your father’s pride. Now, powerless and adrift, you wait for your father's decision on your fate, unsure if you’ll face exile, servitude, or something worse. A shadow of who you once were, you push everyone away, drowning in the weight of your own failure. Then there’s Gojo Satoru. Your rival, your tormentor, and the last person you expect to care about your fall. But instead of mockery, his gaze carries something else - something you can’t bring yourself to believe.

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 — teen!gojo satoru x f!reader

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜 — mdni, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, prodigy!reader, reader is from clan, rivals with benefits, mention of sexual intercourse, hate sex, depiction of complicated relationship, loss of technique, hurt, mourning (pain, grief, regret), depression, self-doubt, changing body, depiction of loneliness, reader pushes everyone away, jjk clans are shit, family abuse, long term manipulation, smoking, drowning, failed attempt of self-destruction (gojo saves reader), reader goes no contact, reader becomes maiko/geiko later on.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 — 11 k

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 — this is the longest list of warnings I have ever written, congrats to me (kidding). I don't know if anyone will like it. I know it's dark, very unhealthy and absolutely depressing. It's not good, and I don't recommend anyone to act in the way depicted in this fic. It is possible that I will remove it in the future. If you are struggling with such issues, I would highly encourage you to talk to someone you trust about it. However, I want to thank everyone who chooses to read this.

𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

It really wasn't difficult to avoid.

You could've waited literally two seconds.

You could've let the assistant check the area as he should after the mission.

You could've not searched the area yourself.

You could've notified the assistant that you had found a cursed object, in the shrine debris.

You could've waited for the assistant to come up to check with you.

You could've not approached the cursed object.

You could've not picked it up. You could've been smarter.

Maybe if you were - you would still have your powers.

Your technique had been everything they claimed it to be. Rare, devastating, invaluable. It wasn’t just a skill - it was a mark of distinction, the proof of your place in a centuries-old legacy. The elders whispered of its rarity, marveling at the precision and control with which you teach yourself to wielded it.

They called you a prodigy, the one destined to elevate the clan to greater heights.

The weight of those expectations had always been crushing, but you bore it with a silent, unyielding resolve. You had to. You had no choice.

But there was another side to this. You wanted to bore it. You wanted to shush all the gossip, all the rumours that might suggest that you can't do something. Besides you found yourself enjoying this kind of powers

The whispers about your gender - about how being a woman might complicate your ability to lead, to fulfill the role they expected of you - only hardened your resolve.

You would prove them wrong, all of them, you told yourself.

But you also wanted your father's approval.

Your father was the only thing close to you. Your mother died in childbirth or left with a lover, you never knew which version was the truth. As a child, you never thought about it, the truth is, everyone around you only mentioned your father, how you should be his pride, his tribute and how you should do everything to make him feel content about you.

This propaganda worked.

And this mindset became an integral part of you.

His approval wasn’t just your goal - it was your oxygen, your sustenance. His rare moments of pride were your reward, and his disappointment - your greatest fear.

You could hear his voice in your mind, the way it would brighten ever so slightly when you succeeded "Good. This is good. Keep this up." those words had kept you going through grueling hours of training, through sleepless nights spent honing your skills to perfection. The bruises, the pain, the exhaustion - they were nothing compared to the glow of his approval, the fleeting light that told you you were enough, if only for a moment.

But his eyes also dulled with such terrifying speed when you stumbled, even slightly. A poorly executed maneuver, a delay in judgment during a sparring session, a lapse in control, all of it was met with silence, with the cold weight of his disappointment pressing down on you like a vice. It was in those moments that you became acutely aware of your imperfection, of how fragile his pride in you truly was.

This however had shaped you into a perfectionist, a creature of cold calculation.

Training became part of your life, your identity. You lived for the applause of the elders, for the murmured praise of the clan, but above all, for the fleeting flicker of pride in your father’s eyes.

He had once told you, long ago, when you were too young to fully understand his words, that you were his gift "Special, rare." he had said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it since "A gift I received at your birth."

You had clung to those words, replaying them in your mind whenever the pressure became unbearable. They were your anchor, your proof that you mattered, that you were loved - not as a daughter, perhaps, but as something far more valuable, something exceptional.

But in a perspective - you weren't the only exceptional thing in this world.

Even before you understood what rivalry meant, you had been told, over and over, how your birth ranked second in significance.

The second most talked thing.

The first? Him.

You had grown up under the long shadow of a name: Gojo Satoru.

A boy born with unparalleled power, eyes as vivid as the summer sky, whos very existence shaked the foundations of the jujutsu world. While your family whispered of your technique with cautious pride, his family declared him the strongest before he could even speak.

Comparison was inevitable. You were prodigies, both of you, but where your brilliance was honed through discipline, his was uncontainable, raw, and overwhelming. You were rare - he was the one.

You still remembered the first time you saw him. You couldn’t have been more than six, dressed in formal robes too heavy for your small frame, the silk scratchy against soft skin. The clan meeting was dull, filled with stiff adults exchanging words that meant nothing to you. But then, in the corner of the room, you felt a presence - bright, piercing, impossible to ignore.

When you turned, his eyes met yours.

Wide, unblinking, and startlingly blue, they stared at you like they could see through your skin, through your bones, through everything that made you, you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile or nod - just stared, like he was trying to decide if you were worth noticing at all.

Even then, something about him annoyed you.

As you grew older, the comparisons became sharper, louder. Clan sparring matches became a regular event, a spectacle for the elders to evaluate their bloodlines. You, Gojo, Kamo, that Zen’in heir, and a handful of others were pitted against one another under the guise of "training." But you all knew the truth. It was a game of dominance, of proving which clan held the strongest future.

Gojo made it a point to be insufferable.

"Chicken fights." he had once sneered, grinning as he sat perched on a rock like a king addressing his subjects. You had just beaten one of the Zen’in cousins, a victory that had left your father smiling faintly in the audience. But Gojo’s voice cut through the cheers "That’s all this is. You flap your wings, you strut around, but it doesn’t matter. None of you will ever beat me."

The others ignored him, too smart - or too scared - to engage. But not you.

"I’d rather be a chicken than a brat with a big mouth." you’d shot back, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

His grin widened, and for a moment, you thought he might actually take you seriously. But then he laughed - a loud, obnoxious sound that echoed through the sparring grounds "Cute." he said, hopping off his perch and walking past you like you weren’t even worth his time "Let me know when you’re ready to play with the big kids."

Now, years later, the rivalry had followed you into Jujutsu High, where it seemed impossible to escape him. The same classes, the same missions, the same suffocating aura of superiority that surrounded him wherever he went.

He was a little different. Not in the way you’d imagined someone "different" might be - quiet, mysterious, unassuming. No, he was loud, arrogant, and so assured in his strength that it bordered on unbearable.

The fire you’d felt as a child, that relentless desire to outdo him, to prove yourself, had cooled over the years. But it hadn’t gone out. Instead, it had transformed into something sharper, something a little colder - a blade honed not just to cut him down but to carve out your own space in a world that refused to see you as anything more than a shadow cast by his brilliance. It wasn’t just about beating him anymore. It was about standing on equal ground, forcing him - and everyone else - to recognize you as something other than second best.

You tried to take it slow, to ingore him.

Gojo didn’t make it easy.

He had a way of getting under your skin that no one else could. Just a glance from him could set your teeth on edge, that wide, knowing smirk playing on his lips like he was already ten steps ahead of you. He mocked you constantly, his words sharp and teasing, always laced with that infuriating arrogance that only he could pull off.

Every encounter was a contest, every conversation a challenge, every moment spent in his presence a battle for dominance.

You danced around each other endlessly, an intricate, unspoken rhythm that neither of you could break. One moment, he’d set the direction, leading with a cocky ease that seemed unshakable - the next, you’d outpace him, forcing him to catch up, to adjust to your steps.

The dance extended into every aspect of your lives. Missions became opportunities to one-up each other, to prove who was faster, sharper, more capable. Training sessions were wars of endurance, each of you pushing harder, refusing to yield until exhaustion forced a truce. Even on days off, when most people would relax or recover, you found ways to compete - whether it was sparring, aruging or something as mundane as seeing who could stack the most chairs before they toppled over.

His attention was relentless, his focus always sharp and unyielding. He discounted you with every other word, mocking your efforts, analyzing your achievements as if he were the ultimate judge of your worth. His words - arrogant and biting - were no better.

"Trying to catch up to me again? Good luck with that, shortcake."

"Don’t trip over your own shadow while you’re chasing me."

"Nice job today, small fry. Almost makes me feel like you’re worth competing with."

Each message was a spark, igniting the fire that drove you to prove him wrong, to show him - and yourself - that you were more than capable of matching him. To the point of beating him.

Neither of you ever held the upper hand for long - one day his victory, the next yours. The score didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that the fire between you never burned out, keeping you locked in this endless, maddening dance.

And maddening was pace of his hips that were thrusting into you every other day. The old floor, even with a layer of training mat, would creak under his powerful movements.

Both of you decided after some time that your dispute had to be settled by other means, so you challenged each other to a duel where there were no rules and all moves were allowed. It usually ended with the two of you meeting in the old training room after class, to resolve a conflict you were currently having. The winner was the one who first knocked his opponent finally to the ground.

Differently these encounters ended, sometimes he was the unbeatable winner, pounding you into the floor, bending you at every possible angle, whispering sweet nothingess and words of mocking encouragement to your ear, making tears drip down your flushed cheeks. Sometimes it was you who won, pinning him to the floor, bouncing off his hips in a frenzy, one in which you commented on how loud he was, how crying and pathetic he looked - words that were meant to degrade him, were just making his glimmering eyes roll back. Eyebrows raised and stupid handsome face twisted in a sigh so beautful that you would end up with the lost of insults after a while.

He won last week. Your asscheeks painfully pounded into the mat material, as your hands clasped tightly on his shoulders, creating scars that were meant to affect him, but only seemed to make him whine even more. Laughing breathlessly at your attempts to hurt him, as if he wasn't the one leaving rudely visible red marks on your neck that poke through uniform.

He'll probably laugh about winning his final match, too.

Because there will never be any again.

Everyone tried everything to undo the effects of what had happened - to remove the curse. When this proved impossible by the specifications of the object you touched, which could be called a trap, they at least tried to restore the flow of your cursed energy. This, too, proved to be a failure.

You’d told yourself, at first, that it must be temporary. That the connection to your technique would return, that this was just a setback. It had to be. Something so integral to your being couldn’t just vanish - it was part of you, wasn’t it?

That was you, right?

But each attempt proved fruitless. Every meditation session, every exercise, every attempt to summon even the faintest flicker of cursed energy - it all ended the same way: in silence, in emptiness.

The denial fueled your determination, pushing you into training sessions that bordered on self-destruction. You traded your technique for raw physicality, throwing punches at the training dummy until your fists bled, the skin splitting open as you struck again and again. And again. Sweat soaked through your clothes, mingling with tears you refused to acknowledge as they streamed down your face.

You screamed, raw and guttural, into the empty training field, but the sound brought no release, only exhaustion. You never shouted like that, never cried like when you fell on the ground and realised it was all pointless.

One conclusion came from your attempts.

You had been crippled.

"Maybe if I had a son, he wouldn't have made such a foolish mistake." the words clung to you, searing through the phone’s receiver like acid. Your father’s voice, sharp and cold, cut through the fragile thread of composure you had been holding onto. The regret, the disappointment, and - worst of all - the indifference. He didn’t even sound angry, just tired. Tired of you.

Your throat burned.

"Father, please..." but you didn’t know what you were asking for -mercy, understanding, or perhaps the impossible: forgiveness.

"You've squandered everything." his voice was steady, unaffected "Centuries of legacy, your birthright, your technique - gone. Do you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done?"

Do you? You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. Your thoughts swirled into a vortex of self-loathing, replaying the moment over and over again.

"We'll talk later when I decide what to do with you." and just like that he hung up.

That was it. No comfort. No acknowledgment of the years you’d given, the sacrifices you’d made, or the countless moments you’d bled and bruised yourself into perfection. The line had gone dead with a finality that echoed through your chest like a hammer strike. His voice - so cold, so detached - ingered in your mind, cutting deeper than any curse could.

You set the phone down on the desk, your hand trembling slightly as you withdrew from it, as though it might burn you if you held on any longer. The chair creaked faintly beneath you as you sat motionless, staring at the wall opposite you.

You wanted to apologise to him, to beg his forgiveness for your mistake, for your stupidity, you wanted to cry on his shoulder, to apologise - again - that you had let him down. But he just wasn't interested. He was no longer interested in your perspective.

You, simply didn't interest him.

That room was dim, the shadows thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint glow of a single overhead light. It wasn’t enough to fully illuminate the faces of the elders who stood before you, their disapproval palpable, their voices sharp and cutting as they dissected your situation. Each word they spoke dug into your chest, stripping away what little pride you had left.

You were stripped off the title of a prodigy.

They called you a dissapointment now.

You became an example.

A cautionary tale.

The damage has already been done.

People tried to reach you. Geto, Shoko, Nanami - even Yaga made an effort to draw you out of your spiral. But their words felt hollow, meaningless. What could they possibly say that would fix what had been broken? They didn’t understand. How could they? They still had their power, their purpose, their place in this world. You didn’t.

He was on mission overseas, so maybe the information about your state didn't quite reach him yet. Not that you cared if he made contact.

He would probably just laugh at you anyway.

Of all these people Geto, had tried the hardest, his presence quiet but persistent. He tried to be there for you. But there was no you inside.

He’d sat beside one day, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. His touch, once an unremarkable soft gesture, now felt heavy - too heavy. You realized then just how much strength he had, how much stronger he’d become while you had only weakened. His grip, once equal to yours, now dwarfed it.

"You’re still here." he’d said softly, his voice careful, measured "That matters the most."

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, but they couldn’t penetrate the hollow void inside you. Instead, you’d turned away, muttering some excuse to just leave.

You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t want anyone’s.

You didn't believe that anything else mattered to anyone except your gift. Not after everything that happends.

So you let yourself sink in that conviction.

Your own reflection became that a stranger. Each glance in the mirror revealed another part of yourself fading away. Your muscles, once taut and defined from years of rigorous training, softened, weakened. Your face, once bright with determination and pride, dulled, the light in your eyes all but extinguished. Even your posture changed, slouching under the weight of your defeat.

You avoided mirrors after that. It was easier not to look at yourself, not to see the person you’d become.

The thought of him haunted you. He was the only person who had not yet spoken about your situation. You could almost hear the laughter that would spill from his lips when he found out.

He’d won, hadn’t he? He will be happy that you lost.

Not through a sparring match or a test of strength, but through your own stupidity. He wouldn’t even need to lift a finger - your downfall was self-inflicted. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He’d probably make a joke of it, something biting and sharp, something that would leave you hollowed out even further. The idea of facing him, of hearing his voice, made your stomach twist - but you kinda wanted him to say somthing to you.

Although you were sure what his reaction would be.

By early autumn you became a ghost of the person you’d once been, a shell going through the motions. The world felt distant, muted, as though you were walking through a haze. The wind carried the crisp scent of leaves, the air beacme sharp enough to sting your lungs as you exhaled. Your student status was taken away by higher-ups, they decided that sending you on a mission was pointless. Just like you. The peak of your skill now was ability to see a curse, not to fight one.

You could do whatever you wanted, so you went to all sorts of faraway places.

You’d grown used to the isolation. It was easier not to see anyone, not to hear the pity in their voices or feel their lingering stares. Geto had tried, tried and tried. Staying with you whenever he could, but even his presence, as steady and grounding as it was, felt too heavy. He tried talking to you, but your mind seemed closed to his willingness to help and his affectionate tone. You weren't a person who knew how to accept help from others, no one ever taught you that. Even if you appreciated it, you didn't know how to show it. And the truth was - you couldn’t bear the weight of his concern, couldn’t summon the energy to reassure anyone that you were fine.

Because you weren’t fine. You were no longer yourself.

That was the only thing that had mattered.

You wanted to disappear into the nothingness that seemed to have taken root inside you. You wanted to stop existing in a world where you no longer had a place, where the purpose that had defined you all your life was gone.

But instead, you thought. And thought. Alone, in the dark, your mind was a relentless spiral, turning over every moment, every decision that had brought you to this point.

You never really faced your fears before, you realized.

This and many other thoughts stirred in your head like a swirl, twisting your perception of reality.

You were walking through the school gates, the crisp golden leaves crunching under your boots. The sun hung low in the sky, its light casting long shadows across the pavement.

You really didn’t expect to see him.

He was back.

Snow-white hair catching the sunlight, posture impossibly relaxed, as if the weight of the world didn’t touch him. He walked with that characteristic ease, the kind that could embarrass a hundred men without effort. His phone was pressed to his ear, and you could hear his laughter even from a distance - light, careless, the kind of laugh that had always annoyed you.

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t notice you. Of course - why would he? You didn’t even have the faintest trace of cursed energy anymore. You were just a random person, a shadow of who you’d once been, just a presence walking aimlessly on a pleasant autumn afternoon.

You kept your hands buried in your pockets, eyes fixed on the path ahead, determined to pass him without incident. Without one stupid comment. Without one look into that judging eyes.

You realized you weren't ready to face him. A whole range of emotions came up in you: anger, anticipation, sadness, wanting, resignation, longing, but most of all - shame.

But then his gaze fell on you.

You could feel it before you even looked up, the weight of his attention, sharp and unmissable. His eyes flicked over you once, casual and dismissive, but then he froze. Head snapped back in your direction, and the expression on his face shifted so quickly it almost startled you. Satisfaction melted into pure, unfiltered shock.

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t have the strength to deal with him, with his taunts, his smirks, his cutting words, his blue eyes. Not now. Not ever. You moved past him without a word, steps steady and deliberate, though your heart pounded in your chest so much.

You will let him enjoy his win in your silence.

"Oi!" his voice cut through the air, sharp, insistent "Stop you - Wait!"

You didn’t turn around. In fact you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you reached into pocket, pulling out the battered pack of cigarettes Shoko had handed you weeks ago. You lit one with a shaky hand, the ember flaring briefly before the smoke curled into the air. You inhaled deeply, the bitter taste grounding you as you kept walking.

Gojo stood frozen, watching you disappear down the path. He tried calling after you couple of times, louder each time. But he didn't run after you. Six Eyes scanned your silhouette with dangerous precision, noticing every small detail that had changed. The slump in your shoulders, the sharpness of your cheekbones, the dullness in your eyes. The lack of a slightest trace of cursed energy.

What the hell happend to you?

He hadn’t seen you in weeks, but the person walking away from him now was unrecognizable.

You weren’t just tired. You weren't yourself.

You came back hours later to pack your belongings.

The weight of tomorrow hung heavy in your chest, suffocating and inescapable. Your father’s decision loomed over you, its implications gnawing at your already fragile sense of self.

You decided to take a walk, one last time over the terrain you knew and loved so well.

You didn’t want to think about what he might have planned for you. You didn’t want to imagine the hollow life that awaited you, stripped of your identity and power. But the thoughts were relentless, swirling in your mind as you walked, each step taking you farther from the dormitory and deeper into the forest.

Would he make you a servant? Marry you off to someone important, someone who could salvage what little value you had left? Would he exile you to the far corners of the clan, where you would live out your days in quiet obscurity?

The possibilities churned in your mind, each one heavier than the last.

For weeks, you’d been coming here, searching for something in that reflection. Searching for the person you used to be, the prodigy who had stood tall and proud, who had been her father’s pride and her clan’s future. But all you found was a ghost, a shadow of what you once were.

The night was quiet, perfect for the last one here, the air heavy with the crisp scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. A pale moon hung in the sky, its light casting silvery ripples over the world, softening the edges of reality.

You crouched down, as you approached the edge of the water. Your hands brushing against the damp grass, and stared into the lake’s surface. For a moment, the sight of your reflection startled you, as it always did now.

You closed your eyes, for a brief moment, the quiet of the forest enveloping you. A faint rustle of leaves, the distant call of nightlife and the soft lapping of water against the shore - it was all so achingly peaceful. And yet, it offered no comfort.

The lake held no answers, no revelations. Just the same distorted reflection, the same fractured image of yourself.

The reflection there was faint, distorted, but still recognizable. You could make out the curve of your jaw, the hollowness of your cheeks, the dim light in your eyes that once burned so brightly. You stared at yourself, unblinking, searching for the person you had been.

But you were gone.

...

What is the point of all this?

The question came unbidden, as it had so many times before. It's not like you're usefull to anyone. Your whole life has been based on being a sorcerer, the next clan head also, but not being just a human. You don't know how to live a normal life - you don't know if you even want to live one.

You thought about the weight of your father’s expectations, the years you had spent chasing his approval. You thought about the countless hours of training, the bruises, the exhaustion, the fleeting moments of pride that had kept you going. And you thought about the emptiness you felt now, the void left behind by the loss of your technique.

It's all been bringing you to one conclusion for some time: you are nothing without your technique.

This is a painful truth that you had to accept some time ago.

You had the feeling that the water was looking at you - offering a hideout.

You moved, taking one hesitant step forward.

It won't be that bad, right? Everything is better than facing the consequences of your own stupidity.

Another step joined the previous one, your feet touching the cold surface. The smell of wet grass and vegetation wafted through the air.

You’d left everything behind on the shore. Your jacket, hoodie, and shoes - they lay in a silent heap, abandoned like everything else in your life. You won't need them anymore.

The water was cold. Icy. It cut through your skin like shards of glass, wrapping around you with an unforgiving grip as you plunged deeper and deeper into the darkness. The shock of it made your muscles tighten, but you didn’t fight it - not at first. You let the weight of the water pull you down, let the emptiness consume you.

Everything was dark, impossibly so, swallowing everything in its depths. You couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything but the cold pressure against your skin and the burning in your chest as your lungs screamed for air. You let yourself sink further, closing your eyes against the suffocating blackness.

And yet, your mind wouldn’t still.

Thoughts came rushing in, unbidden, like a flood breaking through a dam. Every memory, every failure, every moment of doubt and despair surged to the forefront. The weight of it all pressed down on you, heavier than the water, dragging you deeper into the abyss.

You had thought this might be the solution. The way out. An escape from the suffocating spiral of your existence. But as the air in your lungs ran out and your body began to betray you, survival instinct kicking in, you realized there was no escape. Not from the memories, not from the pain, not from yourself.

Your limbs flailed, your arms slicing through the water as you tried to fight against the primal urge to breathe. Your body betrayed you, forcing you to the surface even as your mind screamed to let go, to give in.

Just a little bit.

But it was too late. The water felt thick, heavy, an impossible barrier keeping you from the surface. Your lungs heaved, desperate for air, but all they found was water. Cold, bitter, unrelenting water that filled your chest and drowned your last desperate gasp for life.

The memories came in flashes, fragments of a life that now seemed so far away. The pride in your father’s eyes the first time you mastered your technique. The sound ofm Geto’s gentle laugh on a quiet afternoon. Shoko’s quiet. The way Gojo’s voice had always irritated you, his smirk a constant thorn in your side.

They all felt so distant now, like they belonged to someone else. Someone who wasn’t a failure. Someone who still mattered.

And then there was the weight of the other memories - the shame, the disappointment, the voices of the elders as they condemned you. The coldness in your father’s tone when he told you he’d decide what to do with you. The emptiness that had consumed you in the weeks since.

You felt your body shutting down, your vision darkening as the water enveloped you. Your limbs grew heavy, your mind hazy. The struggle became a distant thing, like a flickering light fading out.

And yet, in those final moments, as the water pulled you under completely, one thought rose above all the others, sharp and unrelenting:

You are a failure.

Gasp.

The world returned to you in gasps and violent coughs, water pouring from your lungs as your chest heaved painfully. Your body felt like it had been ripped apart, the freezing cold of the lake still clinging to your skin, but the sharp sensation of something - someone - holding you brought clarity in a rush.

You blinked against the blurriness in your vision, barely able to make out the figure above you. His white hair was plastered to his forehead, the sharp strands dulled and dripping, and his electric blue eyes were wide, filled with a mix of fury, fear, and something raw. His hands trembled as they held you, but his grip was firm, refusing to let go.

Him.

You coughed again, turning your head as water spilled out of your mouth, your chest burning with each labored breath. Reality slammed into you like a punch: you were on the shore, cold earth pressing against your back, and he was the reason you were still here.

"No." you croaked, the word scraping against your throat like sandpaper. Panic surged through you, body reacting before mind could catch up. You twisted violently, shoving against him with what little strength you had left, trying to escape the strong grasp. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be saved.

He didn’t let go.

"Stop." he growled, his voice low and strained. It wasn’t the teasing, mocking tone you were used to. This was different. Commanding, almost desperate.

"Let go of me!" you shouted, your voice cracking as you thrashed against him, the fight in you born not of strength but of pure, unrelenting despair "Let me go, Gojo!"

"No." his grip tightened, his hands locking around your wrists as you tried to claw at him. You jerked and struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger, and even without your powers, you were nothing compared to him. The realization hit you like a dagger to the chest, sharp and agonizing. You couldn’t even free yourself. You couldn’t do anything.

"Stop it" he snapped, voice cutting through the chaos as he pinned your wrists to the ground, forcing you still. His weight loomed over you, his breath ragged and uneven as he glared down at you, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn’t meet.

You froze, your body trembling beneath him, the fight draining out of you as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. The only sounds were the quiet lapping of the lake’s waves and the harsh breaths between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. His chest rose and fell rapidly, droplets of water sliding down his face, hair wet. His grip on your wrists loosened slightly, though he didn’t let go.

"What are you doing? What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice rough and low, each word laced with something you couldn’t quite place. Anger? Fear? Pain?

You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze "You shouldn’t have stopped me."

His grip tightened again, his fingers trembling as they pressed against your skin "Stop you -" he cut himself off, his jaw clenching tightly as he took a shuddering breath "You’re such an idiot."

You wanted to scream at him, to shove him away, to make him understand that there was nothing left of you worth saving. To let you go and withered. But the words caught in your throat, tangled with the grief, anger and despair that had been building inside you for so long.

"What are you doing here? You've been following me?" your voice sharp despite the hoarseness from the water you’d just coughed up. You glared at him, still pinned beneath his weight, wrists trapped in his hands.

Gojo’s expression flickered between irritation and something you couldn’t quite place - concern? No, that wasn’t possible. He raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with his usual brand of mockery "No. Better -what were you doing here?"

You turned your face away, refusing to answer. The moonlight glinted off the water, its calm surface a contrast to the chaos swirling inside you. You could feel his eyes boring into you, Six Eyes missing nothing.

It didn’t take long for him to piece it together.

His grip on your wrists tightened, just slightly "You should have known better." he said, his tone shifting, lower now, more serious "With all that negative energy bottled up, you could’ve attracted a curse."

You snorted bitterly, the sound harsh and raw "As if I’m not already a curse."

His lips turned into a thin line, glimmering eyes narrowing as he leaned closer "Don’t say stupid things." what you said wasn't stupid, he was stupid for coming here and saving you.

"You are stupid for saving me." the words burst out of you, cracking, unrestrained.

The admission hung in the air, raw and cutting, and you hated how much it revealed. You hated how much he could see now. You felt as if he had caught you on something. Not only at this desperate attempt to avoid your fate, but also at being vulnerable. His face was so close now that you could see every drop of water clinging to his white long lashes, you could also feel the intensity radiating from him like a physical force.

"I told you not to say stupid stuff." he said, his voice low and biting, each word hitting like a hammer "You’re dumb enough as it is."

You wanted him to leave you alone.

You growled in frustration, your movements wild and erratic as you struggled against his grip, you tried to kick him, but to no avail "Let go of me, you asshole!"

"No." his response was immediate, tone resolute.

Can he listen to you for once?

"Fuck you!" you hissed.

"You already did!" he barked, his voice cracking through the tension like lightning.

You froze, the retort you’d been about to throw back dying on your tongue. That was an answer you didn't expected. It made you pause. Well...

Gojo sighed, a sound of exasperation tinged with something softer, something almost like… care "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?" he muttered "But I’d rather deal with that than lose you."

What?

No, you must have overheard, he would never say such a thing to you.

You would almost believe those softly sparkling eyes, that looked at you in a way that it felt anxious. Well, almost, because you knew exactly who was saying those words to you. You scolded yourself for this in your head.

"Why the hell are you here?" you demanded an answer on dodged question, voice shaking with both anger and something dangerously close to despair "Did you save me because you were afraid you’d lose your favorite object of derision? To mock me? To laugh at how pathetic I’ve become?"

His eyes widened briefly, the accusation catching him off guard, before narrowing again in frustration "Do you seriously think I’d waste my time saving your sorry ass just to mock you?" he shots back "God, you’re so full of yourself sometimes."

"Then why?" you spat "Why did you saved me?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze shifting to the side, avoiding yours entirely. You could see the tension in his jaw. But he still said nothing. As the answer was too much for him to bear. He was about to speak, but he noticed the way you shivered violently, the cold catching you again. The soaked fabric of your clothes still clung to you, and the sharp autumn air made it impossible to stop trembling. Gojo changed his mind.

"I’ll let you go now." his voice lower, less biting "Get dressed - but no stupid actions."

His grip on you eased, and he moved back just enough to give you space, though not far enough to let you out of his reach. He stayed seated on the damp ground, watching your every move with an intensity that made your skin crawl. He didn’t trust you. Not yet.

You listened, you didn't have a choice now.

You crawled toward the pile of clothes, hands shaking so badly that it was difficult to grab anything properly. You stripped off your soaked shirt and pulled on your hoodie in a hurry, not caring whether he saw or not. You were too cold to care about modesty, too angry to care about anything else.

He also got dressed, buttoning up his sweats and putting on his jacket. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, until his voice broke through.

"Why do you act like a moron?" his words were sharp, almost accusing, but there was something beneath them - a tremor of genuine frustration. Not a trace of his previous gentleness.

You didn’t answer, keeping your focus on zipping up your jacket, your movements jerky and uneven.

He grabbed your arm suddenly, firm but not painful "Oi, answer me!" his voice rose, the intensity of it cutting through the cold air.

You snapped your head up, your eyes blazing as you glared at him "The hell do you want?"

All you wanted now was to escape to a warm room and cry.

His grip on your arm tightened for a moment before loosening slightly, but still there, his expression flickering from serious to worried to confused "Why... why did you want- " he struggled for the words, frowning "Why did you want to end it all? It’s stupid, this logic is idiotic even for you."

You growled.

"What’s dumb is that you don’t understand it." you shot back, your voice sharp, almost venomous. The anger bubbling inside you was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. You wanted to get up, but his grip kept you down.

"The stupid thing is what you’re doing." he countered, his voice rising again "Do you think your death will change anything?"

That was enough for you.

"Great!" you shouted, pulling your arm free of his grip and stepping back, your chest heaving as emotions boiled over "If I’m so fucking worthless, then let me die, for fuck’s sake!"

Shock.

Pure, undeniable shock.

Those vivid blue eyes of his, so infuriatingly piercing, widened. Eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but no words came out. It's as if he doesn't believe you just said that. As if he just realised the seriousness of the situation. You saw his chest start to rise faster, not sure if from the cold…. or from panic.

"I don’t want you to -" he started, his voice breaking slightly, even softer than before.

But you crossed your limits.

"You won, okay!?" you cut him off, voice sharp, loud and trembling. The words spilled out of you like a flood, raw, unrestrained "You can rub my face in your victory now! I don’t care anymore! Torment me, mock me, laugh at me - now’s your time!"

His eyes narrowed, confusion clear as his brow furrowed "What?"

"Do it! Now’s the time where you can laugh all you want, insult me all you want - because now, at least, you have a reason!"

"I- " he tried to speak, but you wouldn’t let him.

"Tell me what a failure I am!" you suddenly cried "Tell me how I mean nothing, how all my efforts have gone to waste, how I’m worthless! Because now, at least, I’ll admit you’re right!"

"Stop-" he started, but his words fell flat against the force of your pain.

"Tell me how all your life you knew you were better!" you shouted, hands shaking as you gripped the sleeves of your jakcet "Tell me I’m an idiot, that I’ve always been dumb! Laugh in my face, mock me, just finish me! Say all the things you’ve been thinking, all the things you’ve wanted to say - just say it!"

Your voice broke completely, the words tumbling into a sob "You can finish me..." you choked "Come on. Just… just do it!"

This was to much, you felt so so much.

He was so disoriented. You could see this by his reaction.

"Because I'd believe you'd laugh than suddenly care what happens to me." you chocked.

Silence.

Tears blurred your vision. You were done pretending to have any pride left. You've had enough of everything. You didn't understand his reaction, his sudden tenderness confused you, everything was so wrong. You just wanted to get back to normal, when you - and everything had it's place.

But no, suddenly the world has turned - you don't have your technique, your father will probably disown you, and your rival and bully is suddenly trying to be nice. You don't want to be here anymore. You don't know how to find yourself in this world and you don't know how to talk about it.

It's humiliating to cry in front of him, you know it, but you don't care. You let it all out, just like the water from before.

He just stared at you, eyes wide, jaw tight. You could barely see through the fact that you sobbing next to him, hiding your face and bringing your legs to your chest.

"No." he whispered.

You blinked at him, raising your head, confused "What?"

"No." he repeated, louder this time, his voice firm but trembling "I’m not going to mock you."

You let out a loud bitter laugh, shaking your head "Of course not. Because you don’t even have to, do you? I’ve already done it for you."

"That’s not-" he cut himself off, shortening the distance between you "You’re wrong."

"About what?" your voice breaking again "About being a failure? About being nothing? Tell me what part of that is wrong?"

"All of it." he confirmed, voice steady now, glowing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart clenched "Every single word. You’re not nothing. You’re not a failure. And I swear to God, if you say that again, I’m going to-"

"To what?" you challenged "Save me again? Drag me out of the lake and lecture me about how I should see the bright side of losing everything? Spare me the pity, Gojo. I don’t need it."

"It’s not pity!" his voice ringing loud, showing that emotions were also building up inside him. Unexpectedly, two large hands moved to cup your face, forcing you to look at him, to stare at two glowing blue dots "I’m not here because I pity you. I’m here because-" he faltered, voice catching as his breath hitched, his thumbs brushing against your cold, damp skin "Because I care."

The silence that followed was deafening. You froze, your face dropping as the weight of confession hit you like a tidal wave. He wonders if you know how much it cost him to tell you this directly. You, you wonder if what he says is a joke.

He... what?

His hands stayed on your face, steady despite the way they trembled slightly "I wanted to talk to you." the voice that came out of him was so quiet, so full of affection, that it was almost nothing like his "I started looking for you as soon as I got back from the mission. I wanted to... I don’t know, do something. Anything."

You burst out laughing bitterly, the sound sharp and raw in the stillness. It felt absurd, impossible. Gojo Satoru, your rival, the person you’d been compared to all your entire life, the one who mocked you, humiliated you endlessly, competed with you relentlessly - suddenly was caring about you?

You don’t believe him - because how could you?

For so many years, he had been the same infuriating presence in your life, treating you with an air of superiority and, at times, outright disdain. His words had cut shar, leaving wounds you’d carried silently for years.

There wasn’t a single thing he hadn’t laughed at. Your hair, he’d compared it to the end of a broomstick. Your smile? He’d once called it a donkey’s grin - or whatever the Japanese equivalent it was, delivered with his trademark smirk that made you want to slap it off his face. Your taste in music? "Cheesy pop thrash" And your clothes? Oh, that was his favorite target "Are you dressing ironically?" he’d asked once, tilting his head with mock curiosity "Or is this a social experiment I missed?" It didn’t stop there. He even mocked the way you walked once, calling it "Too stiff, like you’re auditioning for a role as a wooden puppet"., the way you ate "You attack food like it owes you money." and even the way you carried your books "Why are you holding them like that?" he’d said, mimicking your grip dramatically "You're so weak that you can't hold them properly?"

So yeah, it was laughable.

He may have saved you and you may want to believe in what he says, but you are just not able to.

Can you really blame yourself?

Well, kinda, because you were the one making out with him every other day. You might have believed that he liked your attention, that he might have wanted you - but you wouldn't believe that he wanted to care about you.

You reached up and pulled his hands off your face, your cold fingers brushing against his quite warm ones "Don't give me that. What could you supposedly do?" you asked, voice dripping with disbelief and mockery. The cold seeping back into your body now that his touch was gone

"Anything." he said, his words still tumbling out, almost frantic "Talk, sit with you, I don’t know - something. I- " he stopped, his own frustration bleeding into his voice "I don’t know." his eyes were so pleading.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to stop the tremors as you looked away "Don't bother." voice low, void of fight "Doesn't matter now. My father is picking me up tomorrow."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I have heard too many versions, all from different people, of what my father supposedly planned that - that I don't know..." you paused, the lump in your throat growing unbearable as you forced yourself to say these words.

You wanted to say that you were afraid, that you didn't know what to do, that you felt you had let everyone down, that nothing made sense to you now.

That it was too much.

That you didn't allowed yourself any form of comfort.

"I know one thing, though." you hesitated, the weight of your next words heavy, but you looked up, meeting his gaze with trembling resolve "I’d rather die now, than live my life as a clan failure."

He growled, frustrated, as if nothing is working on his favour. As if he was breaking.

"Who cares what the clan thinks? Who cares about anything they say?" Gojo’s voice rising, desperate and insistent, his words coming faster now, blabbering "They’re a bunch of old fools who don’t know what they’re talking about! You are more than their expectations. You are more than your technique. You are - "

Maybe he wanted to comfort you that way or maybe he wanted you to believe his tale of him 'caring about you'.

But you had already made up your mind.

Gojo knew that you might not believe him in what he was saying now, he knew, that you would be angry with him for all that he has done- you were right - you should be. What he didn't predict, however, was that you would know him well enough to know this one hidden truth about him.

What you say now will leave a mark on him for years. You frowned, voice totaly sure of the words you're saying.

"Don’t preach to me about things you don’t even believe yourself."

You hadn’t spoken since that night by the lake.

Not when you were picked up, your father’s silence mirroring your own as you sat stiffly beside him, staring out the car's window. Not when he informed you of your new path with the cold efficiency of a man making a business transaction.

Your age wasn't very favourable for this, admittedly - you should have started your training as a maiko a long time ago, wanting to become a geiko. However, your father, using his connections, found a place that will accept you for training. He found an okiya in Kanazawa that from now on - will be your temporary home.

You didn’t fight him. You didn’t speak at all. You have done enough.

The years that followed were grueling in their own way, though nothing compared to what you’d endured before.

Training as a maiko demanded a different kind of perfection, a complete transformation of body and mind. The disciplined, precise movements of martial arts you had once mastered - were now replaced by the elegant, deliberate grace of traditional dance. Every step, every turn, every motion had to flow with effortless beauty, concealing the pain and time it took to perfect them.

You hated every second of it.

Your figure changed over time, slimming down in ways you hadn’t anticipated and curving in a few other places. You "got smaller", your once powerful frame softening into something more delicate, more feminine. Your reflection in the mirror became even stranger - a porcelain doll painted and adorned to please others. Gone were the rugged hands that once wielded cursed tools, now they held fans, makeup brushes, creating beauty where you once brought destruction.

The contrast was unbearable.

You missed the fight, the passion, the adrenaline, the raw exhilaration of your old life. Sometimes, as you trained with the fan, your body betrayed your mind, instinctively slipping into the stances meant for a sword. For your lost technique.

Every day felt like a reminder, a performance, not just for others but for yourself, as if pretending long enough might make you forget what you had lost.

But it didn't.

You never completely left your old self behind; the memory of that person remained vivid, etched into your mind. Recalling the past -missions, getaways, trainings, fleeting moments of triumph and connection - became a daily ritual. Nostalgia and grief intertwined, two of many companions that you had learned to live with, their weight both comforting and unbearable.

Despite it all, he kept reaching out to you.

Gojo’s messages came daily at first, long, rambling texts filled with details of his day - missions, strange encounters, little jokes he’d picked up along the way. He sent pictures of things he thought might make you laugh: a badly drawn doodle of you scowling, a ridiculous meme, a cursed object that looked suspiciously like a poorly designed toy. Each message carried a tone of casual insistence, as though he were trying to prove his point - that he cared. Or perhaps he was trying to reshape your relationship, to turn you from the rival he mocked constantly into something else, maybe - a friend.

Eventually, the messages slowed. Whether it was his own frustration, the demands of his life, or something else entirely, you didn’t know. You didn’t care to know. Cutting yourself off from him, from everyone, was the only way you knew how to endure.

At some point, you stopped reading them altogether. The weight of shame pressed down on your chest, suffocating any inclination to respond. You couldn’t face him - or anyone from your past. The person they knew was gone, and what remained of you was too broken, too hollow, to withstand their judgment or pity.

Your thoughts spiraled endlessly, dragging you deeper into a pit of self-doubt. You convinced yourself that no one could possibly care for who you were now - powerless, dull, and unremarkable. What was left of you wasn’t worth saving, and surely, he had to see that too. Eventually, you were certain, he would stop trying. And that thought, as much as it pained you, felt like the only mercy left.

Sometimes, you’d catch yourself hovering over his messages, tempted to open them. The thought of catching a glimpse of the snippets of his life - once so intertwined with yours - felt like a small, guilty comfort.

But no, you didn't do it.

Years just passed, and the day of your Kurokami, the ceremonial debut marking your transition to full-fledged geiko, arrived. Your father had spared no effort, inviting everyone of importance - every known clan in the jujutsu world, their representatives gathered on the sprawling estate for a grand celebration steeped in tradition and political maneuvering.

It wasn’t about you. It was never about you.

This was a spectacle, a carefully orchestrated display of your father’s influence and connections. Each guest, each detail, was part of a greater plan to cement alliances and further his ambitions. You were just another piece of that plan, an accessory to his power.

The highlight of the evening was the final dance of a maiko, the moment of transition - a symbol of beauty and accomplishment in its purest form. But it wasn’t your dance. It wasn’t you, his daughter, he didn't even introduce you.

No, you were just a dancer now.

You entered the stage in silence, your heart slowing as the soft glow of the spotlight bathed you in its warmth. The muted chatter of the crowd faded into an expectant hush, the weight of hundreds of gazes pressing down on you. The air felt thick, heavy with the unspoken demands of the evening. The elaborate kimono you wore seemed to amplify that weight, its intricate embroidery shimmering under the light. Each layer of fabric, from the trailing hikizuri hem to the opulent obi tied with meticulous care, felt like a chain binding you to the role you were expected to fulfill.

The role that you didn't like.

The adornments on your hair - a delicate array of golden combs and jade pins - added to the strain, each piece glinting like a reminder of the perfection demanded of you. Even the subtle fragrance of incense clinging to your garments seemed to emphasize your place in this performance: a symbol, a display, but never a person.

Your movements, however, betrayed none of your inner turmoil. You moved with the fluidity that had been drilled into you for years, every step and turn perfectly calculated. The soft clack of your lacquered sandals against the polished wood echoed through the room, a rhythm as precise as the dance itself. Each motion was a testament to your training, your arms flowing gracefully as though carried by the air.

And then you saw him.

He’d changed. A lot. The years had shaped him into someone sharper, more refined, though the essence of him - remained unmistakable. His snow-white hair was still its signature mess, but it seemed more intentional now, as though he’d taken the time to style it. The glasses he wore were different, darker and sleeker, framing his face in a way that gave him an air of maturity you weren’t prepared for. Somehow, impossibly, he seemed even taller.

Even more handsome.

You couldn’t remember every detail of his face - time had eroded those memories - but some things stayed vivid. You remembered his hands cupping your face that night by the lake, trembling and warm despite the chill. You remembered the look in his eyes, desperate, as if trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. Those moments had etched themselves into your mind in ways you hadn’t dared to revisit.

Is it bad that you missed seeing him?

At first, his expression was unreadable, his lips slightly parted as though he’d been caught mid-thought. His usual cocky smirk, the one you had come to know and despise - was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a stunned stillness to him, an uncharacteristic vulnerability that made your chest tighten. Those piercing blue eyes, always so vivid, widened as they traced your figure.

You could see the faint flicker of recognition in them, the way his gaze darted across you as if trying to reconcile the person before him with the one he had known.

You couldn’t glance at him as much as you wanted to, though the urge tugged at you with every turn, every delicate gesture. The temptation was a steady hum beneath your practiced composure, but you ignored it.

Whatever he felt, whatever you felt, didn’t matter. Not here. Not now.

It was the longest performance you've ever done.

When your it ended, the room erupted into applause, a symphony of polite enthusiasm filling the grand space. Guests turned to your father, their compliments flowing freely, every word dripping with veiled flattery.

"What a remarkable performance, truly exquisite." one elder said, nodding with approval. He said this loud enough that you could hear him.

"Master, your planning is unmatched." said another, their tone measured and calculated "A brilliant highlight for the evening."

But not him.

He didn’t join the chorus of praise. He didn’t clap. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there, silent, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that felt like it might swallow you whole. The weight of his gaze burned hotter than any ovation, lingering on you as though he were trying to reach across the distance, trying to say something without words. Maybe something like - look at me again.

You didn’t dare to do this again, too afraid to face him, to face the reality of all you’d ignored: the messages you’d left unread, his attempts to connect with you, his clumsy, awkward texts filled with jokes and small glimpses of his life. You couldn’t bear the thought of the weight in his gaze reflecting those unanswered words, those years of silence between you.

Instead, you kept your head high, your back straight, your movements precise as you exited the stage. You didn’t need to see his face to feel his disappointment - or his persistence. It lingered in the air, following you even as you stepped out of the light.

© noira-l | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, or redistirbute my work without permission

[bosbas]

Chapter 3: it was all by design

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 1.7k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, morally grey daphne ??, slow burn!!!, anthony being a SIMPPPP (i love it)

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

June 2, 1812 - As you walked into Lady Danbury's ballroom, your hands were gripping the skirt of your dress to keep them from trembling. Tonight was the night you were going to ask Anthony to court you. You were asking him. It was an absurd concept at best, a lady asking a gentleman to court. But you'd already come this far, asking him to dance and all, so you supposed it wasn't that large of a jump from one thing to the next.

It wasn't real, you kept reminding yourself. It was just a way to give Daphne the season she deserved. And Anthony had absolutely no interest in marriage anyway, so he would surely not particularly mind when you ended things with him.

Besides, you were fairly certain he only saw you as a sister, much like Daphne, so it was doubtful he’d even be amenable to the prospect of starting a courtship with you. It was taking a lot of mental work to convince yourself that this would be fine.

But at the end of the day, you had your own reputation to think about. As much as you enjoyed spending time with Anthony at high society balls, you knew it wasn't the best for your image if you were constantly seen dancing with a man who wasn't courting you. Someone was bound to think that something was wrong with you. Several people had asked you already, actually.

So, you smoothed your skirts and steeled your nerves. This was the best option for Daphne. And for you if you wanted to keep spending as much time with Anthony as you were now.

Looking around the ballroom, your eyes met the eldest Bridgerton's.

His eyes immediately lit up, blinking as he took in your impressive ballgown and elbow-length gloves. Quickly, he started walking toward you, practically tripping over Cressida Cowper's train because he was in such a rush.

“Good evening, Lady L/N,” he bowed, putting on the stuffy voice you’d heard him use with his mother’s friends.

“Good evening, Viscount,” you responded, playing along with him.

He flashed you the most charming smile you had ever seen, and you understood completely why the ladies of the ton swooned over him. If you had his charisma and good looks, you’d probably be a rake, too.

“Fancy a dance tonight?” he asked casually, his hand reaching out to softly touch your dance-card-clad wrist.

“I suppose I do,” you responded, flashing him a vibrant smile. The nerves you had felt a few minutes ago had practically evaporated, leaving only room for excitement as Anthony interwove his fingers with yours and led you to the dance floor.

A few minutes after the dance had begun, you caught a glimpse of Daphne and Mr Norwood looking completely smitten with one another. It quickly reminded you of your goal for the night. If Daphne was going to marry Mr Norwood then you needed to bite the bullet and get this over with right now.

As you were staring intently at your best friend and the man she wanted to marry, your brow furrowed and lips pursed, you felt Anthony's warm breath close to your ear.

“What’s on your mind?” he whispered softly, sensing your mind was elsewhere.

Having spent so much time with you in the past few weeks, Anthony had grown accustomed to your quirks and knew that you weren’t being your usual self.

You froze. It was now or never.

“Um… Well… I was just thinking about how our dancing every night looks. To other people I mean. Given that we’re not courting,” you babbled, unable to meet the eyes of the man in front of you.

Confused, Anthony continued, “Is this about what I said the other night? About only being able to dance so many times?”

“No, not at all,” you reassured him. If you two did end up courting, you didn’t ever want him to think he was at fault. “Just some comments I’ve heard from ladies around the ton, you know how they are. They ask me questions I don’t particularly know the answer to,” you said dismissively.

“And you’re worried about how this will affect you in the future, as an unmarried lady?”

“Well… yes,” you responded lamely. Although everything you had said up to this point was true, you were still unable to meet his eyes, the guilt of deceiving him eating away at you.

Anthony knit his eyebrows together in confusion. Hadn’t you physically recoiled at the thought of courting him just a few days ago when he said it as a joke?

Regardless, he mulled over what you had said. He knew you fairly well, and even though you weren’t usually bothered by a bit of gossip (you were spending time with him even though he was the world’s biggest rake, for heaven’s sake), he understood your hesitation.

“Does this mean you want me to properly court you?” he asked gently, not wanting to scare you off again.

Perhaps it was the sincerity in Anthony’s voice, or just you realizing the gravity of the situation, but you immediately tensed up.

“No, I don’t think so,” you started slowly, torn between helping Daphne and protecting yourself. But you had already made your choice. You loved your best friend, but not to the point of breaking all social decorum and asking a man to court you. “Not at all,” you laughed airily. “I know you’re not looking to marry, and honestly neither am I. It was just a silly comment, my apologies.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

You cursed Daphne’s brother for being so perceptive. How on earth could he tell exactly what you were feeling?

“I don’t know,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. God, this would be so much easier if you had feelings for him and wanted to court him. Then you could just say yes and stop feeling so guilty.

Seeing how torn you were, Anthony decided to let the subject lie. The season was still only beginning, and there would be yet time to figure out what exactly was going on between you.

However, letting the subject lie decidedly did not mean that he would stop thinking about it. In fact, it was the only thing he thought about for the rest of the night, completely missing an almost inappropriate kiss Mr Norwood left on Daphne’s hand.

--- 

Anthony hadn’t stopped thinking about the possibility of properly courting you the following morning. He sat in his sunroom, rereading the same paragraph for the sixth time as he tried to focus on anything other than your anxiety-filled eyes the previous night. 

“Y/N was looking rather lovely last night,” commented Daphne offhandedly as she worked on her needlepoint. 

“What?” said Anthony, startled out of his thoughts. He’d completely forgotten his sister was in the room with him, too. 

“Y/N, last night, looking lovely,” repeated Daphne, covertly looking at her brother as he remembered what you were wearing at Lady Danbury’s ball. 

“Err… I suppose she did look rather fetching, yes,” he responded awkwardly, shuffling the newspaper on his lap to another page. 

Then, looking at his sister suspiciously, he added, “But I wasn’t looking to get married this year, Daphne.”

You had told her about how you’d been unable to ask Anthony to court, of course. You had apologized profusely, but Daphne would hear none of it. Reassuring you that it was no problem, really, and that she understood your hesitation completely, Daphne had decided to shift her focus to her brother. It was true, a woman asking a man to dance was completely taboo, and it probably wouldn’t even have worked. So, although you hadn’t outright asked Anthony to court, you had certainly gotten the closest to it that a woman in polite society could. Now all he needed was a little push. 

“Neither was Y/N, to my understanding,” she responded, keeping her tone light and her eyes on her thread and needle. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Anthony waved dismissively. “She’s said it herself, I’m the biggest rake in Mayfair. Getting involved in her would only hurt her image in the long run.”

“Don’t be daft,” laughed Daphne. “You’re a Bridgerton. Rake or not, I doubt any association with you would taint her image in the slightest. She’s been involved with us for years! She’s my best friend, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Anthony humphed, annoyed that his little sister was making sense. Stubbornly, he continued, “Exactly, it’s not a good idea to bring feelings into a courtship, anyway. She’s been a friend of the family for ages.”

Daphne shrugged, slowly becoming more supportive of her best friend courting her brother, whether it was under false pretenses or not. “I certainly wouldn’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

After a pause, she added, “And how do you know the feelings are there? That’s what a courtship is for, isn’t it?” 

She was in quite a similar situation herself, though she could never tell Anthony lest he completely lose his mind. 

Daphne looked up at her brother, almost seeing the gears in his mind turning. 

“Do you really think I should?” he asked, setting down the newspaper beside him. 

“If you want,” she responded flippantly, knowing Anthony had already made up his mind. 

“Oh my word, it’s almost afternoon!” exclaimed Anthony, looking at the grandfather clock on the other side of the sunroom. “I should go now, I suppose. What if someone else has already come to call on her? Am I too late?”

Daphne, highly amused at her brother’s sudden sense of urgency, laughed. “Only one way to find out…” 

But Anthony didn’t hear her response, already rushing out of the room to grab his coat so he could go call on you. Properly. Like a gentleman. For the first time. 

And funnily enough, Anthony felt no fear, no anxiety, no dread. Nothing that he usually felt when thinking about courtship and marriage. He was simply excited to see you.

—

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[existingtm]

A lot of you are gonna hate this, but Dadbastian and Sebaciel are fandomized readings based on the same canon undertones. This is because Sebastian fits the Gothic trope of the parentified predator.

Curiously, his role doesn’t just follow demonic tropes but also takes on a vampiric form. He’s nurturing, yet preys upon the one he nurtures. It’s very reminiscent of a vampire siring a human, yet the end goal in this case is demonic, Sebastian aiming to win their game and claim Ciel’s soul.

Of course Sebastian is perverse. Of course his and Ciel's relationship breaches the boundaries of normalcy. It’s predator and prey, parent and child, sexuality through consumption. 

Sebastian and Ciel’s dynamic embodies much of the Lot complex. Debbie Joyce Chung goes into depth on this concept in her article "SUCH BLOOD, SUCH POWER": THE LOT COMPLEX IN ANNE RICE'S INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE. To quote some key parts:

“Broadly speaking, both the Gothic tradition and the Lot complex emphasize desire and transgression, subversion and the unconscious, doubling and projection. ‘The horror’ in eighteenth-century Gothic literature often pertains to incest, homosexuality, revolution, the pollution of lineage, and the disruption of linear succession of property” (173). While we’re mostly talking about transgressive sexuality, this excerpt has an interesting note about doubling and projection. Sebastian is absolutely a double for both the twins and their father, projected straight from O!Ciel’s own image.

“[V]ampires procreate, like Lot and his daughters, through a form of incest that involves penetration and the exchange of bodily fluids (blood) with their offspring. Their blood symbolizes life, family, and racial ties; it is the fluid of reproduction, the seed of the father” (174). We see blood and consumption take on this sexual undertone a lot throughout Kuroshitsuji media. While vampires procreate more directly, it’s interesting that Sebastian is forming Ciel in his own image.

“Through vampires the Lot complex transcends normal male-female gender categories, for vampires do not engage in genital sex and possess a relatively gender-free perspective” (174). The relevance of this is also pretty evident. Ciel and Sebastian are often queered from a gender perspective, whether in form of dress, pronoun or title use, mannerisms, etc. I would also argue that Sebastian is asexual (I even have a whole analysis drafted about why that is), and Ciel could be read as such too. Sexuality between them takes place in wholly inhuman terms (feeding and ownership).

Hold onto your hats, because I’m about to quote a quote within a quote when Chung describes how Claudia “is simultaneously innocent and monstrous, a literal and literary construct of our culture's anxious vacillations ‘between perceptions of children as little angels and as little monsters [. . .] sexually attuned, sometimes even predatory’ (Warner qtd. in Edmundson 34)” (175). We can see this perception forced on Ciel throughout Kuroshitsuji. This perception is reserved for children and women, once again demonstrating the queered element. Not only is Ciel the victim, he’s also the corrupted young maiden of the narrative, innocent and monstrous all at once.

“Incest is not limited to the physical: Lestat and Louis commit ‘emotional incest’ upon Claudia as she ‘grows up’; to them she is a magnificent and deadly ‘magic doll’ upon which they can lavish presents and affection (Interview 103). They dress her exquisitely in the latest children's fashions, disguising her as ‘a golden-haired child, a Holy Innocent, a little girl’ to fool her sentimental mortal victims, usually kindly, admiring adults (Interview 116)” (175–176). This one’s also pretty self-explanatory. Sebastian takes far more pleasure in dolling Ciel up than would be normal, especially when Ciel uses the guise as a means of deceiving enemies.

“Interview follows the Lot myth's subversive pattern of the powerless achieving power, but it is a Gothic novel, so Lot strikes back in a horrific return of the repressed. Nothing more is heard of the biblical Lot after the incest episode, but Lestat twice reappears to terrorize and punish his rebellious offspring. Both of his attempts are thwarted by enormous fires, reminiscent of the purgation of Sodom and Gomorrah by fire and brimstone, that enable the culprits to escape” (177). Notably, Toboso utilizes purgation by fire often in Kuroshitsuji, which doesn’t necessarily implicate the Lot complex, but it does, intentionally or not, mimic the biblical punishment.

“The incest between Lestat and Claudia is therefore a Gothic version of the incest between Lot and his daughters. It is committed not for the positive end of ensuring the survival of the human race, but for the negative ends of revenge and domination, rape and patricide. . . . Claudia's story has neither happy endings nor beginnings. Forced reenactment of the original incest is Claudia's weapon of vengeance, expropriation/preservation of the father's seed/blood her goal. The pattern of victimization and incest comes full circle, as Louis senses beforehand” (177–178). Another part of the Lot complex is the ultimate turning-back of this predation on the predator. I’m curious to see if Toboso will adopt this as well, but we’ll just have to wait and see. I personally think it would be really interesting if rather than condemning Ciel to lose his soul, or alternatively saving his soul, Toboso instead turns Sebastian’s own predation back on him.

“There is no escape from Sodom and Gomorrah, but the fascination of Interview, like that of Lot's wife, is that it looks back to them longingly, and envisions as strangely beautiful and passionate and tragic, the doomed cities and their now immortalized inhabitants” (180). This conclusion would make for an apt summary of Toboso’s story. As Louis narrates his Lot family tragedy, so does Sebastian—immortal, horrid, otherworldly, monstrous, beautiful.

Kuroshitsuji embodies many Gothic themes. It makes sense that Sebastian and Ciel’s dynamic blurs between familial and sexual. This is super common in the Gothic, but I think Kuroshitsuji’s Western audience, for the most part, isn’t really in touch with the genre’s history. As such, a more fandom-typical interpretation emerges. If the reader dislikes taboo themes, they choose the safety of the found family trope. If the reader likes engaging with taboo themes but more from a fandom perspective than an analytical one, they may romanticize the dynamic to suit fandom shipping tropes. Either way, the original character dynamic is lost to some extent.

Sebastian and Ciel’s identities become more entangled as the story progresses. We’ll likely continue to see their relationship cross boundaries of normalcy, and as the end nears, something will have to give. Who will be the monster? Who will be the victim? Will anyone be able to escape this enticing hell they’ve created? I can’t wait to find out.

[sleep-i-ness]

Commentary of the Heart (Part 2)

Summary: If you knew all it would take was a particularly embarrassing stint on commentary for the Gryffindor match, you would've suffered through it sooner

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST | GENERAL MASTERLIST | PART 1

“Good afternoon, Hogwarts! It’s a cold and cloudy day but the atmosphere is just electric. I’m your commentator, Lee Jordan. Joining me today due to a few incidents last time, we have a special guest to keep me in line. Y/N, Gryffindor’s resident mascot-”

You stomped on Lee’s toe, who yelped down the megaphone and glared at you.

“Now, Ms Y/L/N, do I need to remove you from the commentator box?” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut in and you smiled up at her sweetly.

“No, no, Professor,” you winced as your voice boomed out across the pitch. “It’s an honour to be here alongside Lee today. Apologies if the commentary is a bit stop-start; the censorship team have decided to swap commentators when commentary becomes too subjective—”

“Ms. Y/L/N.”

“Just giving a disclaimer, professor.” At her stern look, you sighed, passing the megaphone back to Lee.

“Y/N is,” Lee gave you a onceover and a cheeky grin, “both beauty and brains, as many of you already know. And according to the Hogwarts rumour mill, the Gryffindor captain is particularly appreciative of that fact.”

“Mr Jordan!”

You froze, mouth agape as you stared at him, your face flaming. He offered you the megaphone, but you shook your head, pressing your ice-cold fingers against your burning cheeks in a futile effort to cool the blush. Prick. Absolute bellend. You were going to kill him after this

“Sorry, sorry, Professor,” Lee turned back to the pitch, cheeky grin plastered onto his face. “And coming out onto the pitch today, we have the Gryffindors! Potter, Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood. Any of them catch your eye, Y/N?”

“I think the thing that’s catching my eye is Potter’s Firebolt,” you responded, giving him a withering look. “Chang is a good Seeker but at the end of the day, the question will be whether her Comet will be any match for the Firebolt. And look, here come the Ravenclaws; Burrow, Chang, Davies, Inglebee, Page, Samuels and Stretton. I do have to say, Ravenclaw’s not doing too well with gender diversity this year-”

“Ms Y/L/N.”

“Sorry, professor. It must be a great honour for Chang to be representing the female population of Ravenclaw house out here on the pitch, proving to every young Ravenclaw girl that they too can take on the might of the Gryffindor team.”

“Y/L/N!” Professor McGonagall chastised and you blinked innocently, passing the megaphone back to Lee.

“Y/N, you make a very interesting point,” Lee glanced at Professor McGonagall and thought twice about what he was going to say. Fortunately for all in the commentator’s box, the whistle blew. “They’re off, and the big excitement this match is the Firebolt that Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor. According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt’s going to be the broom of choice for the national teams at this year’s World Championship—”

 “Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in the match?” interrupted Professor McGonagall.

You laughed,

“Right you are, Professor—just giving a bit of background information—the Firebolt, incidentally, has a built-in auto-brake and —”

 “Jordan!”

“Okay, okay.” Lee sighed, passing the megaphone over to you.

“Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell of Gryffindor heading for goal…” your eyes scanned the field, “Samuels sending a nasty Bludger her way, but Weasley blocks it with a—ooh nice swing, George!”

“Y/N!”

Slightly too late you remembered the rules on impartiality. “Yes, sorry, Bell continues undeterred on her path to goal, dodging Davies and Stretton’s clumsy attempt at a Body Blow and—yes! scores! Ten-zero to Gryffindor! That was a beautiful knuckle ball from Katie Bell, straight past Page into the middle hoop.”

Your voice is drowned out by the raucous cheering that erupts from the Gryffindor section as you continue, eyes catching on Potter as he dives. “But no time for celebration, it looks like Potter has spotted the Snitch, diving down with Chang trailing after him on her Comet. It really is in these moments that we see the Firebolt shine—”

“Ms Y/L/N, could you return to commenting on the match?”

“Yes, professor,” you sighed. “And a nasty Bludger from Inglebee has Potter rolling to avoid it and he’s lost the Snitch. —Don’t worry, Potter, it’s clear that Firebolt beats Chang’s Comet by miles. — Up above, Page passes the Quaffle to Burrow, who moves to take up a Hawkshead Attacking Formation with Davies and Stretton, but a Bludger from Weasley has them scattering. Perhaps the more ambitious tactics ought to be saved for the big leagues. And Burrow passes to Davies—ooh, a lovely check from Spinnet means Gryffindor have possession and Ravenclaw haven’t even made it out of their goal end.              

Spinnet is undertaking some excellent zig-zag manoeuvring, confounding both of Ravenclaw’s Beaters as they wildly send Bludgers down the pitch. Spinnet shoots and she scores! Thirty-zero to Gryffindor. For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, that’s two goals from Bell and one from Spinnet. Maybe Ravenclaw should reevaluate the number of women on their team—”

“Y/L/N!”

You sighed and passed the megaphone back to Lee, taking a large gulp of the glass of water next to you as he winked, jumping straight back into the game.

“Perhaps in an attempt to defend their all-male Chaser lineup, Davies is racing down the pitch, narrowly avoiding a Bludger from Weasley with an annoyingly impressive Sloth Grip Roll. Johnson goes for the check, but Davies is clutching on tight to that Quaffle—he can’t risk passing it when there’s such precise defence work being undertaken by the Gryffindor Chasers. He’s nearing the Gryffindor goal end, he shoots and AND IT’S A BEAUTIFUL SAVE BY OLIVER WOOD! What a man!” Lee nudged you and you wrinkled your nose as him, choosing to ignore his infuriating jabs. “Wood passes to Johnson, Johnson to Bell, Bell back to Johnson, and what a stunner that girl is—”

“Jordan.”

Lee sighs, passing the megaphone back to you and you laugh. “And Johnson scores, putting it at fourty-zero to Gryffindor, meaning that all female Chasers on the pitch have scored. I’m thinking Ravenclaw really ought to reevaluate their gender stigma because right now it’s not looking too good for them. Page to Stretton, Stretton to Burrow, Burrow gets hit by a precise Bludger from Weasley; I mean, look at the swing on those boys. I think we’re all waiting for summer to come around and getting a close look at their-”

McGonagall looms over you as Fred glances at you and winks, and you have to cover your mouth to stifle your laugh.

“their… bat work without all this cloud. Johnson has the Quaffle, drops it down to Bell, who veers up, confusing Page and scores! That’s fifty-zero to Gryffindor; up twenty in under a minute! It’s in these early moments that you really start to see the tactics shine; Gryffindor have stuck to their tried-and-tested tactics, although it’s hard to beat such natural talent, and Ravenclaw seem to have been watching too many big league games – this isn’t exactly international-level Quidditch.”

“Ms Y/L/N.”

Lee took back the megaphone with a grin. “Ravenclaw has possession. Davies passes to Stretton, Stretton to Burrow, Burrow back to Stretton – these Ravenclaws are really keeping the Gryffindor Chasers on their toes as they fly down the pitch. Davies pulls forward, losing Spinnet and gets the ball off Stretton. Davies shoots—and Wood intercepts, knocking it straight into Johnson’s waiting hands with the back of his broom! Now that man, as I’m sure Y/N will agree, is certainly a Keeper.”

You rolled your eyes at his terrible pun, perfectly content to sit and watch as Lee gulped at the sight of McGonagall’s thunderous face. “Johnson speeds down the pitch, Weasley knocking a Bludger straight out of her path and into Samuels, Johnson shoots and scores! That’s seventy-zero to Gryffindor. And Page sends the ball to Burrow, who fumbles and drops it straight down to Spinnet, Spinnet passes to Bell, Bell shoots and scores yet again! Gryffindor leads by eighty points to zero, and look at that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its paces now, see it turn - Chang’s Comet is just no match for it, the Firebolt’s precision balance is really noticeable in these long—”

 “JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS?  GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!”

You reluctantly took the megaphone from McGonagall, who scowled at the pair of you. “Ravenclaw seems to have finally woken up and is demonstrating that tenacity and skill we’ve come to expect from them. Davies grabs the Quaffle, and he’s off like a shot! Look at him dance around the Gryffindor defence—oh, but wait! He’s got Katie Bell on his tail! Roger makes a daring pass to Stretton! He’s moving in—oh, and a well-placed Bludger from Ingleburn sends Wood scrambling. Ravenclaw scores; that’s ten-eighty to Ravenclaw. Davies is back to prove that an all-male lineup might be traditional for a reason.”

You glanced at Professor McGonagall, whose lips were pressed so tightly together they had turned white and winced. Well, she hadn’t interrupted you which you took as your sign to continue.

“Wood passes to Bell, Bell to Spinnet, Spinnet to Johnson, and—oof, that’s a nasty Bludger from Samuels. Ravenclaw’s Beaters certainly aren’t playing around. Burrow has possession, he shoots, and—what a brilliant save by Wood! You’d think he’d been practicing in his sleep! Johnson with the Quaffle, tearing down the pitch, leaving the Ravenclaw Chasers trailing in her dust—she shoots, and Page saves with a textbook example of Starfish and Stick. I have to say that these new fancy moves do look impressive when they actually pull them off.”

“Y/L/N.”

“What, professor? I’m being complimentary!”

“Switch.”

With a grumble, you handed the megaphone back to Lee. “Ravenclaw in possession, Burrow shoots and scores. That’s thirty-eighty to Ravenclaw, putting Gryffindor now only fifty points ahead. And Potter has set his eyes on something, speeding towards the Gryffindor goals with a deep concentration on his face; and look at that Firebolt go, it moves like a dream—Chang blocks Potter—HIT HER, HARRY—”

A cough from McGonagall interrupted Lee and he bit back some more colourful language. “And it looks like he’s lost sight of the Snitch again. Wood seems to be advising for some more aggressive manoeuvres; Y/N might know a thing or two about how he works off this pent-up rage off pitch.”

You elbowed Lee, who let out a muffled oof and allowed McGonagall to tug the megaphone out of his hands. McGonagall passed it back to you, and you picked up where Lee had left off. “With that Firebolt of his, Potter would have absolutely wrecked Chang and her Comet. The Quaffle is still in play though as both Seekers return to circling the pitch. It’s clear that Chang’s tactic is to rely on Potter to find the Snitch for her—although with a broom like hers, it’s a brave and perhaps foolish move… Potter dives! Has he seen the Snitch? No! Potter expertly executes a Wronski Feint—maybe Ravenclaw should be taking notes on how to execute high-level manoeuvres from him— Potter is off after something again, Chang hot on his tail—what’s that? DEMENTORS ON THE PITCH?! Potter has just executed one of the most flawless Patronuses I have ever seen—this boy is thirteen and executes O.W.L. level wand work with more skill than most of Fifth Year. Perhaps Potter might want to sit my Defence Against the Dark Arts exam for me—”

“Y/L/N!”

“But Potter hasn’t let the Dementors bother him, he’s almost there—POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS 200 TO 30! AN ASTOUNDING VICTORY BY GRYFFINDOR!”

You turned and pulled Lee into a hug, both jumping with glee as Madam Hooch’s whistle echoed round the stands. The air filled with roars from the Gryffindor crowd as they made their way onto the pitch to where the Gryffindor team was celebrating. You pulled back, pressed a kiss to Lee’s cheek and then looked him dead in the eye. “This does not mean I forgive you for your comments today.”

“Aw, come on, they were funny.”

You glared at him.

“Ms Y/L/N,” you turned towards Professor McGonagall’s voice. “I’m afraid I don’t think this arrangement will be suitable for the next match.”

You bowed your head. “I’m sorry to hear that, professor. I greatly enjoyed myself though.”

She sniffed. “Yes, well, your commentary today was both lacking in impartiality and focus.”

You shared a grin with Lee and chorused a “Sorry, professor” before running out of the stands and down to the pitch.

--

“Interesting commentary work today.” Oliver slipped into the empty spot next to you on the sofa, passing you a drink as he did, and you murmured a soft thanks.

“Well, Lee and I had a deal that I would be as poor a commentator as possible to convince Professor McGonagall to allow him sole control of the commentary again. I did enjoy myself though.”

Oliver laughed. “All of it?”

“Well, when I was speaking.” You shot a half-hearted glare at Lee, who merely smirked back at you. “Lee does enjoy the attention of the megaphone. But you know, I think it’s important to raise awareness about the lack of gender diversity on Ravenclaw’s team; it’s quite shocking really.”

Oliver just laughed at you, and you flushed, blaming the alcohol for the pink in your cheeks. Definitely wasn’t anything else. At all. And you refused to be the one to bring up Lee’s comments. Oliver could make that move if he fancied, but you’d laid your cards out perfectly clearly.

You sipped at your drink, coughing as it scorched your throat. “What the hell is in this?”

Oliver shrugged. “Fred’s concoction.”

You froze and looked up at your very intoxicated friend, who was intently pouring Ogden’s Old into a bucket. And then at the empty bottles scattered around him. “I don’t think I want to know what’s in this.”

“Probably for the best.”

You hummed in response, glancing at Oliver out of the corner of your eye, only to find him watching you intently. You frowned into your cup. Then winced a mouthful down, using it to bolster that Gryffindor courage you always seemed to lose around him, and made eye contact with him.

“Do I have something on my face?” Somehow you managed to confront him with the perfect level of nonchalance and teasing, or at least it felt as if you had. You couldn’t quite tell right now but judging by the pink tinging the tips of his ears, you had pulled it off.

“Uh, no,” he stuttered, tongue tripping over itself as he worked to dig himself out of the hole. “I.. Just... You look good tonight, Y/N.”

You blinked. Of all the things to come out of Oliver’s mouth, that hadn’t been what you were expecting. And then your brain caught up with itself and you felt all of your blood relocate itself to your face.

“Thanks,” you murmured, slightly frozen to the spot. Drink. You needed more drink. You were far too sober to be smooth and seductive right now. You eyed the rest of your cup, took a deep breath and then polished it off, to the sound of whooping as Fred caught your movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Fred tutted, stumbling over to you with a fresh glass in hand. “No empties allowed here!”

You rolled your eyes at him, accepting the cup nonetheless and raising an eyebrow when he continued to hover over you with an expectant look. Oliver shifted awkwardly next to you and Fred eyed him, eyebrows knitting together as the cogs squeaked round in his brain.

“Hm.” Was all he offered, finished off with a dramatic turn, robes whirling round him.

How strange. You said as much to Oliver, who just nodded, abnormally reticent around you, and you wrinkled your nose.

“Y/N.” Your name burst out from his lips, and he looked almightily like he was regretting saying it. Slowly, you nodded, tilting your head to the side and letting your hair fall away from your neck as you did. “What Lee said today…”

You froze, tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip. His eyes snapped to the movement and then back up to your face. Your heart pounded in your chest as the silence stretched, and you felt far too warm all of a sudden, deeply aware of the fire roaring away and the alcohol racing through your blood.

"What about it?" you asked, voice softer than you intended. You had meant to come across as bold and all devil-may-care, but inside your nerves were screaming. If Lee had destroyed your friendship with his words today, you were going to kill him. Break out your nastiest Bat-Bogey-Hex. Because you didn’t mind if he didn’t like you (that was a lie), as long as you had him as your friend.

Oliver cleared his throat, looking for all his worth as if a particularly rabid Bludger was racing towards him. His hand moved to the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly. "Lee... well, he wasn’t completely off the mark, was he?"

You blinked. It seemed as if your blood had decided to permanently relocate to your face, which was fine, totally fine, apart from the fact that you hadn’t drunk enough for that to be a good enough excuse. "Which part, exactly? Lee had a lot to say today."

Oliver exhaled sharply, then laughed quietly. You didn’t know what the joke was. You felt sick. Maybe you had drunk too much. He leaned forward slightly and it took everything in you not to flinch away, because you knew what was coming and you really, really couldn’t stomach the words you knew were about to exit his mouth, the ‘oh, you’re like a sister to me’ and the laugh you’d have to muster in response.

"The part where he said, well," he chuckled again, “that I’m particularly appreciative of your brains and beauty.”

You smiled half-heartedly, knowing it didn’t reach your eyes, hoping you’d have an excuse to run away as soon as possible and then avoid Oliver for the rest of the year. Because it would be fine, he was graduating, and you could not pretend that he didn’t exist.

"I wasn’t planning on saying anything," Oliver admitted, his voice low, almost a murmur, "but watching you today, laughing, talking with everyone... I couldn’t help it. And now I’m sitting here, just... regretting not telling you sooner."

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The room spun slightly—maybe from Fred’s drink, maybe from the confession hanging in the air. That wasn’t what you were expecting. You shut your mouth again.

"I’m sorry," he continued quickly, jumping into the silence you’d left hanging in the air. Fuck. You’d left it too long to respond, what was the right thing to say? "And I don’t want to make things weird. If you don’t feel the same, it’s fine. I just—" He paused, running a hand through his hair, and part of you just wanted to grab him and pull him in for a kiss. "I couldn’t sit here tonight and not tell you anymore."

You stared at him. Come on, you were meant to be witty and quick with your words, not speechless with your mouth glued shut as the man you’d be pining after for months confessed his attraction to you. You’d dreamed of hearing something like this almost every single night before you went to sleep (you did not care if that was unhealthy) but now you felt so, so unprepared.

"Oliver," you started, your voice breaking ever so slightly, "I..." You faltered for a second, eyes widening at the sight of him wincing. "I fancy you too. I mean, obviously.”

“Obviously?” He echoed slowly.

“Yeah, obviously. I mean, I thought you knew already.” You laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck.

He stared at you. And then, a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made your heart flip. "Really?"

"Really," you nodded, heart thudding in your chest as you waited for someone to jump out and yell that it was all some kind of prank. You knew none of your housemates would ever be that cruel, but really this had to be some kind of dream. A particularly vivid drunk dream.

For a second, neither of you said anything, just sitting there in the glow of the fire. And then you stuck out your arm. “Pinch me.”

“What?” Oliver asked with a bemused smile.

“Pinch me. I just need to be sure that I’m not dreaming right now.”

Then, with a laugh that was finally genuine, Oliver reached out and lightly pinched your arm. “Feel real enough to you?”

You blinked at him, a grin breaking its way across your face. And then he took your hand, his fingers warm and steady against yours, and you forgot how to breathe again.

“Yeah,” you murmured after a good half second, realising that he was still waiting for a response while you attempted to deal with the fact that he was holding your hand. Merlin, what were you, eight in the playground again? “So.”

“So,” Oliver echoed teasingly, lips pulling up into a smirk that made you want to snog him silly. “What do you say about going to Hogsmeade together? Just the two of us, of course.”

You took a breath, just to calm the fluttering butterflies that had only just started to settle down again. “I’d love that.”

A shaky breath left you as you beamed into your cup, trying to hide the giddy grin threatening to split your face in two. Oliver laughed quietly and you glanced up, feeling slightly embarrassed at the look of amusement on his face, but it was far too outweighed by your glee to even properly register.

“I guess we’ve got Lee to thank, haven’t we?" he said, grinning at you with a squeeze of your hand.

"Let’s not tell him that, though," you groaned, leaning your head against his shoulder. "He doesn’t need a bigger head than he already has."

Oliver chuckled, and his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles. "Deal."

[separatetheyolk]

I need need neeeeeed headcanons of a trans!reader and Lewis Hamilton featuring Isack Hadjar, they’re little selfie moment is living rent free in my head rn

Lewis Hamilton X Trans!Driver!Reader

ʚɞfeaturing: Lewis Hamilton & Isack Hadjar

ʚɞ Trans!Driver!Reader headcannons

ʚɞ contents: mentions of needles, surgery, media, dysphoria obvs

ʚɞ word count: 1,135

ʚɞ note: trans man reader intended. He/him pronouns used.

✰ Coming out:

He was a little blind sighted at first

Initially, you took that as he was against the whole thing

He quickly cleared that up

If over text/phone call, he'd go over the very basics with you. Name, pronouns, if there were any plans on coming out publicly, who knew, how should he address you to others, that kinda thing

He'd save the more in depth topics to talk about in person. Whether that would be in a few hours or a few weeks

Transition goals, coming out to the public/family/friends if you haven't by the time he's home, things he can do to make your life easier, how he should address transphobia, so on so forth

This man would RESEARCH

Like im talking what would usually be a minimalist phone/laptop with about 4 tabs open at any one time would turn into an absolute shambles of about thrity tabs and 4 separate notes

Would absolutely buy a new notebook JUST for writing down what he's learnt

If you learnt about this he would turn into a blushing, stuttering mess

Would absolutely help you come out to the rest of the drivers/crews if you needed. Would tell them for you if you decide that's best

Would absolutely drive home his support for the LGBT community, support/fund charities, create spaces for them in racing, stand out against injustices

✰ Transition:

The first thing that would be discussed in regards to your transition would be what would you want done

He'd make a list

Though obviously would leave it open for you to add or take away things

Take things at your pace

With your permission, he'd probably take care of the forms side of things such as name changes, gender markers, new passports, visas, paddock passes

Would help you to plan your transition around the F1 seasons

For the sake of easiness on my part we'll say you want top surgery and testoseterone a short haircut and all the things that come with a social transition

Would help you find a barber you like and would make sure they're LGBT friendly and do home visits. Partly for your comfortablility with not wanting to be stared at by other clients but also because media, fans, photos, big nono

Would help you gain your diagnosis of gender dysphoria

Then would help you with getting testosterone

Obviously, because of going on testosterone, the question of kids/egg freezing would come up

Essentially, it came down to Lewis is 40 now, you're both focusing on careers, but you never know so best to just freeze them. Just incase

If you don't use them? Eh, oh well.

If he's afraid of needles (?? The guy shits himself at the sight of an onion but drives f1 cars and scares tigers so i really dont know?? He also has tattoos? But so do I and i'm still scared of them so??) he'd get over them to help you with T shots

Sit there and massage your thigh if it started to hurt after the shot/if your nerves start to get shot from the injections. Would not stop unless you say your uncomfortable or the pain dies down

Would wait on you hand and foot after your top surgery.

Absolutely advocate for you medically if you needed him to. "He's struggling to keep down food" "He said he's in pain. Can you up the pain medication or no?" "Hey, just calling to ask if we can loosen the bandages at all? He say's the drains feel like they're cutting his skin"

Bad dysphoria day? "Here babe, take my hoodie" "You need some privacy?" "Come on, lets get you away from these cameras" "I know you don't like wearing the race suit but you can't race in your binder" "Lazy day? Sure, we can do that"

If and when you're comfortable, he'd 100% worship your body. He might not 100% understand why you dislike it, but damn he's gonna help you to like it even if it's just for an hour

He'd either stand in front of wind to block it or direct you out the way of it to stop it from showing your waist and chest because he can't have you feeling uncomfortable :(

Just small things like that. Things that most probably wouldn't even think of but he does

✰ Fashion:

He would defo help you explore mens fashion

I mean, this is Sir Lewis Hamilton afterall

He'd keep mental notes of what styles you liked, the different cuts, the fabrics, even ones you'd shown intrest in but too scared to try on

He'd also probably take mental notes of what shirts you liked but didn't want to buy due to lack of top surgery

And then would buy them for you after you've had it and healed

Ofc, lots of baggy clothing and hoodies on standby too

Would probably start wearing them more often for you incase you ever needed it

If he's not wearing one it's probably in a bag

Would teach you how to layer clothes to hide your waist

Notices how your jeans are too long length wise but fit your waist so offers to get them tailored

Quickly learns what colours hide shadows of your chest better

When bad dysphoria days fall on hot days and you're wearing thick clothing, this man is reminding you to drink more than a race engineer

Would sneak off to help you put your binder on before any podium celebrations regardless on weather your up there or not

Because sweaty, binder sticks, get stuck if you attempt to put it on alone

Eventually FIA had to stop fining you for being late after your team and fans threw the word "discrimination" around

Defo have like 5 different binders

✰ Media:

Lewis isn't typically one for confrontation in public. Though would absolutely stand by you in boycotting from races in *cough*certain*cough* countries.

If you're in a photo and you decide you don't like it, photo will immediately be deleted and another will be taken without you in it if thats what you want. Zero questions asked

More recently the selfie with Isack. He knew immediately you hated it. He prompted Isack to delete it then encouraged him to take a new selfie without you in it

He was a little confused

Lewis let you explain in private

Say no more, first photo deleted

Doesn’t take a single "joke" photo of you, doesn’t post any photos online with you in them without your permission. Even if you're barely recognisable in the background and it's on his private accounts

Honestly, Isack would be an absolute sweetheart about it all

Lewis would block you from cameras if needed

Tbh most of the grid would do that

Basically, the guy would be your absolute rock.