#i can not think of the words that would make this sentence easier

[lovelyahoy]

Haikyuu: One-Shot. Word Count:4,184.

Warnings: lowk cringe ending i can't lie but idc😭, fluff, and Kuroo being everywhere. PS idk shit about animal crossing new horizons, blame google for anything i got wrong.

Summary: Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, [Y/N] and Kenma are the prime example of this, except the hate wasn't exactly...hate.

TL: @akiqvq💖

Pairing: Kenma Kozume x Fem!Reader

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[Y/N] hated Kenma.

Hated the way he always beat her in every game, smirking to himself when she'd groan loudly and kick an empty can away.

Hated his effortless factual rebuttals on anything gaming-related, leaving her stumbling over her words like a headless chicken.

Hated how she always made sure to berate whoever tried to mock him, if looks could kill—they'd be further down than the Titanic.

God and worst of all? She absolutely hated the way she couldn't look away when he'd blush from a simple brush of her finger on his hand, when his lips quirked up in a soft smile, and when his eyes would widen slightly, giving her a better view of the pretty cat-like pupils.

Hated. Fucking hated that she was whipped for him.

"How the fuck did you roll another six?!"

"Luck."

[Y/N] held the Nintendo tighter, talking herself out of throwing the damn thing against the wall. You'd think she'd have a better chance at winning on Mario Party, except no, because Kenma was a god when it came to video games.

Sneering as he got another star, bringing his total up to four stars while she had zero. Finishing up the rounds, [Y/N] turned off the device and avoided gazing at his victory scene.

Kenma smiled, seeing her childish pout from the corner of his eyes. He gently took her DS and turned it back on, opening super bomberman and inviting it to a lobby he made.

[Y/N] took it back, blinking up at him.

"Let's team up."

And that was the first time she had won.

"Kuroo, what does he say about me?"

The tall rooster head stopped whistling, twirling a volleyball on a finger, and side-eyeing her. They crossed paths near the park and now he was walking her home.

"Not much, think he talks more about that orange crow he met." [Y/N] fidgeted with the melon bread in her hand, taking a bite and grumbling incoherent sentences. "Why are you asking?"

That was a question she didn't have an answer for, wondering the same thing herself. She hated him, right? So why did he plague her mind like a pretty persistent parasite, consuming her every thought, messing with her sleep by making her think of what he could be doing at times. Was he playing that new god of war game he bought last week, or did he go back to replay monster hunter?

"The quicker you accept that you like him, the easier your days will be." He chuckled, feeling her fist weakly hit his shoulder, glaring up at Kuroo like he had just exposed her.

"I don't. I hate him."

"You hate him because of how he makes you feel." Kuroo didn't miss a beat, dropping his teasing smirk and settling his lips into a very tender smile. [Y/N] sighed, crumpling up the wrapper in her hand and throwing it into a nearby bin.

"The last time I liked a dude, he fucked my best friend. I had to move schools because whenever I'd see their disgusting faces in the hallways, I'd be plotting their deaths and my own." He knew she had past troubles with boys, but he never thought it had that much lore, he made a mental note to ask for more gossip information later.

Kuroo tossed the ball from hand to hand. He understood why she felt so hostile when dealing with her feelings, however, comparing Kenma to that guy was not even remotely the same thing.

"Have you seen him talk to any girls who aren't you?"

"No, but that's not saying much, considering Kenma is very reserved."

"Okay, well, how many people does he let use his gaming consoles?"

That made her stop. Kuroo followed suit, his teasing smirk came back, and the girl looked up at him with her lips parted, face blushing slightly.

"Just me..."

"Just you."

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Kenma wiped the sweat from his forehead. This practice match had been going on for far too long, and he needed out. Now. The gym was unbearably hot, and the third set was not helping.

His only saving grace was knowing [Y/N] had stepped out a few points ago, yelling out that she'd be right back. She always did the same during hot days, watch him play for as long as she could stand the heat then leave, going to the nearby store and getting them popsicles.

"Kenma, just two more." Yaku patted his shoulder reassuringly then got back into position. The whistle was blown, and everyone moved accordingly. Kenma's eyes sharpened, hands in the air waiting to touch the ball and guide it towards an awaiting Fukunaga.

The moment it came in contact he decided to simply tap it over the net, hearing the whistle confirm the point and he breathed out—doubling over in pain when Kuroo smacked his back with an obnoxious laugh.

"A setter dump, good timing."

"HURRY UP!" They all turned to look at an impatient [Y/N] holding a plastic bag with the cold goodies. Knowing they were about to receive a treat had their blood pumping, and they scored that last point like their lives depended on it.

"Thanks." After saying their goodbyes and changing into their regular school uniforms, Kenma took the popsicle she had handed to him. The rest of the boys walked further, leaving the pair to stray in the back in silence.

A very comforting silence to him, but [Y/N] weirdly longed to hear his voice. She cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks heat up when he tilted his head to the side, observing her while biting into the cat-shaped treat.

"Can I come over today? My dad got me the Nintendo Switch and I...I really wanna play Animal Crossing with you..." She whispered the last two words, Kenma looked away from her pretty [E/C] eyes, and felt his own face turn red.

"You can come over whenever you'd like, [Y/N]."

Her name feel from his lips like sweet honey and she quite literally melted on the spot.

"Ah! It's getting on your hands—"

...

...

Kenma softly snored into the pillow he had clutched to his chest. Next to him lay a focused [Y/N], determined to get the last 5k bells they needed for the house upgrade. Tom Nook was a greedy little man, but she needed the extra space to decorate, and no way in hell could she sleep right now.

His body rolled onto his back, head lolling to the side and facing her. [Y/N] confirmed the selected items to sell and smirked in victory as she ran to Tom for the long-awaited upgrade. She sighed quietly, saving the game and setting the console on the bedside stand.

[E/C] eyes shifted to the side, observing Kenma's peaceful expression, she lifted a hand to brush the pads of her fingers on his cheek, softly dragging them down to pass her thumb over his lips. A strand of hair loosened from behind his ear, [Y/N] reached to tuck it back.

Half-lidded yellow eyes fluttered open, and Kenma didn't move an inch, just observed her. Her warm hand rested on his cheek, cupping and caressing.

"[Y/N]?" Whispered groggy words, [Y/N] smiled and scooted closer to rest her head on his shoulder, looking up at him, she could feel her heart race. "You're lucky it's the weekend."

"You only fell asleep early because of the volleyball match." His gaze trailed from her eyes to her lips, to Kenma, [Y/N] was a dream. A dream he didn't think could ever be real, a dream he didn't have a chance with.

It hurt him to like someone like her, funny, kind, and beautiful. They had become friends when Kuroo lost to her in a sandbox fight, and Kenma stepped in to help his friend get sand out of his nose. He remembered that day so clearly, especially her very humored giggles.

For this night, he'd risk it a bit, mind still half asleep. Kenma adjusted her head to be on his chest instead, arm wrapping around her shoulder, and chin resting on her hair. When [Y/N] hugged him in response, Kenma hoped she wouldn't worry about how shaky his breaths had gotten.

"Will you stay today too?"

"I'd love to."

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Kenma loved [Y/N].

Loved the way she'd never shy away from anyone, speaking her mind and keeping everything in control.

Loved when she smiled brightly during his volleyball games, screaming the loudest and buying him victory treats.

Loved her pouty lips, red cheeks, and especially her [E/C] eyes. They were clear windows to him, knowing how she was feeling in that moment with a simple look-over.

The best part of it had to be those late nights when they'd play together, shoulders touching, munching on junk food and energy drinks, whispering to avoid waking up his parents. When she'd muffle her laughs into his sweater, clinging onto him like he was her lifeline.

Loved. Absolutely loved everything about her.

"Where's [Y/N]?"

Kenma scanned the sitting crowd, and he saw her friends, but no sign of the girl. The whistle rang out, and he was forced to tear his gaze from the people, settling into his position on the court.

She promised she'd never miss a game, no matter what, and he believed her. Recalling the day she had gone down with a severe flu, wearing three sweaters and two facemasks, cheering for him while coughing.

"Sorry I'm late, I had to bring along a stray." Coach Nekomata rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the grin on his face, Kenma's frown slowly quirked up into a cute smile—[Y/N] waving from behind the old man enthusiastically.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Smiles. Blushing faces. Something he loved and she hated.

"Alright, alright, stop drowning in each other's eyes. Sit down and you get into the setter spot." Kuroo playfully patted their backs and dragged Kenma to start the game.

[Y/N] took her place on the bench, fidgeting with her fingers above her shorts, a little nervous to watch the game this closely. She wasn't allowed to enter the gymnasium, having lost her entry ticket and clinging to the poor coach trying to get a drink nearby.

The world around her went mute, not even the annoying squeaking of their sneakers could penetrate her concentration this time. Everything but Kenma blurred out, his slightly long, cute, pudding-colored hair, his focused yellow cat eyes, lips set into a thin line, and cheeks red with adrenaline.

He was perfect in her eyes.

[Y/N] didn't hate Kenma, she hated what she couldn't have.

"Careful where you spike!" A meek boy on the opposing team shrieked and quickly bowed to Kenma, as he had almost hit the ball into his face.

"Don't mind her, she goes a little cuckoo when it comes to him." Kuuro offered a gigantic smirk, sending not-so-subtle glances towards the duo, who blushed in unison.

The game continued on smoothly, both teams giving their all and keeping a balanced score. First set was given to the opponents, in the middle of their second, a time out was called.

"Their middle blocker is good, but gets sloppy when you all charge in. Keep an eye out and track him, bounce the damn ball as many times as you can." Coach Nekomata received a loud 'hai' from the group, proudly smiling at how they all contributed more ideas to increase their points.

Kenma separated from the group, needing a breather. Walking up to [Y/N], who held out his water bottle, he thanked her and took a much-needed sip while sitting down. She gently took a folded towel to wipe away the sweat dripping down his forehead and neck, knowing Kenma hated sweating above all else.

Could she really live on like this? Acting as if this weird situationship wasn't happening? She wanted something more, something clear. [Y/N] finished and placed the towel to her side, she turned back to look at him already with his eyes on her.

"Think we can win?"

"Of course." She cackled. "Can't lose when I'm over here cheering for you."

Kenma laughed quietly. She hadn't seen him lose yet, and he was not going to let today be that day. He stood up when the referee mentioned the fifteen minutes were up, as he bent down to leave his bottle, [Y/N] snatched up the collar of his jersey, bringing him down further, in turn making him need to place a hand on the side of her thigh to balance himself.

"If the winning point is a setter dump, you can make me do one thing. If it's not, then I'll make you do something. Deal?" Her [E/C] eyes were filled with a mischievous sparkle, wanting to spice the game up. Kenma blinked from the close proximity, the words got caught in his throat, but he made sure to nod, already knowing what he'd like to ask of her.

"He looks locked in." Lev stood tall with his hands on his hips, observing the way Kenma's face was blank, no trace of the usual complaints, only utter silence. Kuroo had noticed their little interaction and swore by everything he loved that they had kissed.

Kenma set the ball like a precise hawk, earning his team the second set without a hitch. Coach Nekomata had never seen him so focused, he needed to know what had been said.

"[L/N], what'd you say to him?"

"Uh, nothing in particular..."

"I'd like to know, maybe with those words I can make him take matches this seriously every time."

[Y/N] held in her laugh, turning to look at the older man with a smile.

"I don't think it'll work if you say it."

"Ah, young love. I understand."

He looked away and monitored his players, purposely ignoring the shocked girl next to him. Great, now even this dude was teasing her.

...

...

"The poor thing didn't even see it coming." [Y/N] skipped over the cracked lines on the cement, chuckling when she remembered the shocked faces of everyone, including his teammates.

"Yaku almost tackled me, he was very amused with it."

The sky had gotten dark, leaving them to walk under the lamp posts and hurry on home, aka his home, because she lived further away and he didn't want her walking alone at this hour.

"So, you won. What are you gonna make me do?"

Kenma stuffed his face into his sweater's collar, hiding the bottom half from her. His eyes darted to the side and avoided meeting her curious expression.

He wanted a kiss. When he was dragged down to her level, her words almost didn't reach him, wanting to lean closer and connect their lips. Kenma wanted to ask for it, but now all his confidence had dissipated like the petals of a withered flower.

What if she thought he was some sort of pervert after this? Would it ruin what they had built together?

"Kenma, don't overthink it."

They stopped walking, standing underneath a light. [Y/N] was expecting him to ask for a game or make her play that scary one she refused to even touch.

He breathed in, feeling goosebumps take over his covered arms. Countless times, she had mentioned hating past relationships, and anyone who confessed to her was shot down quicker than a bullet. Why'd he go and fall for her despite knowing this?

"[Y/N], you can say no."

"Tell me then."

Now she was beginning to feel nervous, giving her the option to decline was starting to look like a red flag. But this was Kenma, her sweet little pudding angel, there was no way he'd ask for anything she considered bad.

"A...k..."

"What?"

"Uhm, a k..."

[E/C] eyes blinked rapidly, straining her ears to try and decipher his low mumbling. She took a step forward and squinted when he looked away shyly, k? k what. Kenma suddenly began walking again, [Y/N] matched his pace with confusion building up inside of her.

"Never mind, you don't have to do anything."

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"K-word that causes embarrassment? Why would I know?"

"Well, I can't exactly ask him, now, can I?" Kuroo threw a pencil at her face, scowling playfully at her blatant sarcasm. [Y/N] told him about the silly deal, needing feedback on this matter before going straight to the source.

"Just because he's my best friend doesn't mean I can read his mind."

"No duh—okay, sorry, find out for me please? I'll set you up on that date you wanted with Claire." Kuroo's eye twitched at the stupid puppy look she was making. He hated it so much because it worked, plus the reward was something he wanted.

"Fine, get out of my face and classroom."

"Awww, you're the best." This time, the pencil hit the back of her head as she ran away.

He sighed. Of course he knew what Kenma wanted to ask. The boy had mentioned it multiple times at every damn sleepover or hanging out time they had. How these two were so oblivious to each other was a greater mystery than the Bermuda Triangle.

Kuroo and Kenma were practicing alone in the gymnasium, [Y/N] was needed at home, so the others were sent for drinks. The tall boy ruffled his black hair, wondering how he should bring the topic up, stressing out slightly until he realized this was Kenma.

"You chickened out."

"Huh?" The volleyball Kenma had thrown in the air landed at his side, startled by his friend's sudden words.

"If you ask her to kiss you, she'd do it in a heartbeat...actually a bit longer cause she's as dumb as you when it comes to this." Kenma pouted when Kuroo laughed, walking closer to him.

"[Y/N] says she hates you, and she does, but not you in specific. Hates you because she has feelings for you, someone she doesn't think would ever like her back." He yawned into his palm. "See why you're both dumb?"

"I can't ask her...and I can't do it either."

"So you're going to let the girl who likes you back be a missed opportunity?"

"I can't do it Kuroo..."

Well, he didn't need to. His best friend had a plan set in motion, going straight to [Y/N], standing in front of her locker the very next morning. Holding her there until all the students left the area, once the coast was clear he grasped both her shoulders.

His 'plan' wasn't much of a plan per se, but it'd work nonetheless...he hoped it would at least.

"[Y/N] kiss Kenma. Next time you're alone with him, grab his school tie and pull him in for one."

She frantically blinked at his hushed words, feeling heat rise to the tips of her ears. K, k as in kiss? Kenma wanted a kiss? From her?

"Is that what he wanted?"

Kuroo nodded with a serious expression. He needed this interaction over so he could plan his date with Claire instead of playing cupid for these two airheads.

"...I'll tell Claire to text you..."

"Pleasure doing business with you." With that, he finally let go of her and ran away into the halls. Now it was her turn to think things over, Kuroo would never lie about something like this, and that scared her a bit.

Oh wow. Okay. A kiss, pretty straightforward and easy. She lost the deal, and that was okay. Okay. Okay. Oh my god. She looked redder than the color red itself, fanning her face at the mere thought of kissing Kenma.

"You okay?" Claire jumped back when [Y/N] freaked out. "Damn! Okay calm down."

"Okay? It's not okay, Claire help."

"Okay....?"

"Stop saying okay, okay?!"

"...alright?"

"I need to kiss Kenma." [Y/N] rushed her words, "Well, not need, want. Both actually, need and want."

"Then just...do it?"

Claire was severely confused. She thought they were dating already, there is no way you look at someone the way they look at each other without being together.

[Y/N] activated her puppy look once more, adding a pout this time, Claire's specific weakness.

"Ok—alright. We'll talk about it during lunch."

...

...

[Y/N] spent the entire school day mulling over the pros and cons of the kiss, the kiss itself? check. The embarrassment after? cross. She kept going back and forth, annoying both Kuroo and Claire, mostly Claire, who found out she was trapped in a date she did not want. She did.

"Are you two sure he likes me?"

"Noooo, we want you to make out with a dude who doesn't like you—shut up and do it!" Kuroo pushed her out of the school gardens, guiding her towards the gate where Kenma was waiting for her—they'd be playing more Animal Crossing today.

He lowered his head, whispering. "All jokes aside [Y/N], if you don't make the first move, you two will be stuck in a state of limbo. I promise it'll be fine."

Kuroo ruffled her [H/C] hair and once again pushed her forward. She gulped and walked up to Kenma. He noticed her from the corner of his eye, so he saved the game and put his console away.

"Let's stop by the store first." [Y/N] nodded, and they began their walk in silence. The streets were a little crowded, leaving them to bump shoulders every now and then, hands brushing by one another.

If she planned on kissing him, holding hands wouldn't be that big of a deal, right? Kenma felt his nerves rise, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the amount of people near him, almost suffocating.

Before his 'flight or fight' activated, the soft, warm feeling of her hand holding his dulled all other senses. Kenma turned his head to see her looking directly at the ground, gnawing at her bottom lip. He didn't dare say anything, worried he'd make her let go.

Kenma didn't let go, not even to try and hold more snacks, paying at the counter, and holding the heavy bag. He couldn't, and he wouldn't. This continued all the way to his house, [Y/N] unzipping his backpack to get the key out and unlocking the door, walking up the stairs, and into his bedroom.

"..."

Yellow met [E/C], both glancing down at their joined hands and then up to each other again. Hesitantly, she let go, shrugging off her bag and lying on the floor. Kenma did the same, settling himself right next to her. The bag of snacks was set in front of them, Nintendo Switches turned on, and they loaded up their save.

"It kinda sucks that you can't build on my island, that'd be fun."

Kenma made an 'mhm' sound, collecting anything he could and fishing nearby. He watched her character zoom past him multiple times, decorating the outside of her house.

An hour into the game, [Y/N] got the trade offer from Kenma, said boy didn't mention anything, not even looking at her. She clicked accept, and in her inventory was a desk, the yellow cute DIY table she had been trying to get.

Her [E/C]'s were wide. Giggling, she ran into the house to place the pretty little thing in her bedroom.

"If only we could get married in this game."

That made him flustered, and he continued his fishing. His hands were a bit shaky, and he found it so silly he was this affected by the thought of marrying her in a game.

"Stardew Valley lets you marry villagers...and other players..." He awkwardly coughed when she turned to look at him. This time, he didn't shy away, meeting her gaze. Subconsciously darting his yellow eyes to her lips, like always.

[Y/N] didn't miss the change of attention, not this time. She never hated Kenma. Who was she trying to fool?

"Kenma, close your eyes." His attention snapped up to see her serious face. Did his staring make her feel uncomfortable? He complied with her ask, eyelashes brushing by the top of his cheeks, and he stayed silent, anxious for what came next.

A million possibilities ran through his head, but nothing could've prepared him for the mellow kiss she had initiated. Pleasant, soft, warm, and more words came to mind, but the best one for this situation was perfect.

[Y/N] pulled back, watching him flutter his eyes open and gaping slightly at her. She smiled nervously, scanning his face for any sense of rejection.

"I'd like to be your girlfriend and marry you in Stardew."

Kenma felt like his chest was relieved of all the worry that had built up, feeling fresh air fill his lungs, and a wonderful bliss taking over. He leaned back in, giving [Y/N] a quick, shy, chaste kiss.

"I'd like you to be my girlfriend too...and my Stardew wife..."

Animal Crossing was quickly forgotten, both of them buying and downloading Stardew Valley the next day. (They clocked in 80 hrs in a mere week.)

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"How do you die that much in a farm game?" Kuroo had googled the game on his phone. If Kenma never died in those dragon RPGs he loved, how was this farm more difficult?

"[Y/N] kept making our characters kiss, I couldn't attack the bats coming for us."

"Hey! We're rich enough for the medical bills already." She grinned, scrolling through screenshots she had taken of them in the game, passing by an occasional selfie.

"No more kissing in the mines, I lost the sunflower decoration I was going to give you."

"We'll get a new one. By the way, let's have a baby today."

"Have to visit Robin so she can put back the crib you exploded."

Kuroo packed up his lunch and left them alone on the rooftop, tired of the weird conversation.

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[james-silenthill]

I'm not a guy that makes videos about characters set to songs but every time I hear comfort eagle while driving I imagine images of waystar royco

[penitenteyeball]

Dum de dum dum

Gonna add max tags and max characters to each cause who cares

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Shit Fae!Danny Has Said While Living With Waynes

Danny, making a 'got your nose' gesture: Hey Jason, look, I've got your name!

Red Hood, who suddenly can't remember his own name: What the fuck

Bruce, in a tired dad voice: Danny, please, we talked about this, return your brother's name back

Danny: Oh, come on, it's not like he even uses it

Jason, thankfully remembering his name: And I repeat, what the f u c k

Steph, at dinner: I was wondering, what do faeries even eat normally? Like, flowers and stuff?

Danny, his eyes two black voids inside his eyesockets: The souls of the innocent

Steph: So that's a 'no' on the flowers?

Danny, back to normal and shoving a bagel in his mouth: I mean, I can, but would you want to stay on the crumbs-only diet when you are in a 5-star Michelin restaurant?

Tim: It's actually 3-star. Michelin rating system only has three stars, not five.

Dick: Are you saying that people are basically food joints for Fae?

Damian, at Constantine: It would do you well to choose your wording better when speaking to fair folk-

Danny, very much a fair folk, appearing out of thin air in the Cave: Yolo, s'up bitches, guess who's back in town!

Damian: -even when they do not necessarily do so themselves.

Constantine, looking between them: Are you sure you're the human and he is the changeling?

Tim, 46 hours of no sleep: Hey, if you can take a name from someone, does it mean you can take, like, other things that have no real shape or form?

Danny: Names do have shape and form, they even have taste. Yours is like a ping-pong ball made out of really dense cotton candy with banana-caramel flavor.

Tim, losing his touch with reality: Dense banana cotton candy...

Danny: By the way, I know you wanted to ask me if I could take your need to sleep from you, and theoretically, the answer is yes.

Tim, his whisper full of hope: ...will you?..

Danny: No. Either go to sleep or keep suffering. I'm not here to make your life easier.

Danny, after a half-an-hour rant on the Fae customs and traditions: -and Fae never tell the truth, but also never lie. It's a work of art, you know, say what you want but never in a way that makes sense.

Jason: So Fae just like to fuck with people.

Danny, looking him in the eyes, smiling and winking: Sure, humans are very fuckable.

Bruce, trying very hard not to pay attention to this: Can you make an example?

Danny: Sure. I lied.

Bruce: Where?

Danny: :)

Bruce, feeling like he is about to lose his mind: W h e r e ?

Alfred, right after he heard Dick's muffled screaming in the hallway: Young Master Danny, would you mind returning Master Dick his ability to talk in coherent sentences?

Danny, obediently standing up and walking out of the library: ...okay.

Bruce: How come he always listens to you?

Alfred: He knows what I will do if he doesn't.

Danny, returning to the library: He will change all the silverware to iron-ware. As well as the doorknobs and hairbrushes and lightswitches and everything else.

Alfred: Did you fix Master Dick's shoes?

Danny: I did. But I still think that making all of his shoes left ones was funny.

Alfred: Indeed, it was.

| <-prev | next-> |

There's also a fic now.

[comicaurora]

Do you think ethics are just an attempt at being a healthier form of selfish?

In one of your Detail Diatribes where Batman confronts Catwoman and tries to stop her from killing Falcone, you highlighted the fact that his reasoning was not to protect her father, but to try and save her. Ever since, some very strange ideas about the nature of selfishness and selflessness have been rattling around my head.

It only started coming into focus when I tried to put into words why it was a bad thing that D-16 killed Sentinel Prime. My best answer right now is because it made D-16 into Megatron. Orion wasn't trying to save Sentinel, he was trying to protect the cybertronian people. Maybe if Orion focused more on saving D-16, they wouldn't have lost their friendship and all of Cybertron would be better for it. Of course, in the end, Megatron was the deciding factor in making himself, caring more about his pride than his current identity, but this highlights a strange selfish quirk in sustainable selfless behavior.

If you are purely selfless you suffer from spending more of yourself than you have to give. If you're too selfish you can't maintain the human connections that are a requirement for being a complete and healthy person. It leaves the best options as being selfless to make your environment an easier one for you to live in. Where your actions for others are repaid by the selflessness from your community. Or, being selfish with your charity. Taking care of what you care about because their well being positively contributes to your own.

To be fair, the opening sentence now looks like an incomplete thought. It probably should be asking if you think ethics is just an attempt at being a more healthy form of selfish and selfless. Really, just asking if ethics is meant to make you better at being a person, which seems like a question that can answer itself. Still, it feels like an important insight to highlight that to be ethical isn’t about how much of your own life you're willing to sacrifice. It's hard to be a good person when you're not a person anymore.

This is a fascinatingly deep question, and I'm very tickled that our two touchpoints in it are a transforming robot tank and Batman.

My personal opinion is that ethics and morals are not reflections of some universal truth of Justice and Goodness, as they are often framed, but are instead best-practice guidelines on how to function in the big, messy world without causing undue suffering to yourself and others. A facet of this is determining, case by case, how much you need to prioritize yourself vs how much you can afford to help others - in the framing you've proposed, selfishness vs selflessness.

Taking the specific examples we're focusing on - two cases where someone attempts to prevent a revenge killing for the benefit, not of the victim, but of the avenger - I think they reflect this worldview, that the killing is not seen as some innately universally-judged evil act that must be prevented for its own sake, but that the act of killing will harm the killer in a way the person trying to stop them doesn't want to see.

For Catwoman, committing premeditated murder wouldn't solve any of her problems in any way that arresting Falcone and having him legally unraveled would. It'd just park a first degree murder charge on someone who'd up til this point only dealt with petty larceny, and it would potentially weigh her down with misery and regret as she grappled with the trauma of taking a life.

For Megatron, killing Sentinel Prime wasn't a bad action because he deserved to live. They just spent that whole fight scene tearing through enemies. They're warriors on track to spend the next four million years killing each other; the whole "taking a life" ship has already sailed. The problem is that Sentinel is a symbol and a structural part of the political narrative in the founding of the next stage of Cybertron's society. If the first thing the new regime does is bloodily avenge itself on the face of the old regime for the personal wrongs it did them, that proves that the only thing they care about is personal satisfaction of their individual desires - just like Sentinel. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. If they can instead take a step back, think of the good of Cybertron as a whole, enforce a rule of law and a fair system of justice that applies equally to everyone, even on someone they personally loathe, that would signify integrity and credibility and the hallmark of wise, just and fair leadership capable of setting aside personal feelings for the greater good. It's not about Sentinel; it's about whether the satisfaction of killing him is worth the price of enforcing forever that personal vendettas are more important than the well-being of the people of Cybertron. Which makes it really obvious which one Megatron is going to pick.

My hottest take, and I mean this very genuinely, is that most of the human perception of what constitutes goodness and justice is one thousand percent based on vibes, and is extremely susceptible to narrative reframing. We see an unsympathetic victim (Sentinel Prime, Falcone) who has gleefully caused suffering to innocent people (so judged because they are framed sympathetically, not because we've actually enumerated their lifelong actions to determine they've never done anything wrong) and we feel (feel) that it would be right and just for them to suffer consequences (emphasis on suffer) because that would balance the scales on this vibes equation and that would make us feel like justice had been served. Would this suffering lead to any material good? Not inherently. Would it heal the victims? Not usually. Would it remove the source of the problem? Categorically not, what with how negative reinforcement works (or rather does not work.) It also wouldn't do anything about the other people empowered by the same system to be just as shitty in just as many ways that just happen to be offscreen from our POV. But it feels fair. So what is justice, if it reduces down to "I want them to hurt for the hurt they've caused me"? If it can be sated with a spectacle or distracted by a long nap and a good joke to let the feeling fade? What purpose does this justice serve if it is devoted wholly to the satiation of a bone-deep chordate-brain hunger for Retributive Violence rather than towards actually ensuring that the lives of those harmed are healed and supported and built up again after being broken down? (This is the entire core character arc in The Batman, btw, I'm not just monologuing for no reason here. He calls himself Vengeance for a reason, and the reason is he's doing Batman wrong)

That feeling - that white-hot burning core of Righteous Fury - is the unexamined heart of many systems of morality that focus, not on doing good, but on exacting satisfying retribution on Bad People Who Deserve It, categorized as People Who I Can Hurt Without Feeling Bad Myself. It's a very tempting concept for people who have suffered at others' hands. That feeling, that powerful instinctual understanding of "that's unfair," is incredibly strong. In my opinion, most systems of ethics are built, not around relitigating what is Good and what is Bad per se, but in trying to shape and curb that bone-deep, unbelievably powerful desire to rend the flesh from the bones of your tormenters.

But I mentioned that feeling is susceptible to narrative reframing. This is, as I understand it, a huge part of lawyering. Tell the story of what happened using true events and adding no falsehoods, but highlight the parts that make it feel like your client is the one who is being treated unfairly. They're not an unsympathetic wrongdoer who you can punish without personal moral stain - they're a loving spouse, a parent of three adorable children, they have a really cute puppy, they donate to charity, they're a wonderful conversationalist, a kind friend, etc etc. All those things can also be true of people who do terrible things, but thinking about them defuses that White Hot Core by making us sympathize with the sympathetic parts of them.

This is incredibly well-understood in fiction. It's the whole reason the tropes Kick The Dog and Pet The Dog exist. When you want the audience to root for a character's destruction, leave aside any of their potential quiet moments of sympathy - their tragic backstory, their cute pet, their adorable relationship with their mom - and instead show them going out of their way to commit some minor act of petty cruelty, say Kicking The Dog. The audience will infer that this badness is 24/7 and they have no reason to curb their enthusiasm for Righteous Vengeance. But if the writer wants the audience to see a spark of good in them, to sympathize, to believe they can be redeemed, they'll highlight one of those small moments of charming kindness, and allow them to Pet The Dog instead.

Neither of these acts, in the grand scale, have any bearing on the morality of this person's actions. A pet dog doesn't counterbalance a razed village; a kicked dog doesn't negate a generous contribution to the local soup kitchen. Goodness and badness is not a linear scale added or subtracted to by opposing deeds. BUT showing them to an audience reframes them narratively, and THAT is what shapes the judgment of the White Hot Burning Core. In the space of fiction, this form of bottom-shelf emotional manipulation is one of the cleanest ways to get the audience to root for the messy destruction of what is ostensibly, in the universe of the fiction, a wholly complex and living person who definitely has reasons for everything they've done, even ones that could be framed sympathetically when shown.

Meanwhile, in the real world, ethics are an attempt to judge what is best in a given situation without trusting the White Hot Burning Core to make the call, no matter how compelling "but it would feel really good though" might seem. They try to give someone perspective, context, other priorities to consider. The White Hot Burning Core might want you to rip someone's arms off for driving slow when you've got important places to be, but Ethics can present a number of compelling reasons not to do that - even if it's just "ripping their arms off will definitely make me even more late." And yes, this can be a balance of Selfishness Vs Selflessness. You are one of the people whose wellbeing ethics is designed to make you prioritize improving even if it feels weird, and when all other things are equal, your own health and happiness can be the deciding factor. In a world with an overarching Moral Force that weighs the goodness of your soul by sifting through every grain of action and intent seeking negativity to punish you for, absolute selflessness to the point of self destruction would still probably be seen as Morally Wrong, simply because the universe is a better place with you in it trying your best.

Anyway, if doing the right thing was simple, easy and painless, we probably wouldn't have so many thousands of years of arguing about what it looks like. Good luck out there everybody 👍

[passingnotions]

Out of Office | Yeseo (ft. Mashiro)

smut, 2.9k words

“Who brought all that cake?” You walk up to the cubicle, mouth full and still taking another bite.

“Hm?” She continues typing a seemingly endless email.

“The one in the break room.”

“Oh, the intern.” She’s focused on the second monitor now, lost in some spreadsheet.

“You’re the intern.”

“The new intern.”

You shift your stance; raise a brow in anticipation.

“They’re in an onboarding meeting right now.” She tilts her head towards the conference rooms.

Through the blinds, though far, you can spot figures bathed in blue projector light. “Huh. alright.”

“Also, I got hired last month—come on.”

“Sure but you’re still under me—” You try, stumble through it. “You were, under me, last week.”

“That joke’s not landing.”

“Yeah, it isn’t.”

The room in the distance lights up. There’s movement, a handshake? They’re standing around and chatting.

“She’s your type.” She stops typing; looks up at you.

And you stop chewing. “Shiro, what am I supposed to make of that?”

“Just saying.” Her eyelashes bat a faux pout. “Hope I don’t get replaced?” 

“Catching feelings, are we?”

“Oh.” Tone breathy, thespian, and with a hand at her chest. “From our very first night.” 

A door opens at the end of the office space. You straighten up, finish what’s left of your pastry, and shoot a look towards Mashiro while heading over to your desk.

From where you sit, there’s not much to see. You listen to the shuffle of steps somewhere on the floor, to the casual chatter. There’s corporate laughter—measured, mechanical—and a lilt to a voice you hadn’t heard before. The sounds come and go. Close, then far, then close again: she’s getting introduced to everyone. 

Eventually: “oh, think we missed someone over on this corner?” Pretty platform heels clatter around to where you sit until finally revealing themselves. She’s a cheating five feet tall. Dark and elegant hair frames this darling, sweet look. Prettiest fucking cheeks on the planet. “Hello! I’m Kang Yeseo.” She extends a small hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” you manage, standing up and returning the gesture.

“Oh, I see you found the pastry tray I brought.” She looks at the small plate by your keyboard. Her smile is beaming. “Hope everything was to your liking!”

“Yeah—yeah.” Your best is a nonplussed nod. “It really is.”

You hear your boss call out over the divider wall. Says she’s the new intern. Starts tomorrow. Ah, I see, you reply. Your head tilts when you realize. The calendar marks Friday. “Working over the weekend?” 

“They said it’d be easier to learn because of the slower pace. Can’t say no to that!” She laughs. “I’ll be shadowing someone.” 

You work tomorrow.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you in the morning, then.”

“Oh, great! We’ll get to know each other fast!” She’s all verve—begins to walk away from view before finishing her own sentence. “Nice to meet you again. Gotta head back to the tour!” 

You collapse on your chair, processing. “Nice to meet you, too.”

~~

There’s a narrative step you miss, trip over. You’ll have to pick up the pieces sometime. They’re probably tangled in the locks of her hair, the glint in her eyes, or that flashing, disarming smile—

Okay, alright. It’s not romance, not by a longshot, but you do see her twirling the ends of her locks every once in a while, like she’s the one in love and, hey, sure. 

Because you fuck the girl so well that she’s consumed by the idea of you.

Mashiro strokes your ego over the week and Yeseo your cock, over the weekends. That’s your onboarding procedure, if anyone were to ask. 

Shiro says you’ll make Yeseo fall for you, that maybe you already have, that there’s no way those university boys give her anything worthwhile when it comes to attention. Salaryman, Mashiro says, has the money, the apartment, the free time, and god that cock.

You stop Mashiro—recommend she go into acting. Say it suits her. She asks, at some point, which angles you think the camera would best capture. Her face is on the mattress, ass at a complete diagonal opposite.

“This, right here.” You’re making a frame right behind her with your fingers, then catch her gaze in the full length mirror over to your right. “This is the one.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I bet.” Mashiro reaches her arms back, face still on the duvet. Her palms land flat on her ass, and with a gripping pull, she spreads open. 

Your arms fall to your sides—they settle, defeated—and you think it’s amusing that the bed frame sits so low to the ground. It makes you kneel, though Mashiro already makes you kneel without having to ask, regardless of whatever piece of furniture she’s propped up on. It’s less skill, more innate talent—like she was made for you, built, sculpted—but, yes, Mashiro has the skill, too. She’s well practiced on what makes you practically melt. You’ve run your hands over that piece of art a million times and it still has you sighing your deepest sighs when your knees finally hit the ground. 

With your palms replacing hers—ass and cunt kept spread open and waiting—Mashiro speaks through the reflection. “You look mesmerized.” 

“I am.” You can hear the smile in her voice and smile back. Your hands get busy, kneading.

Like a pup that’s excited to be played with, Mashiro wags it a little, to mess with you, because it throws your brain for a loop every single time. “Tongue, baby.” She pushes her whole body back a bit, tone sultry. “Come on.”

“When’s the last time I made you cum?” You ask.

“Every time,” she giggles out.

You give Mashiro a long, slow lick. Admire the luster. “No, as in—” she’s so close that you’re breathing her in—“when did you stay over last?” 

Before she gets a chance to inhale a response, you get to work. Sheets scrunch in her fists. “Ah,” Mashiro lets out gently. “It’s been more than a week.”

Your hands don’t let go. You’re pulling her onto your face and your tongue laps, laps, laps—lips locked. It’s, immediately, a mess. Spit, wetness. The taste is divine.

You take a second to breathe. “I missed you.” It comes out so, so low, like gravel, like the need to eat this woman out reverts you to only the most instinctual and primal. 

Your fingers are leaving impressions on her pale skin, you realize. You’re not even grabbing on that hard.

“I know you did.” She laughs. 

You go back in; she moans. It’s a whole thing. Your tongue runs flat from clit to rim and you’re unsure which one of you throbs the hardest. 

But Mashiro turns, eventually, flips herself over, and pulls a pillow under her head for support. She wants to look at you, in the reflection, face to face—loves to look at you when she cums. And you’ll make her, every time.

“Could come over more often,” she says, kittenish, and you know exactly where it’s headed. “But you’re always so busy.”

You tease a finger right over her folds. “Uh huh.” Slip it in.

Her breath hitches when you curl it at the right spot. You love messing with each other like that.

“You have a spare key, Shiro. Can come over any time.” Your lips are curled into a wicked smile, and you dive back in, lick her a couple more times, kiss her thighs, have her throw her head back in delicate bliss. 

“And walk in on you two?” She pulls your head up—stares. “I’d be devastated."

“Heartbroken, I’m sure.” You’re holding her gaze and putting another finger in; her hips buck. Fuck—you enjoy this as much as she does. 

She bites her lip and her eyes go narrow when you hit that spot again, letting your face go. It’s permission: make me, until my legs quiver, until I can’t fucking take it anymore, please.

You slide in another, because you’re allowed, and frankly, because you enjoy the obscenity of it. She’s stretched out and you simply stare. In, out, a bit of a curl again, as much as three digits permit. You’ve heard Mashiro say worse, to be fair, curse out heaven and hell. Knowing that you could take her much further feeds your ego. 

“Bet you couldn’t bear it,” you’re saying, straightening up, fingers still in her cunt. You stare at her pretty legs, folded and spread open, giving you all the damn room in the world. “Watching me fill her up with a load that you’d want for yourself.”

The little whimper when you slip your fingers out is as cute as it is profane. You’d do anything for her, for less than that. To watch her unravel every time is enough of a reward.

“Is that what you do?” Mashiro catches her breath, finally. “Pump the little thing full until she leaks?”

You settle your knees on the mattress, aligning your stiff cock, and nodding. Guilty as charged. You decide it’s best to have her cumming with your length inside her messy-wet folds. “You get so slutty when you’re jealous.”

Your cock starts back on the path that your fingers just explored as she quips, “bet you don’t even wash the bedding before it’s my turn.” Mashiro’s nodding along at your slow thrust. She’s all play, still, but your cock’s splitting her open bit by bit. Attention’s divided, to say the least. “You’re such a whore.”

“Baby,” you coo, proud because her gaze falters. You’re halfway and she’s already slipping a hand down to play with her clit—though it’s not until you sink to the base with a firm push that you take her breath away. She does this eyes-shut exhale. 

And no, it’s not romance here, either.

“Only you get the bed.” 

~~

It’s been a couple of Fridays since you last worked weekends, and any excuse is a good excuse for Yeseo. Company outing after work? Take her home. New to this part of town? Poor girl, you’ll show her around (and take her home). Ah, too tired to walk to hers tonight, and yours is only one train stop away? The pair of jeans she has on today, by the way—christ—bless casual Fridays. You do, in fact, take those home, too. 

How impossibly fortunate. A straight flush. You have the girl cockdrunk for a whole fucking month. Not to say that she doesn’t have you similarly obsessed. That much goes without saying.

And, again, there’s some fill-in-the-blanks section that has to go unfinished or we’ll never really get to—

You both wake up at midnight—yes, midnight, because you had crashed on your sectional only six hours prior. There was actual work to be done this week, on top of the fact that Mashiro went home with you three out of those five, exhausting days. She gives you weekends off; calls it the babysitting gig. You tell her to not do that.

Now, Yeseo’s in the shower. The scene is cut-to, a tad jarring and sudden. Interior apartment, Saturday, zero hundred hours. You have the noise floor where it’s all ambient sound out in the living room, your kitchen appliances buzz, the aircon kicks in. Nice and quiet, until the figurative camera sends it down the hall and past your bedroom door. Wet white noise fades in. Rhythmic… clapping? 

There aren’t that many useful euphemisms from here on out. Everyone has read this script before.

The intern’s against glass. It’s a heavenly slope, really, the way her upper torso is flat on the shower door. With hands braced at either side of her tits, her lower back arches out—legs tensed, tiptoed—and her ass angles out just so. It’s plush, it’s deadly. Your hands are settled on that striking indent where her hips and waist meet while your own hips push, thrust, and press against her round, easy cheeks. 

Fuck—

Yeseo pushes back in kind. The tempo is practiced and well known to the both of you, though there’s a key difference. The camera wouldn’t pick up on it, not from the angle it would find itself at. And you yourself can’t figure out if this right here is where you’ll end it—where the scene cuts.

A little longer, you’re telling yourself. 

See: contraceptives—left the whole pack back at the office. It’s the whole reason why you decided to fall asleep in the first place. Yeseo said something about buying some right as you both stepped through the front door but your mouths sufficed for the subsequent half hour. Some dinner, that was.

And because there’s no self-control, she didn’t have to do much to persuade you into taking a shower before heading to the closest pharmacy, or gas station, or anywhere that happened to be open at this ungodly hour and—

Again, no polite terminology here. 

You’ve been fucking her raw for the past ten minutes. Her fertile arousal gathers at the base of your cock every time you piston in, in, in—so messy, smeared, depraved—and your thumbs leave flush-red marks whenever they press onto her smooth, luxury skin.

So you cum, naturally. Flood her womb. It’s filthy, because Yeseo is at that point, too—the girl put a finger over her clit a minute ago and ran it in circles until her eyes went hazy, went dumb. Until her thus-far dulcet moans turned into half breaths and broken whimpers. There’s a ‘yes’ in there somewhere, a flash in the pan, brief and hissed, as the tension in her chest breaks into more cries of pleasure with your name intertwined.

You groan, then, slipping out only a moment after and holding your cock like it’s fucking expired. The feeling is an overstimulated frenzy—electric, and still jolting. Out of all things, however, what fucks with you is not what you did, but how it looks: her figure shivers as she plants her heels back on shower tiles; hot and sticky white lands next to her feet. 

It reeks of debauchery—hasty, impatient. Yeseo’s cunt leaks and all you think about is dipping back in for seconds.

But the scene cuts. Shower steam continues to rise and, with it, your thoughts fade into the next.

~~

She’s reading something that you’re sure is not right. Perhaps it’s not wholly accurate. It’s also noon now, for what it’s worth. the sleep’s polyphasic—a total blur—as it always tends to be over the Saturdays and the Sundays. 

“Seventy-two hours,” Yeseo says. She’s sitting on your kitchen counter, eating grapes. Girl hasn’t had a single piece of clothing on since the day before.

“You’re kidding.” 

“Says it can be effective even five days after.” Her mouth’s full. “Damn.”

You close the fridge and walk over to her. “Are you reading an AI summary?” 

“Well, it’s summarizing the links below that, so.” She turns her phone towards you. 

Levono-whatever-the-fuck’s the active ingredient—Plan B. The morning-after pill.

“Uh huh,” you say, incredulous. You’re also sweating, almost.

“We’ll get it Monday morning,” Yeseo ensures. “Grape?”

“Can’t we head out right now?”

She feeds you the one, hovers another in front of your lips. “I’m doing a round of laundry.” 

The bunch that you bought this week happens to be seed-in. 

“And that stops you—” You swallow. “How?”

“The condoms are in my duffle bag, the one that has the rest of my clothes?”

“Ah,” you discern. “The one you left at the office.”

“The one I told you,” she asserts, “to get for me before heading out.”

Open your mouth. You’re gullible by choice, you tell yourself—Yeseo feeds you the second. 

She has one set of clothes, one, and it won’t be ready for another thirty minutes. It crosses your mind that you forgot the color of her underwear, at this point. Never properly memorized it. You figure it foreshadows what’s left of the weekend; settle on that fate.

“Wanna put on the movie I mentioned the other day?” She hops off the laminate and walks towards the couch. The edge of the counter is imprinted on her upper thighs and it’s safe to say you’ll be having to replay the film some other day, at a time where there’s at least one layer of fabric to dissuade you from the inevitable. Not like that ever does anything.

You hum. “Not a bad idea.”

Yeseo stands so casually in your living room, working the remote, nothing on. The curtains are pulled back and a noontide shine contours her shape as if the heavens were on a campaign to meddle with you at every possible turn. Your eyes are glued to each and every divot on her skin, to the curves and the lines that lead to them. Her hip cocks off to the right and it has your head tilting to the left—could get you dizzy just like that.

You try to determine where to start again, though walking over to her, it’s not much of a conscious decision. Your palm lands and unabashedly grabs the heft of her ass. No hesitation. It spills through your fingers—has you hard in an instant.

“Should be fun,” she says, absentminded. With the way the selection box goes over and around and anywhere but any of the streaming apps, you know she’s not quite paying attention to the TV, either.

You, regardless, still ask: “what’s it about, again?”

The answer to the next is no.

“Does it matter?”

Superfluous, and somewhat of a spoiler, but this does snowball until the aforementioned Monday morning. Sunday will have you running the same scenes. The blocking will maybe be a bit different, though the outcomes are all the same: you suck at pulling out. 

And you’ll tell yourself it’s by choice.

[sincerelybubbles]

Caught in the Teeth

James Potter is sunlight—warm, golden, impossible to ignore. And you? You’ve spent your life convinced you’re anything but worthy of his orbit. But James has never been one to let something slip through his fingers without a fight, and he’ll prove it, even if he has to bare his teeth to do it. Warnings: Allusions to the body, blood, hunger, and longing in a way that may feel emotionally heavy. wc: 5.2k

James doesn’t seem deterred by your skepticism. If anything, he looks more determined, eyes bright with something unreadable, something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. It would be easier if this were a joke. If he were just playing at it, letting his natural charm smooth over the edges of something that isn’t real.

But his gaze doesn’t waver.

"I’m serious," he says again, quieter this time, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes you grip your books just a little tighter. Like if you don’t hold onto something solid, you might lose your footing entirely.

"James." You exhale his name, like it might be enough to remind him what you are—what you aren’t. You don’t belong in the whirlwind of James Potter’s affections, in the grand, elaborate way he loves things. James falls fast, hard, and all at once, and you are steady. You do not dive headfirst. You do not know how to be the kind of person who gets caught.

But James only grins, tilting his head slightly, eyes still locked on yours. "I know what you’re thinking," he murmurs.

You shake your head. "You don’t."

"I do." He takes a half-step closer, and it’s nothing, really—nothing but space disappearing between you, nothing but the warmth of him seeping into the cold air around you. But it feels like everything. "You think I’m playing some game, that I just love a challenge. You think if I got you, I’d get bored."

You swallow, looking away, because it’s true. It’s exactly what you think.

James exhales, and for the first time, he almost sounds frustrated. Not in an angry way—just in that way he gets when he’s trying to explain something that matters and no one is listening. "You’re wrong, you know," he says. "I wouldn’t get bored of you."

It’s a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. You can feel the weight of it settling in your chest, in the space between your ribs.

"You fall in love too fast," you whisper.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "No. I just know when something’s real." His fingers brush against yours, barely there, a fleeting touch that could have been an accident—except it isn’t. "And this is real."

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does, hate that he sees it, that he hears it in the way your next inhale stutters slightly. You shake your head again, as if that might be enough to shake the feeling away.

"James."

"I’ll wait," he interrupts, voice steady. "If you need time, I’ll wait."

And that—that—is what truly unravels you. Because James Potter has never been the kind of person who waits. But here he is, standing in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, telling you that for you, he would.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

||||

It continues over breakfast.

James slides into the seat beside you, close enough that his knee knocks against yours beneath the table. You go stiff, eyes flickering to the rest of the Marauders—Sirius lounging across from you with an infuriating smirk, Remus with his usual quiet amusement, Peter already half-distracted by his plate. None of them look surprised.

You force yourself to focus on your toast, even as James leans in, voice just loud enough for the people around you to hear. "You know, I’ve been thinking about it a lot," he muses, stealing a bit of bacon off your plate like he’s been doing it forever. "You and me, dove. I think we’d be good together."

The words send heat crawling up your neck, but you shake your head, exhaling sharply. "James." His name comes out tight, more exasperation than anything else, but it only makes him grin wider.

"I’m serious." The table falls silent, James winks. "I mean, I'm James, obviously, but I'm also serious."

"You're never serious," you counter, refusing to fall into his jokes, speaking barely above a whisper. You can't stand the eyes on you, sure the other boys are studying your every reaction to use for teasing material later.

"About you, I am."

There’s a clatter of silverware as Sirius dramatically drops his fork. "This again?" He sighs, loud and exaggerated. "Mate, just put her out of her misery and snog her already."

Your face burns, and you glare at him, but James only laughs, unfazed. "I would, but she insists I’m not actually interested," he says, as if the idea is absurd. As if he isn’t James Potter, the boy everyone watches when he walks into a room, the one people whisper about, the one who is certainly not looking at you.

You shake your head, barely resisting the urge to push your chair back and flee. "You’re making a scene."

"Good," James says, undeterred. "Maybe if I make a big enough one, you’ll actually believe me."

You swallow hard, trying not to let the words sink in. "Why me?" It slips out before you can stop it, quiet and unsure, but James hears it. Of course he does.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked onto yours like they hold all the answers. "Because you make me nervous," he admits, and that—that stops you cold.

James Potter doesn’t get nervous.

Certainly not now, not as he holds your gaze, eyes bright behind his glasses. He doesn't look nervous, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

You ignore, of course, the way his hands clench the corner of his table, a possible tell for something lingering behind his blasse exterior.

"I think about you when I shouldn’t," he continues, softer now, like it’s just the two of you, even with everyone listening. "I look for you first when I walk into a room. I make up excuses to talk to you, even if it’s just to hear your voice." He tilts his head, like he’s studying you, like he’s waiting for you to finally see what he’s been trying to tell you all along. "So, yeah, I’d say I’m pretty well gone on you."

Your fingers curl around the edge of your sweater, gripping the fabric like it might hold you together. The weight of his words presses against you, sinking into the places you’ve tried to keep protected.

Despite the late night conversations with Lily, insisting this is a bad idea, you feel yourself faltering.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

You lower your gaze, shaking your head. "It’s not real," you murmur. "I'm far too intune with your jokes, Potter. I know a prank when I see one."

James exhales slowly, and you brace yourself for frustration, for exasperation, for him to finally get tired of proving himself.

But instead, his hand brushes against yours under the table—gentle, steady. "I’ll just have to keep proving it to you, then."

And Merlin help you, but you believe him.

||||

It’s late. The sky is painted with the last dregs of sunset, streaks of pink and orange fading into the deep blue of night. The Quidditch pitch is empty, save for the figure circling above you—James, of course, looping lazily through the air like he has all the time in the world.

You don’t know why you agreed to this.

Actually, you do. James had caught you in the common room, full of his usual bravado, promising that if you didn’t come to watch his practice, he’d just have to resort to desperate measures—like standing on the Gryffindor table at breakfast and declaring his undying love in front of everyone.

"I don’t think that’s an appropriate use of the word ‘desperate,’" you’d muttered, trying to focus on your book.

James had grinned, victorious, because you hadn’t said no.

So here you are, sitting on the grass at the edge of the pitch, hugging your knees to your chest, watching as he tilts into a steep dive, the wind roaring in his ears. You know he’s showing off, and you hate the way your stomach twists every time he pulls out of a particularly reckless maneuver, a little voice in the back of your head whispering what if he falls?

He doesn’t, of course. He’s James Potter.

And, as if sensing your gaze, he makes a final sharp turn and lands right in front of you, dismounting in one fluid motion.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks, pushing his hair out of his face, still grinning like he owns the world.

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. "You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming?" He waggles his brows, twirling his broom between his fingers. "Devastatingly handsome? The love of your life?"

You scoff, looking away. "You’re incorrigible."

"Big words. Pretty ones, too. Just say the word, dove, and I’ll let you tutor me sometime. Preferably in a secluded corner of the library where I can stare at your lips while you try to explain whatever it is you’re always scribbling in that notebook of yours."

Your heart stutters, and he knows it. You can see it in the way his grin softens, in the way his eyes flicker to your mouth like he’s imagining it now.

You force yourself to keep your voice steady. "You should go back to practice."

James hums, tapping his broom against his shoulder. "Nah. Think I’ve done enough."

He drops onto the grass beside you, stretching his legs out like he plans to stay for a while. You shift, suddenly hyperaware of his presence, of the warmth radiating from his skin, of the way he turns to look at you like there’s no one else in the world.

"You ever been on a broom before?" he asks, and the casualness of his tone is almost convincing. Almost.

You frown, suspicious. "Once or twice."

"Good," he says, pushing himself back onto his feet before offering you a hand. "Because I think it’s time you take a ride with me."

Your stomach plummets. "James—"

"Come on," he urges, tilting his head. "One lap. You and me. Hold on tight and I’ll do the rest."

You hesitate, looking between him and the broom like it’s some kind of test. And maybe it is. Maybe this is just another one of his ploys, another attempt to break past the walls you’ve so carefully built.

But when you meet his eyes, there’s nothing mocking there, nothing insincere. Just that same infuriating patience, the same quiet certainty that he’s had all along.

And that’s what makes you reach for his hand.

James grins, pulling you to your feet, steadying you as he swings a leg over his broom before patting the space in front of him. "Come on, then," he murmurs, softer now. "I’ve got you."

You take a shaky breath and climb on.

James shifts closer, arms caging you in as his hands grip the broom handle just beside yours. You can feel his breath at the back of your neck, warm and steady. "See?" he murmurs, voice just below your ear. "Not so bad."

You barely have time to process it before he kicks off the ground, and suddenly, you’re soaring.

The wind bites at your skin, your stomach lurching as the world below shrinks. Your fingers clutch at the broom instinctively, knuckles white, but James—James is steady behind you, unshaken. His arms are firm on either side of you, his chest pressed close to your back, solid and warm.

"You’re alright," he murmurs, just beneath your ear. You can barely hear him over the rush of the wind, but you feel the words more than anything, sinking into your bones. "I’ve got you."

And you believe him. That’s the terrifying part.

James Potter is many things—brilliant, untouchable, unshakable—but he has never once let you fall.

You don’t let yourself think too hard about the weight of that.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling against the cold air whipping against your cheeks. "I hate this," you mutter, but your voice is breathless, betraying you.

James laughs, his chin brushing your shoulder as he dips the broom lower. "No, you don’t."

And you don’t. Not really. It’s just him. His hands over yours, the way he’s tucked close behind you like you matter. Like you belong there. The way his warmth is the only thing keeping the cold from settling in too deep.

It’s the way it always is with him.

He is warmth. He is light. He is James Potter, and he is everything you are not.

It clenches at something deep inside your chest, that awful, aching reminder—James is James.

You have seen him in every possible light, have watched the way rooms shift when he enters, how people gravitate to him without hesitation. He belongs in the center of things, his presence too big for the edges of the world where you reside. He is brilliant. A force of nature, undeniable, blindingly golden.

And you?

You are not the kind of girl James Potter should want.

You’re not the one who turns heads when she walks into a room, not the kind who pulls people into her orbit without trying. You’re not outgoing, not effortlessly charming. You hesitate where James leaps. You second-guess where he is certain. He is so sure of himself, of what he wants, and you—

You are not.

You are not sure that you are worth this. Not sure that you are worth him.

The thought makes your stomach twist, guilt curdling beneath your ribs. James deserves someone who can match his light, who can meet him where he stands, arms wide open, unafraid. He deserves someone who loves as fully as he does, someone who doesn’t hesitate before diving into the deep end. Someone who doesn’t hold back.

And that isn’t you.

You hesitate. You hold back.

And James—James loves so wholly, so recklessly, that the idea of disappointing him makes your throat tighten.

What if you ruin this? What if you let yourself believe him, let yourself reach for him, and it’s a mistake? What if he changes his mind? What if you lose him entirely?

What if losing him this way—bit by bit, in small moments, in long glances and whispered confessions—is still easier than losing him all at once?

"Oi, stop thinking so hard."

James’s voice pulls you back, warm and teasing, his arms tightening just slightly around you.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. "I wasn’t—"

"You were," he says, and somehow, it isn’t an accusation. Just an observation, a knowing smile in his voice. He dips the broom slightly, letting it glide through the air with ease, smooth and effortless. "You always do, love."

Love.

It’s an accident, probably. A slip of the tongue. A nothing sort of thing.

And yet it lodges in your chest like something sharp, something dangerous.

James shifts slightly behind you, the movement sending a fresh wave of warmth down your spine. His chin nearly brushes against your temple, his voice softer now. "Tell me what you’re thinking."

I think you are everything good in the world, and I am afraid to break it.

You wet your lips, staring out at the empty sky in front of you. "I think," you say, forcing your voice to stay even, "that I’d like to get back on the ground now."

James is quiet for a beat. Not in disappointment, not in frustration. Just quiet.

Then, finally, he sighs. "Alright, dove."

He guides the broom downward, slow and steady, easing you both toward the ground. His grip never falters, never shifts from where it anchors you. And when your feet touch solid earth again, when he swings off the broom and turns to face you, you brace yourself for something.

A quip. A knowing look. A playful shove to break the tension you refuse to name.

But James just watches you.

And then, softer than anything, he murmurs, "You know I’m not going anywhere, yeah?"

Your fingers curl into your sleeves, nails pressing into your palms. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

Because you don’t know that. You don’t know anything.

All you know is that James Potter is warm and bright and golden, and you are terrified of losing the only light keeping you awake.

So instead of answering, you muster a small, fleeting smile. "Goodnight, James."

And before he can say anything else, before you can let yourself falter any further, you turn and walk away.

||||

Weeks pass, and you're certain James has given up.

He's been ever-steady, a lingering presence just at the corner of your life. He's in classes, he's in the hallways, he's in your dreams.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. That the space between you is necessary, that the ache in your chest will dull with time. That James Potter is a passing thing, a bright light that was never meant to stay.

And yet—

He is still there.

Not pressing, not pushing, just... there.

You catch him watching you in class, the tilt of his head, the crease between his brows when you don’t meet his gaze. You hear his voice before you see him, laughter warm in the space between conversations, lingering at the edges of every room. When you pass him in the corridors, he falls into step beside you like he belongs there, like he always has. He nudges your shoulder in greeting, tosses a casual alright, love? into the air like it doesn’t set something alight inside you.

And it should feel different now. It should feel like he's given up. Should feel like he’s moved on, like he’s let you slip back into the background where you belong.

But it doesn’t.

Because James hasn’t given up.

He’s just waiting.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you do what you always do—you pretend not to notice. You fold your arms tighter across your chest when he looks at you too long, you take careful steps backward when he leans in too close, you laugh at all the wrong times just to keep the air light. You keep your head down, keep your hands to yourself, keep the walls steady.

You keep pretending.

But James Potter is not someone you can ignore forever.

It happens on an evening when the corridors are quieter than usual, the last rush of students fading toward the common rooms. You’re gathering your things from the library, stacking your books in your arms when you feel him before you see him.

"Alright, love?"

You don’t startle. His voice is too familiar for that. You just exhale slowly and turn. "James."

And there he is, leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

You glance behind him, expecting to see Sirius, Remus, maybe Peter lingering somewhere close, but the corridor is empty. Just you and him and the silence between you.

He smiles, and it’s softer than usual. Less cocky, less playful—just James.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he says, tilting his head, watching you carefully.

You shift the books in your arms. "I haven’t."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Liar."

You inhale sharply, grip tightening around the covers. "James—"

"Just tell me," he says, stepping closer, voice quiet but steady. "Tell me what I did wrong."

Your breath catches in your throat. "What?"

"You won’t look at me anymore." His voice is gentle, but there’s something beneath it, something aching. "You barely talk to me unless you have to. You keep running, and I—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it."

You stare at him, heart pounding. "You didn’t do anything, James."

"Then why are you pushing me away?"

Because you can’t have this. Because you don’t deserve him. Because you’re terrified that if you let yourself believe him, if you let yourself want him, it will end in ruin.

Because James Potter is everything good in the world, and you are afraid you’ll break him.

"I just…" You swallow hard, throat tight, and shake your head. "You don’t have to—"

"Yes, I do."

James steps forward, and you don’t move away this time.

"Don’t you get it?" His voice is quiet but certain, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s already been decided. "I want to."

You can’t breathe.

His gaze searches yours, warm and steady, and for once, you don’t look away.

"You don’t have to want me back," he says, so gentle it makes your ribs ache. "But stop acting like I don’t mean it."

Your throat tightens.

You should push him away. You should tell him he’s wrong. That you aren’t worth this, that he should find someone who is.

But you can’t say any of it.

Because James Potter is looking at you like you matter. Like he’s already made his choice, like he’s just waiting for you to make yours.

And you don’t know how to do anything except want.

So you stand there, caught in the weight of it, in the warmth of him, in the unbearable truth of everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

And for the first time, you don’t walk away.

"I mean, Merlin. I've been chasing you for weeks. I can't sleep, I can hardly eat. The teams been ragging on me for playing like shit. I know, I'm a lot. I'm loud, I'm impulsive, I really don't deserve you. But give me a chance. I can prove I'm worth you dove."

You stare at him, throat tight, words stuck somewhere between your ribs.

James Potter, golden boy, brightest thing in any room, James fucking Potter—is standing in front of you, unraveled.

His shoulders are tense, fingers restless where they hover at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. His usual confidence—the easy charm, the practiced bravado—is nowhere to be found. This is him, stripped raw, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen.

And it terrifies you.

Because James is supposed to be sure. James is supposed to be steady, unwavering, untouchable. Not… this. Not standing here with his heart in his hands, waiting for you to decide whether or not you’ll break it.

"I know I'm not easy," he exhales, running a hand through his hair, making a mess of it like he always does when he’s too wound up. "I know I talk too much, and I think with my heart first, and I don’t always know when to stop—" He pauses, swallowing hard, eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something, some sign that you’re listening, that you hear him.

"I just—I keep thinking, maybe if I was different, if I was quieter, if I wasn’t so much, then maybe you’d let me have you." His voice is barely above a whisper now, raw and uneven. "But I don’t know how to be anything but this."

Your breath catches.

James Potter, who walks into every room like he owns it, who never seems to doubt himself for a second—doubts this. Doubts you.

And you hate it.

You hate that he’s standing here, picking himself apart like you’re something better, something higher than him, like he hasn’t been the brightest part of your world for years. Like he isn’t exactly the kind of person you should want, if only you weren’t so afraid.

"James," you whisper, and your voice wavers.

He exhales, shaking his head. "You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know. I just—" His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting away. "I love you, you know?"

The words punch the air from your lungs.

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s inevitable, like it’s just fact.

And maybe, for him, it is.

Maybe he’s known longer than you. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to see it, to believe it.

But you don’t know how to hold something like that.

Because James Potter is love without hesitation. He is all in, always. And you—

You don’t know how to be loved like that.

"I can’t," you whisper, barely choking the words out.

His face falls, just slightly, but he nods. "Okay."

"James—"

"It’s okay," he says again, and somehow, he’s still gentle, still trying to make this easier for you when it should be the other way around. "I just—needed you to know."

He takes a step back, and something inside you lurches, something instinctive, something that wants to reach for him, to tell him to wait.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So you let him go.

And it feels like ripping your own heart out.

James takes a step back. Then another.

And then he turns.

And walks away.

No hesitation, no lingering glance over his shoulder. Just leaving.

Something in your chest lurches, a sharp, ugly thing clawing its way up your throat, twisting through your ribs like vines tightening around fragile bone. You can feel your pulse thrumming at your temples, pressing against your skin like it’s trying to escape.

Your body knows before your mind does.

A breath—sharp, uneven—catches in your throat, and then you move.

Your legs stumble before they run, like your body is caught between hesitation and instinct, but once you start, you can’t stop.

Your feet hit the stone floor hard, the sound of them echoing too loud in the empty corridor. The air is thick, choking, like you’re running against a tide, pushing against something unseen but heavy. Your blood is thrumming, rushing beneath your skin, beating against the cage of your ribs like a desperate thing, like it knows—

You can’t let him leave.

"James."

His name rips from your throat, raw and desperate, but he doesn’t stop.

His pace quickens, and something inside you clenches, pulses. You chase after him, heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Your fingers twitch at your sides, reaching for him, but he’s always just out of reach.

"James, stop—"

He doesn’t.

It feels like drowning. Like something vital is slipping between your fingers, water rushing through a clenched fist, a slow-motion tragedy you can see but can’t stop.

The hall stretches before you, long and endless, and James is slipping further and further away.

Your throat is dry. Your chest burns. Your blood screams.

And then—

Then something breaks.

"James, please."

His steps falter.

It’s barely a moment, barely a hesitation, but it’s enough.

You push forward, lungs burning, body aching, and reach for him, finally catching his wrist. Your fingers curl around his pulse, warm and alive, and the contact sends a shock through your bones, something deep and primal, something that roots you.

He stills.

His back is to you, shoulders tense beneath his sweater, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself together, like one wrong move might shatter him entirely.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know.

Only that his skin is warm, and his pulse is steady beneath your fingers, and that if you let go now, you’ll never forgive yourself.

So you don’t.

You swallow hard, pressing your fingertips against the inside of his wrist, feeling the blood rushing beneath his skin, proof of him, of his existence, of this.

"James," you whisper, softer now.

His breath shudders. You feel it, more than you hear it.

"I—" Your voice wavers, words tangled between your ribs, a mess of longing and fear and want want want.

He turns.

Slowly, like he’s afraid to look at you, like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear.

And you—

You break.

Because he’s right there.

James Potter, with his flushed cheeks and furrowed brows and parted lips, looking at you like he doesn’t know whether to hope or to hurt.

Like he’s trying not to need.

Like you aren’t already his.

Your throat is too tight, your heart hammering against your ribs, your hands shaking. You feel it in every inch of your body, the pull of something inevitable, something larger than just want.

James swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Don’t do this if you don’t mean it."

The words are careful, controlled, but his eyes—

His eyes burn.

And you think—blood is not the only thing that keeps a body alive.

It’s this.

This ache, this yearning, this thing between you that has always been reaching, always been growing, always been something you were too afraid to name.

And now, here you are, standing on the edge of it, the weight of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, the shape of his name forming behind your teeth, and—

You take a breath.

And fall.

||||

It settles into your bones like warmth after winter.

Loving James.

It doesn’t strike like lightning, doesn’t drown like a flood. It seeps in slow, curling around your ribs, pouring into the hollow spaces of your chest like honey pooling in a jar—thick, golden, steady.

You feel it in the quiet moments, in the small things.

The way his fingers find yours beneath the breakfast table, tracing soft, lazy patterns against your palm. The way he grins into your neck when he wakes up, nuzzling into you like he’s still half-dreaming, like even unconscious, you’re the thing he wants most. The way he tugs at the hem of your sweater when you’re standing too far away, like he’s anchoring himself to you, like if he lets go, he’ll drift.

James loves the way the sun rises—slow and inevitable, golden in the way that means something—and you think, maybe, that’s how he loves you too.

He is warmth, always. Even in the dead of winter, even when the castle corridors are drafty and cold, even when you’re tucked beneath layers of blankets, your feet still frozen from the stone floors—James is warm.

And you drink him in like a starved thing, like a flower turning toward the sun, like a body that has been aching for heat its entire life.

"You’re staring," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, arm slung heavy across your waist.

You hum, tucked beneath the covers, fingers drifting absently over the plane of his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, rhythmic, lulling. You press your fingers there, curling them just slightly, like you could dig past skin and muscle, past blood and bone, past everything solid and reach the grotesque, beating heart of him.

As if you don’t already have it.

James exhales, tilting his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes still heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep. His lips curve, slow and lazy, a smile meant only for you.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, and it isn’t a question.

You feel it in your bones. In the honey-thick heat of his body, in the quiet of the early morning, in the way your heart swells and swells and swells.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I am."

James hums, pleased, and tucks you closer, pressing his lips against your hair.

And you let yourself sink into it.

The warmth. The ease.

The love.

Like honey. Like sunlight. Like something that has always, always been yours.

[dameronology]

marvel men + love languages

steve rogers - physical touch + words of affi

the sacred combo!! steve is a clingy mf - either always having his arms wrapped around his s.o, a hand on their leg or on their waist, and if he's not with them, he'll be texting you all day, asking how you are and just chatting. steve has had to learn to live every day like it's his last, so he'll never go to work, bed, or even to the shops, without telling you he loves you. it's just part of his routine, really.

bucky barnes - acts of service

bucky is not very good with words, or with expressing himself. even before hydra, it was something he struggled with. so, acts of service are his main love language. it can be little things - making coffee in the morning, putting the laundry away when he knows you're busy - or bigger things, like taking your car into the shop when you forget, or building new furniture, or shaking down your weird co-worker who was kinda mean the other day. he finds so much purpose in just making your life easier (in a healthy way!!).

sam wilson - quality time

sam is a man of quality time. he has to work away quite a lot and is always on the go with work and his tasks, but when he does see you - and he makes sure it's a fair amount - he tries to make it count. hell, it doesn't even matter what you do, as long as he's with you. sam does try to make sure you're always having a good balance of chill time and fun activities though, so he always plans the best day.

frank castle - words of affirmation + gifts

aight this might seem weird bc frank is not very good with words (try and make him form a sentence without a swear word or abbreviation, i dare you) but the ones he does say, he always means. especially when he says that he loves you and would probably kill for you. but, it's frank's famously bad way with words that make you realise how much he loves you - because you're the only person he will verbally open up to and be a complete and open book with. as for gifts, every single one he has ever bought you has been the most thoughtful, sweet things; stuff you wouldn't even think to buy yourself. it's just a testament for how well he knows you.

matt murdock - physical touch

this one feels fairly obvious tbh, because alongside his hearing, matt's touch is his the sense he relies on most. he loves your voice and the way you sound but most of all, he loves the way you feel. whether it's the feeling of your skin against his, your fingers all tangled up, or when you kiss him, he just fucking loves it. physical touch is matt's favourite way of knowing you.

[valyrianvibranium]

DRAGON DREAMS.

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Monthly nightmares have already plagued you way before your wedding, even though your grandfather has always addressed them as dragon dreams rather than nightmares. But you and your husband both know you’re not gifted with such abilities.

WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (uncle/niece), nightmares, slight angst, fluff

WORDS: 625

NOTES: this was requested by @marthawrites. Hope you still like it! 💕

It’s impossible for you to run.

Your feet are firmly planted on the ground, not moving regardless of you tugging and pulling at them to lift them and escape the brown dragon in front of you. Even your voice catches in your throat, unable to scream when the large mouth of Sheepstealer snaps towards you, the sharp teeth appearing even more intimidating with the light of the moon reflecting from them.

You stir awake, beads of sweat forming along your hairline and in the valley between your breasts. A hand on your mouth is meant to stifle your screams and sobs, not wanting to wake up your husband. Your breathing is heavy, and it takes you a few moments to adjust to the darkness of your chambers as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

Still half asleep, Aemond rolls onto his side and snakes his arm around your waist to pull you into his embrace, your head resting against his chest as his nose nuzzles into your hair.

“Bad dream?” It’s more a statement than a question, because your husband knows the answer. Monthly nightmares have already plagued you way before your wedding, even though your grandfather has always addressed them as dragon dreams rather than nightmares.

But you and Aemond know you’re not gifted with such abilities, it’s just that your mind has a lot to process with the rising tension between both sides of your family.

His presence always works wonders, the warmth radiating off his body and his scent slowing your panicked breathing and the turmoil inside of your mind, allowing you to melt into him.

While Aemond’s hand cups the back of your neck, his fingers apply just a bit of pressure to your stiff muscles in order to release the pent up tension, and you find yourself being able to speak again.

“I—It‘s…,” you stammer, your breathing still causing you to stutter through a sentence. “Sheep…Sheepstealer,” you sigh, “he… he...”

A gentle nod reassures you to continue as you crane your neck to look up at him.

“We wanted to fly to Dragonstone,” you sniff, panic settling in your bones again at just remembering what has happened. “Vhagar was already high up in the sky, when… and when I wanted to mount him, h… he…”

Aemond brings his hand to the back of your head and holds you against his body to calm you down. “He ate you?” he finishes the sentence for you, and you just nod hurriedly, mumbling a ‘yes‘ against his chest.

Most people, including your parents, perceive Aemond as cold and ignorant, and the gods know he can be like that. You have thought that too for the longest time, or rather from the moment he has lost his eye to the moment your courtship has been made official, but you have learned to see the genuine intent behind the things he does, hear the subtle changes in his voice, and suddenly he was just as attentive as any other man around, if not even a bit more.

Aemond kisses the crown of your head before speaking, “Your bond is strong, my love, and you know he would never do that.” And he is right. Even before you’ve bonded with Sheepstealer, the dragon never showed any ill-will toward you. He always was curious, despite the many failed attempts of claiming him other people had tried before.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you mumble. I love you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” comes the reply.

That Aemond’s grip doesn’t loosen around you makes it easier to find sleep again, and while your soft snores already fill his ears, he nuzzles his nose into your hair to take in your scent, thinking about a way to put this misery to an end.

Aemond taglist: @persephonerinyes @dr-aegon @schniiipsel @thekinslayed @baizzhu @legitalicat @eponaartemisa @peachysunrize @blackswxnn @odairtrqsh @mfedits

[ridingtorohan]

Armin, Jean, Eren and Mikasa overhearing

their crush saying "why would I tell them that I like them? I can't compete with (Annie/Mikasa/Eren)".

-> Masterlist - Join the taglist! &lt;-

Content Warning: Self-loathing under Armin's section.

Armin's brain completely stutters to a stop the moment he overhears it, his ribs feeling like they might concave at the slightest moment. He's overwhelmed and flustered, unable to look you in the eyes for the days to come, regardless if you knew he overheard or not. Stewing in it comes easy; talking to you about it is another.

Ever since the Scouts reclaimed Shiganshina, he's been plagued with self doubt. With feeling inadequate and so much self loathing that it's hard to put the pieces back together. Talking to Annie wasn't anything important to him- not like you were.

He was visiting Annie's crystal because he felt flawed, a mistake. A part of him ached to be needed, to satisfy that part of him that wanted to justify what they did to her. That thought: if Annie could be salvaged, couldn't he? That he wasn't a monster because of what happened.

With you it was different; he could express his fears and vulnerabilities. No one else had seen this side to him; the drive to be better, who saw him at his lowest and drove him to excel. Annie was an ideal, a ghost that he couldn't chase.

You? You were real. You, who fought alongside him, helped him to his feet, metaphorically and possibly physically. The way you held yourself, interacted with him. How could he not admire you? Like you?

What did he do to make you think this way? That you weren't so utterly important to him?

Armin tends to be more withdrawn with you around since he overheard that comment, trying to find the right words to say. Bravery comes not from the brain, as they say.

"I like you too!" He exclaims one day, red-faced and stumbling over his words as he tries to make them come out. Strategy planning is easy; risking people is a burden he can handle. But risking you?

Armin stampers through a confession that he heard you that day. But he's earnest, heart on his sleeve because it's only ever belonged to you.

"I didn't like her that way at all! I've only liked you, and, if you're - wanting to, we could-" He stammers through his sentences, getting utterly redfaced and earnest as he tries to find the right words to say. Later, it'll be easier when he's not pouring his heart out, but he knows you deserve to know. That maybe he deserves this too.

Him? You like Jean? Those overheard words don't really process through Jean's mind quickly enough as he passes by the room you're in.

It's a lot to unpack, mostly because you didn't want to tell him.

His words simmer in his throat. He thinks he can push this down; smother it like he's done so many other things. A part of him thinks it should die like that - after all, you didn't plan to say anything. Didn't think he was worth it, to share that secret with.

But he lives with regrets - Marco - not shooting -- but also not living up to the life that he wants. That he knows he deserves.

It's sprung on you, later, when the two of you are filling up gas cylinders.

"I'm not in love with Mikasa." They're heavy words met with silence but he means them, eyes downcast as his hands idle. The silence is damning but you're worth it. By the Walls, you've always been worth it. "And I never have been. I liked her before, but." He gives a slight roll of his shoulders, trying to find the right words.

But he isn't a coward and he doesn't want to waste time, especially knowing that you feel the same way. Looking up, his eyes dart from you, to the wall and back again. "You can't compare to her." And, that sounds so much worse when he says it so he grabs tightly onto your arm, forcing your eyes to meet. "Fuck, I mean, you're not competing with her. Alright?"

He makes a sound, torn between a sigh and a groan as he runs his hands through his hair. "I heard what you said, before, about - You're not her, and I don't want you to be. I'd never choose her over you. I love you." It's not quite what he meant to say but the words fall easily, readily. "And dammit, I really wish you'd choose me too."

Mikasa is, unfortunately, standing behind you when those words leave your lips. When you inevitably turn to face her, there's no hint of what she's thinking visible on her face. Her cool eyes never leave you even when one of the captains walk in to deliver another mission.

Outwardly, everything she does seems to come off as a rejection; she doesn't talk to you about it, doesn't treat you differently. If one considers less and less talk as 'not any different'.

Not talking to you though... it feels like a small candle sputtering out - and her hands burn beneath the wax.

She's... not sure how to process any of that at all. She'd always been so concerned with Eren, with Armin and helping them accomplish their lifelong dreams. She never really took a moment to dwell in her own thoughts.

Her thoughts on Eren were chaotic at best; clouded by their game of tug-of-war, always trying to mother him, protect him. Getting shunned for it. She never had to do that with you - not to the same extent, anyway.

Hearing you say those words - "I like her" -- it's putting a name to the face she'd seen in her mind. Like. Affection. A warmth in her chest whenever she saw you, accompanied with a low and simmering trust. How easy it was, for once, to look at someone and have them look right back, and see her for who she is.

She only mentions it, much later, when you're both assigned to a practice mission. Where only time and the sun overhead is your company, forced to wait idle until a new command is issued.

"I want to talk about what you said," is how she begins. "About liking me." Her hands move to her scarf, something raw wedged in her chest that makes her feel so vulnerable with her face bared. Instead, her fingers loosen and it remains still around her neck. She wants you to see her as she is, what she's offering you.

"Eren is... like family to me. I would do anything for him." It's a brutal, almost cold way that she says those words. She means it, and you mean a lot to her, so she doesn't want any confusion.

"But you are not Eren. You are not family to me and I don't want you to be. You're important to me too. I don't want you to see me as your sister or protector." Her grey eyes search yours, searching for any kind of sign. "I like you too."

Eren has the most physical reaction. Shoulders locking, back straightening and all but sprinting as he rushes up to you. "What!" His mouth is running hot and fast, not able to get the words out fast enough.

Eren is a man of action; thinking things through wasn't his strong suit, nor did it ever have to be. But Mikasa? Mikasa!? Out of everyone? The girl who he grew up with, routinely tried to shield him from everything? Frustration rises hot in his throat as he thinks - didn't you know him at all?

How could he ever like Mikasa when there was you? You who defended him, humoured his ideals, cheered him on during his training, didn't see him for the monster he thought he was.

Weaving between cadets, racing as fast as he can to you, he knows he has to put his foot down. He's tired of all the secrets and lies, and he certainly doesn't want any between the two of you. Not when it's something like this.

"I don't like her!" Each word is punctuated loud and fast, trying to squash that idea as quickly as it came. Why did everybody always think that? He's gestulating, trying to get you to look at him, ignoring how your confidants stare at him. "Mikasa is -" His face scrunches up, harsh words on his tongue, resentful but not towards you. You've never treated him as fragile or incapable. How could he ever think of her that way when you filled that spot?

"We're not like that at all!" He adds, promising himself that he'll explain it in a calmer discussion later. "I wanted you!"

[yuwuta]

please feed us some yuuji blurbs there’s a lack of him rn :(

ofc… sweetest boy all time… here’s something was was meant to be a longer project but got lost in the editing whirlwind… love him so bad... 

NEVER LOST IN TRANSLATION, BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT 

notes: reader is implied to be american/english-speaking, yuuta and megumi are bilingual, yuuji, bless his soul, is not. i didn’t use italics for conversations between yuuji and megumi because it would all be in japanese, but when they get mixed later in the scene, japanese is differentiated with italics. hope that’s not too confusing lololll

Honestly, Yuuji tried his best in school. Some things came easier than other, but with a bit of hard work, and help from his friends, he always managed to pull pretty good grades. But right now, his biggest regret is not taking english more seriously in high school, because it’s been about three weeks since he met you, and he’s only been able to say maybe five full sentences to you without the help of Yuuta or Megumi translating. 

He was excited when Yuuta said his friend from abroad would be coming to visit and study, but god, he didn’t expect you to be so pretty. To have such pretty eyes, and pretty lips, and pretty hair, to have the prettiest voice in the world despite him only understanding every eighteenth word you say. You’re beautiful to him, and Yuuji thinks that even if he could speak your language fluently, the words would still get caught in his throat. He’s so lovesick, it’s embarrassing—his friends have been harping on him blushing and stuttering over you for the past month, and he can’t even blame them.

“What does she say to you when you guys talk,” Yuuji whines, hovering around Megumi, and not-so-discreetly looking back at you where you’re still sat in the living room laughing with Yuuta, “Does she ever say anything about me? I mean—probably not right? Which is fine! Actually, dont tell me—no, do. Or maybe—”

“She asks about you,” Megumi says, matter-of-fact in delivery, as he places a bag of popcorn in the microwave, but that doesn’t curb Yuuji’s enthusiasm. He’s practically bouncing, if he weren’t already—begging Megumi to spill the details, “What did she ask? Tell me! Tell me!” 

“She once asked if you dye your hair.”

“That’s it?!” Yuuji screams, heartbroken, and visibly deflating.

Megumi shrugs, “Yuuta probably knows more. She’s his exchange buddy friend thing, so ask him.”

“I can’t ask him, he’s right next to her!” Yuuji pouts, “Wait, what does ‘exchange buddy friend thing’ mean? You don’t think they’re more than friends, right…? I can’t blame her, senpai is really pretty, too, and he can actually talk to her… so unfair.” 

“You know, she’s not fluent, but she can understand some Japanese,” Megumi reminds him, “So, she can definitely hear you, and probably understand you.”

Yuuji’s shoulders slump, and once again, he turns around to look back at you. This time, you two make eye-contact, and that instant, Yuuji’s cheeks go pink, a nervous hand raised to wave at you, and instant internal regret at his actions; but, then you smile, and wave back, and Yuuji stays like that, dumbfounded and lovestruck and on autopilot as he waves with hearts in his eyes until Yuuta looks up from his phone and catches him.

Embarrassing. He knows he’s not the brightest, but he’s at a record high of self-embarrassment since he’s met you.

Yuuta finds himself chuckling when Yuuji spins around and goes back to prodding Megumi with questions. When you turn to face him again, it’s with a shy smile.

“I told you you’d like him,” Yuuta grins—the kind that seems sweet and innocent, but has just a kiss of that all-knowing tease to it; the kind that reminds you that he’s truly related to Satoru.

“Oh, be quiet,” you grumble, tucking your legs in and resting your chin on your knee. You spare another glance in Yuuji’s direction, for once, grateful for the language barrier between the two of you, when you turn back to Yuuta to proclaim: “I can like someone and not do anything about it. You’re real good at that, aren’t you?”

Yuuta’s slightly cocky grin falls into a scowl, and now you get to smile when he argues back, “We said not to bring up he who shall not be named in the presence of my friends!”

“Then don’t bring up my he who shall not be named in the presence of him!”

“Aren’t Americans all about forging new frontiers and chasing after your dreams?” he taunts, “Well, your dream is right in front of you.”

“My dream right now is to kill you.”

“Lucky for me, you’re going to have to hold off on that because your lover boy is approaching.”

You don’t have time to argue back with Yuuta when Megumi and Yuuji approach the living area with snacks in tow. Yuuta scoots to the tail end of the couch under the guise of giving Yuuji space to place the popcorn and nuggets in the center of the coffee table, but he has just enough time to flash you a wink before Yuuji settles in between. Megumi opts for the loveseat closets to Yuuta’s end of the couch, and you do your best not to reach over Yuuji and strangle Yuuta.

The boys decide on watching a movie you’ve never heard of, but Megumi reassures you it’ll be easy to follow and has English subtitles. You don’t mind, settling in to your corner of the couch with a handful of popcorn just as the title-screen for Human Earthworm 3 rolls across the TV.

You can follow along well-enough—even without subtitles, you get the gist of the movie. What you really find entertaining is Yuuji, who occasionally blurts out a comment or exclamation, or audibly coos whenever something sad is happening on screen. He’s almost as animated as the characters; you’re more of the silent-watcher type, but you find yourself endearing by this commentary, even if you can only understand parts of it.

You particularly appreciate the way that after every comment, he either motions to Megumi, or turns to you himself to repeat his thoughts in his best broken English, and even when you don’t understand his words, you understand him. His emotions are all on his sleeve: frustration, happiness, confusion, curiosity—communication between you two should be more difficult, but Yuuji makes it easy.

It gives you the confidence you cough out your own observation, “You, um… you’ve… seen the others? You seem to like this series.”

Across the room, Megumi and Yuuta hold their breaths, opting to not translate for you when you switch from Japanese to English. Yuuji is quiet for a moment, turned to face you with a slightly confused look on his face that makes you nervous, until his eyes brighten up and he smiles and begins nodding fervently—“Yeah—yeah, I do! It’s my… hm how do I say it… Oh! It’s my favorite!”

Between the smile on his face, the blush on his cheeks, and sincerity in his voice, you feel like you’re wrapped up in his world. It’s a little confusing, and scary, but it’s not all that bad. Maybe you can do something about it, eventually.

“I.. I think I like it, too.”

[andhumanslovedstories]

I've been running this writing experiment lately to cut out phrases like "I felt" in my fiction writing. Like I was looking at a sentence in a draft that said, "he felt as if character's eyes were pinning him in place." And then I was like, "well, does he think that or is it true? As a result of this person watching him, he's froze. It's not like a thing, it is that thing."

Oh and "almost"! I'm always going, "He felt almost relieved that it hadn't happened." Well, did he feel better that it didn't happen or didn't he? Or "somewhat", I'm always going, "she felt somewhat perturbed."

And like none of that is wrong, to be clear. I don't know if it'd improve your writing, I don't even know if it'll improve my writing, but I use this sentence structure all the time so every viewpoint is from a voice that thinks about what it thinks, hedges its statements, and offers the same ability for wry little jokes formatted in the exact same way. And I have a lot of writing like that and I think (!) that they're good, but read as a whole, I'm like, "god, they all sound the same." Like there's one melody that I write songs to, so even with different lyrics, it's almost (!) the same song. Something I've been struggling with in regards to my writing and why I've felt so blocked is how boring I found writing my usual way. I'd read something and enjoy the individual parts of it, but then I'd step back and I didn't like the whole. And I got good at this enough at seeing that I didn't like it to do it in real time as I was writing, which as you can imagine didn't improve the process of writing because now I was bored AND dejected about being bored.

There's this sentence-level structure fact that I use unconsciously. A pattern I find easy is short sentence, short sentence, short sentence, long sentence. So I write that. "He [verbed]. He [verbed]. Then he [verbed]. As he [verbed] to his [consequence], he [verbed] that [noun] was [statement of condition]." Which could work, it often does make for a nice rhythm, but it's something I reach for often because it's easier for me.

Just last sentence, I originally typed, "I find it easier for me." But if what I mean is "using this pattern is less effort than another pattern," then it's easier for me. One voice is hedging its bets and the other asserting. Either is fine! But they're different! And, again, GOD you would not believe how many words I've cut out of this paragraph as I write it. I'm so chatty. I love using twelve words when six will do. And that gives my writing a specific tone to my ear.

So if I am bored of that tone, why not try using just the six words? Why be understated? Why be afraid of stronger opinions? So right now with my fiction, I'm experimenting with cutting out as many self-reflective words as I can. Sometime you do need to draw attention to the face that this is the character's interpretation, but like you definitely don't need to do it as much as I naturally want to do it. You don't need to always go out of your way to allow the possibility that the narrative voice is wrong. During editing, I trim the weaker ones (I originally typed, "what I consider the weaker ones" Is that more accurate?). But I think them being there in the first place shifts my language which shifts my character's which shifts my plot. It's sentence structure all the way down!!

(this barely applies to my writing on here, btw. i try to do good but yknow this is a tumblr blog. i'm not trying to get a lit mag to accept it.)

Anyway blah blah (chatty!) the point is I've been trying to write in a way opposite of my interests. Something that doesn't take itself too seriously, that emphasizes EMOTION and ACTION instead of minimizing it, and that clips through scenes at a good pace. Doing this been amazingly fun. I've been having such a good time doing it. I am writing so much because I really enjoy doing it. The process of writing is so fun again.

This post is about two things. One is my new mood stabilizer and therapy day camp. The other is about the benefit of pretending to be MXTX.

[girlfromflor]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | pack!141 x omega!reader, who has a backstory with simon.

their first attempt at trying to make you and ghost get along wasn’t quite successful as they hoped it would be, but slowly they manage to make you and simon share spaces more often – like the living room, or even hanging out in johnny's room without complaining – and have some quality time together. you’d exchange small words and only when necessary, but that was already a big win. it got easier and easier to plan something bigger. it wasn't until a whole month of their not-so-subtle attempts that things finally felt right  – more than they ever expected it. john listened and watched his boys with all the care and attention in the world and decided to take matters into his hands, like the pack alpha he has always been. he decided to make a proper dinner night with everyone included, a way to have the moment all of you have been needing to reassure the new dynamics that have been settling within the pack, but also make it a way for you to properly talk with ghost for the first time. you’ve been living with them for a few months now, how could you not spend much time as a pack? – he knew you weren’t exactly a pack yet, but he’d make sure that didn’t last long. 

so, that’s how you found yourself sitting between kyle and johnny. they work well in keeping you entertained as john goes to simon’s room to call him so you can all eat together. john had cooked with your help whilst you all engaged in light talking about your lives – or rather, theirs. ghost would pass by once in a while, not wanting to be the “killjoy” in the room. you’d always be polite towards him, quietly bringing him as a subject within the conversation or even directly addressing him – which he answered with a three word sentence and a shrug, most of the time. once john is back he settles on the other side of the table, sitting across from you and the betas, and ghost takes his side. the dinner goes by smoothly, you and the alpha who seems to despise you less and less often used having a mouth full as an excuse to remain in silence, but neither of the others seemed to mind.

it was the very first time you all felt like things were in their rightful place, and that started to happen more and more frequently. simon would ask things about you – he even started to ask about you to the boys like “where’s she at?” or “what’s she doing?” – and you would do small things, like when you were making tea for everyone and ghost’s was particularly stronger because he said once that that’s how he’d take his tea. little exchanges of words turned into full conversations, the cold – hesitant – interactions turned into genuine smiles from you and playful remarks from him. you started to make it more clear that you saw him truly for the person that he was showing himself to be, and not only for his callsign and skull mask. and then, in one random ass day, you find out – or, more specifically, he tells you – what his name is. you all but cry right as the words slip through his mask-covered lips. 

“are you… are you serious?” is all you can speak, the words coming out weird like they’re not even your own. the tone in your voice is so serious he thinks it wouldn’t be a great idea to make a lame joke to lighten the mood – like he grew used to, getting back a bit to being the careless teenager he once was.

“yeah… why?” he answers, dark brown eyes trying to take in what you’re expressing through your features because he can’t smell anything from you – something he started to hate, he thinks to himself.

“uh… just, something i told kyle once–” you cut yourself, feeling emotional. great,  now not only you’d think about your lost friend when you’d stare into ghost’s eyes, you’d have to call him by your friend’s name too. you quickly realize that it’d be less painful to call him ‘ghost’, but you also thought that maybe you could play pretend sometimes, giving in to the longing that plagues your mind from the friendship you never got to have closure from.

simon only hums, showing that he’s understanding even though he’s not sure what he should think about it. so instead of wondering and feeding unlikely possibilities in his mind – overthinking, but he will never admit it – he goes to kyle. on the very same day he finds himself knocking on the beta’s door, after ensuring that you were cuddling johnny on the couch.

“come in,” kyle calls from inside. as simon steps inside he can see kyle moving on his bed to sit up. “oh, si…” he says, sounding a bit too surprised before questioning, “what do you need?”

“just… i told my name to her today…” he starts without much ceremony, watching as kyle shifts in his position almost as if he's physically uncomfortable. interesting, he thinks.

“did you, now? what’d she say?” he asks, trying not to seem so worried. he was afraid you had fallen into anxiety’s arms like it usually happens when you have a nightmare.

“nothing, really… just looked at me like i was lying, even asked if i was serious.” he replies, honestly. he watches as kyle reaches to grab his hand, pulling him closer until they are sitting side by side on bed. “and then she mentioned you. so i thought maybe you knew something…”

kyle stays silent for a moment, thinking if telling simon would be something you’d be mad about. he brings their hands to his lap, brushing simon’s knuckles with his thumb in a tender manner before speaking, “she had a best friend in town when she was younger, and he was named simon…” he can smell the alpha’s discomfort, but he keeps talking. “she said that she was still a teenager when they saw each other for the last time. said he ran away.”

simon heart stops in his chest. the beta can see the sorrow that burns in his skin, so he projects his scent to try and calm him down. simon is as still as a stone – thinking what he thought was impossible –, but after a few minutes too long he manages to voice out his inner turmoil. “i… i don’t think i ever told you that, but i had a friend too, back where my parents left me when i was younger.” he glances at kyle, who is patiently listening, before he adds, “she was an omega, and i left her behind… that’s why i couldn’t bring myself near her, y’know?”

the younger man only nods, happy at the confession despite its heavy background. they sit there sharing soft caresses while kyle decides to make a confession of his own. “you don’t think it’s possible… that it is her?” he questions carefully, not wanting to overstep a boundary, but simon’s reply catches him off guard.

“yeah…” his voice is gentle, almost a whisper. “i mean, i’ve only thought about it after today... just don’t want to–” his voice cracks, but he clears his throat pushing the fear away. he shakes his head as he speaks, “i can’t be wrong, kyle.”

“we’ll get through this, si. all of us.” is his answer. he hugs simon’s shoulders and the alpha allows the warmth that spreads within him at the motion.

it takes exactly one day of researching your past for simon to make up his mind and decide that it is time to see this though. he had gathered enough information – things you’ve said to them along the months – to know that it was you. he waits until you’re in the couch with john and johnny, watching a weird tv show they seemed to share a deep interest in. he steps inside the living calling for kyle to join them, who comes from the kitchen a second later. he stands there looking at you and you sit up straighter on the couch. you don’t have time to question what’s wrong because – after getting elbowed by kyle – simon starts talking, very nervously so.

“so, uh… i– this is not a big of a deal,” he lies, but they all ignore it. you have your eyes focused on him. “just, god, i’ll just take my mask off and, uh– yeah…”

he’s so awkward you almost want to laugh, but you don’t because that seemed too mean of you. you watch very intently as he steps closer to the couch, not even realizing that john and johnny were standing up. simon’s hands reach for the hem of his balaclava, and suddenly you grow very nervous, curious and a bit apprehensive. i swear, you think, that if they look anything alike i’m gonna lose it. it was enough that the simons had the same eyes. you take in his slightly chapped lips, blond eyebrows and very blond hair. the long healed scars here and there adding a dangerous charm to his features. much to your dismay, you realize way too quickly that they do in fact look very much alike. so much so, that ghost seemed simply an older, scarred version of the boy you held so much fondness for – wait.

“oh my god,” comes your breathless voice. the words stumble out your lips before you can stop them. “simon…?” you say, uncertainty clouding your thoughts before you watch him nod in his own hesitation. you can’t deny it nor ignore the realization that washes over you, your scent masking drops completely as your hands come to your face. and that’s when it hits him, he can smell you. “simon…” it’s quiet for a moment. john watches the scene unfold from where he stands near the entrance to the living room, kyle and johnny moving to stand beside him as they eye you and simon. it made sense that simon wouldn’t have remembered you immediately, he spent way too many years trying to push away the memories of you – the memories of his mistake. but you? you tried to keep the same memories with all you could, because that was all you had.

and poor simon is so lost. he expects you to back away, to maybe even run and lock yourself away in your room out of pure disgust. or maybe you’d scream at him, intoxicate the room with the smell of your disappointment, wrath and sorrow. you could push him, slap him, punch him – whatever, any harmful reaction would’ve been welcome, because it was you. god, it was you, it had been all this time and he blindly avoided you like a plague. if you didn’t hate him enough before you must certainly do now – except, you don’t. nothing could’ve ever prepared simon for your reaction. he can see it happening but he doesn't acknowledge it until you're drowning in your tears. soft sobs and hiccups leave your lips as you bury your head in your palms. your shoulders shake like crazy and they’re all certain that you’re not breathing at all in between your silent crying. that is, until your eyes seek simon in the room and there’s not a single drop of distaste in them. not sadness, not anger, just pure adoration and bliss, the delightful sensation that he’s alive and he’s okay and he’s here. right now, in front of you – not in a nightmare, not in a dream. you move before you can think and when you realize you’re already on him, but all you do is rest your forehead to his chest, arms limp on your sides – like you always did when you were just two awkward teens trying to get through life.

“thank god,” you whisper and it’s just so broken, soft and gentle but so fucking filled with emotion that it drowns everyone in the room. john’s arms come to rest on each of his beta’s shoulders, johnny is already crying and kyle is blinking away the tears as they watch you and simon.

“bloody hell…” simon mumbles, his eyebrows furrowed and there’s a confused little pout on his lips. it’s the first time he gets to smell you without any restraint from you or him, and he lets himself drown in the moment – he allows himself to truly savor this, because he’s sure he’s about to wake up. “you’re alive…” he moves slowly as if to not startle you, right hand resting on your waist as the other finds its place on the back of your head. his nose brushes on your hair, taking in your scent but it did nothing to conceal his craving. so the hand on the back of your head dips to your nape, the very tip of his fingers come to brush down your neck with such tenderness that it leaves a trail of thrill tingling down your skin. you tilt your head slightly, giving him permission to continue and he is so very glad you did, because not even a second later he's sinking his head, nose finding your scent glands like he's a man starved – and you let him, fingers curling on the fabric of his shirt just enough to wrinkle it.

it takes a while for him to step away, his eyes teary and unfocused for a moment before he slowly drops to his knees for you to do the same. your hand leaves his shirt to find his shoulders, balancing your faltering weight on him as you sink your head towards him. you press your face on his scent glands and god, it just made so much sense now. he smells the same, just more mature and a bit aged – just like whiskey – and it has your eyelids fluttering close immediately. when you straighten up and look down at him, there's a new sense of fulfillment taking place in your heart. you reach for his arm, urging him to get up and as he complies, you turn to your boys – your sweet, patient men who had put so much effort into this.

you don't have to say anything. before you can let out a single word johnny is on you, arms hugging your waist as he pulls you to him. you giggle and let him have you for a second before your hand finds the back of his head. you guide him gently to your neck and you can hear the gasp that falls from lips as realization washes over him. he's not as gentle as simon – too eager to finally finally scent you – as his nostrils open to take in as much of your scent as he can. his head rubs on the skin of your shoulders and neck before he backs away and you roll your eyes at his antics. when you move to scent him, his head is already tilted to the side and his reddish eyes are closed, his breath hitches when your nose touches his skin, he couldn’t believe this was happening. his scent is familiar of course, but to be able to smell it directly from the font has you a bit dizzy in his arms.

kyle watches as you disentangle yourself from johnny’s grasp, your eyes find him instantly where he's standing with john, who you glance over right after. it's john who moves first, offering his hand to you which you gladly accept. you move until your back is lightly touching the alpha’s chest. kyle is right in front of you, eyes roaming your features and your hands find his chest, your nose pressing on his collarbone over his shirt and then on his jaw. once you press further to have better access to his skin he puts a hand on your hip. it stays there when he moves to take in your scent, grip tightening as he pushes past the lingering of johnny's scent to seek yours. he leaves a soft peck on your neck before moving you, the hand on your hip urging you to face john.

it's very fitting, really – the fact that simon had to be the first to scent you, while john would be the last. he lets kyle hold you by your hips, his own hands find your cheeks where he leaves a soft caress with his thumbs. then something changes a bit, he does the same thing johnny did, rubbing his face on the juncture of your shoulder and neck – his beard a bit more than just ticklish on your skin –, before his nose found the spot on your neck where your scent was strongest. he's clearly hesitant to let you go, so instead you pull him closer, projecting your scent so he'd feel surrounded by you – at the point, all of them would. you take advantage of the hug-like position to bury your face in his neck – your back pressed on kyle’s chest letting him know that he is a part of this moment just as much as you or john. you stay like that for a moment before you move away, and it reminds you of the very first night you spent in the flat, where you and john squeezed kyle between you two until sleep got the best of you.

when you look for johnny and simon, you find them sitting on the couch watching you. and as you savor your very first moment as a pack, you relish the fact that you wouldn’t trade this for anything else in the world – and neither would them.

a/n: was this rushed ya'll? i don't know, i have mixed feelings about it, let me know what you think. uptade | taglist: @camcvpidd @fruitymoonbeams-blog @throwing-up-butterflies @yearninglustfully @faggotinie @theo-the-danger-mouse

[cyripticchronicler]

Hiii I have a request for Matt Murdock I was thinking him with an reader who’s job has gotten more stressful and it starts to get to them they get dizzy and lightheaded but brush it off until it happens around Matt and he can sense that it happened and he gets all protective and caring

Preferably fem reader but gn is also totally fine so everyone can enjoy it !

If this isn’t your cup of tea I totally get that !

In His Arms

Thank you for requesting, sweetie. I kind of went off track a little and I'm sorry :( (If you want me to rewrite it I happily will!) But either way, I hope you enjoy it!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: Overwhelmed by your growing workload and the pressure to prove yourself, you keep your struggles hidden—even from Matt. When the stress leads to a breakdown, he pulls you back, reminding you that love means sharing the load.

TW: Panic attack, mentions of anxiety, pet names (I can't help it), swearing

Masterlist

Stress was a familiar feeling to you. Its sharp claws seemed always to be gripping onto you tightly. You’ve learnt how to manage the lack of air in your lungs and the painful squeezing of your heart whenever you go through a rough patch. 

That’s why the feeling of anxiety creeping up your spine was carelessly ignored. You regret that you shrugged the feeling away, too focused on your work. It’s much easier to calm your bones' nervous trembles before it worsens. 

But now it’s too late. 

You’ve been so distracted by your work. Your colleague had just gone on maternity leave after giving birth to twins. You weren’t sure what would happen to her workload, but you certainly didn’t think it would all be passed down to you. 

Now all your brain can seem to focus on is the deadlines coming closer by the minute. They flash in your mind each time you consider taking a break. You never take a break - this is your one chance to prove to your boss that you’re ready to take on more responsibility. The rumours floating around the office of potential promotions, motivating your hard work ethic. 

You’ve always been a hard worker; had always been distracted by what you consider important rather than what was essential- like eating, or sleeping. Each time you got away with it. You didn’t have anyone to look after you. 

Until Matt came along. 

He’s such an attentive man and would be even without his heightened senses. You knew he’d be worried about your desperation to complete your work, completely gone to the rest of the world as your stomach grumbled louder and your under eyes got darker. 

He’s a natural worrier. That’s what compelled you to keep your stress a secret. It’s hard lying to a human lie detector,  so you’ve taken to avoiding instead. It’s easy to avoid him when you’re so busy, anyway. A couple of messages per day seems to keep him subdued for now and you’re glad; it’s all the attention you could offer.

Your lip is pulled between your teeth, chewing hard enough to draw the taste of metallic blood. None of the words before you make sense through your blurry eyesight. As you attempt to read the same sentence for the third time, you angrily rip off your glasses and groan. 

Black spots take over your vision as you rub at your eyes aggressively, hoping the sickeningly dizzy feeling that’s making your throat feel tight will go away. It’s useless, yet you only allow yourself a second break before gulping down some water and returning to work. 

Your phone rings as soon as your fingertips touch the keys of your laptop and a curse slips out of your mouth before you can stop it. You hate yourself for the spark of annoyance that has your blood boiling when you read Matt’s name on your phone. 

He’d already left three messages from before. As well as a voice message that you hadn’t yet listened to; you were practically forced to answer the phone so as not to draw concern. You’re determined not to burden him with your issues - he’s a vigilante for God’s sake, he doesn’t need your petty problems on top of his own. 

“Hey, Sweetheart.” His deep voice crackles through your phone speaker. Instantly, your shoulders relax and your eyes flutter shut. He’s the bright sun during cold days, the flowers during winter; beautiful and everything you long to see.

“Hey, Matt.” You respond lazily, mustering up enough energy to open your eyes and read the words on your laptop screen. You use one hand to type while the other holds your phone to your ear. You can hear his smile in his voice. “I’ve barely talked to you all day. I thought you were coming to mine for dinner. Did you get my voicemail?”

Guilt nags at your stomach. “I’m so sorry, Matt,” the little sigh you can hear through the other line has your heart splintering, “I’ve just been so busy with staying on top of my work as well as Mara’s-”

“It’s okay. I know how busy you’ve been. I could come by with dinner. I can do some work while you do yours.” You hate to diminish the hope in his voice, but you know he'd be worried about your obvious stress as it shines through in your old clothing and unbrushed hair (not that he’d be able to see but feel). 

“Can we do a raincheck?” You whisper, guilt nagging at your stomach. His voice is so sweet. So understanding. It makes you want to cry. “Of course, baby. Try to eat, please. And take breaks. I’ll call you tomorrow; maybe we can go out for lunch.”

“Maybe,” If I’ve got enough work done, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop your phone on your lap as soon as the call ends. For once, you’re thankful for the large amounts of work, as it distracts you from the guilt that claws and tugs at your skin. 

⚝⚝⚝

The second time Matt calls, you’re nose-deep in paperwork that was slammed down on your desk. ‘More of Mara’s work,’ your boss said before leaving you with the rasing anxiety in your chest. Thoughts of taking your lunch break didn’t even assimilate in the blurry haze of your mind. 

Only the shrill ring of your phone brought you out of your bubble of work. Sighing, you don’t bother to check the name before picking it up, as you already know who it is. “Hey, Matt.” Your hand still scribbles words on the paper, phone pressed awkwardly against your ear by your shoulder.

“Hey. I called to see if you wanted lunch, but you sound busy.” Unlike last time, his voice doesn’t soothe your racing heart. If anything he makes it worse. “I’m so sorry,” you hope he can hear the sincerity in your voice, “I miss you. As soon as the crazy amount of work has subsided, I’ll call you.”

“Is there any way I can help?” You can’t help but smile at his caring nature, wanting nothing more than to be with him. But you know if you went to lunch you’d be too focused on work to be good company. “Remember that I love you?”

His laugh makes your heart melt, anxiety melting away with it. “Of course. As long as you remember that I love you. I won’t call so I don’t distract you from your work, but please take care of yourself. I love you so much, honey.”

“I love you too.” You hang up the phone and instead of returning to work immediately, you just sit there in silence, staring at the piles of paperwork in front of you. The sting of unshed tears joined by a nervous feeling in your stomach is enough to make you want to throw up. You’re so tired. 

You should have listened to your body. You should have gone out for lunch and taken a break. But instead, you got back to work, ignoring the bright red signs of a panic attack on the rise. 

⚝⚝⚝

Having been diagnosed with anxiety when you were younger, you’ve learned to identify signs of an upcoming panic attack. First, you begin to feel dizzy, then a little lightheaded. Your heart begins to hurt, and your stomach starts to turn. Then you can��t breathe, and you’re scratching at your skin to give your lungs more space to breathe. 

Now, as you stand in your kitchen, staring at the piles of paperwork that cover the dining room table, it’s hard to ignore how your body reacts to the sight of the never-ending workload; the feelings you so carelessly ignored before forced to be brought to attention. 

Your eyesight is unfocused, and you are unable to concentrate on the hand you’re using to prepare a small dinner. Your hands violently shake by your side and feel incredibly weak. But that isn’t what worries you; it’s the lack of air entering your lungs that has your eyes squeezed shut. 

Feelings of worthlessness travel up your throat and block your airways. You’re having a panic attack. The realization has you sliding down the fridge and to the floor, tears running freely down your flushed cheeks. You bring your knees to your chest, hands scratching at your throat as if it would allow air into your beaten lungs. 

Your body feels so weak, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to stand up if you tried. You’re lost to the darkness and anguish the past weeks have wrought upon you; lost to the cruel insecurities your mind created to fool you into this vicious despair. 

No matter how hard you cry, how hard you claw and scrape at your skin, you still can’t breathe. Hopelessness washes over your chilled skin, pulling you into its shadows. You can do nothing but let it take you as its own, the fight for air warring off as you succumb to the darkness that spots your eyes. 

And as your eyes flutter shut, you fail to notice the opening of the window in the living room. You fail to notice the hurried steps and the gloved hands that hold your face gently. Or the man’s desperate calls of your name. 

⚝⚝⚝

The first thing you notice when you regain consciousness is the exhaustion that wracks through your frail body. The second thing is the man who lays next to you on your bed. 

Matt. 

He’s sleeping peacefully, chest moving up and down in slow breaths. You frown, unsure of why he’s here. The last thing you remember was you freaking out about the workload and having a panic attack. You must have fainted from the lack of air, you consider then immediately cringe. How embarrassing. 

“What are you thinking about?” You jump at the sound of Matt’s deep voice, eyes shooting up to watch a small smile grace his face at your reaction. “Why are you here?” The question comes out ruder than you intended, but Matt’s smile doesn't waver. 

“I was on patrol,” he begins, pulling you into his warm embrace, “and figured I’d stop by to check on you. I wasn’t going to come in, just listen-”

“-that’s not creepy at all-”

“-then I heard you panicking. Your heart was beating really fast and you were breathing really heavily. You were already passed out from lack of air by the time I was inside.” He pulls you in tighter like the moment still haunts him. You trace your fingertips gently down his bare arm, ear against his chest as you listen to his heartbeat. 

“What happened, sweetheart?” He asks when it became clear you weren’t going to speak. You sigh. “I’ve been a little stressed lately. And I should’ve listened to my body but I didn’t. There’s just so much work and such little time. I can’t handle all of this workload.” The familiar bite of tears has you shoving your head in Matt’s neck, letting him hold you tightly and reassure you that everything will be okay. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have worked through your stress together,” He questions quietly and you shake your head in response. “You take the burden of everyone else’s problems, and still go out every night to face all the bad guys- I just didn’t want to burden you with my problems on top of all the rest.”

He pulls away and you try not to frown at the lack of contact. Slowly, his fingers move under your chin and compel you to look into his beautiful, unfocused eyes that sparkle in the city lights shining through your windows. “You are not a burden. Your problems are not a burden. I want to be here for you. I want you to tell me what’s going on in that smart little head of yours-” He flicks your forehead playfully before giving it a small kiss “-And I want you to know you can talk to me.”

You nod your head slowly, feeling like a child that’s just been scolded. “Okay.” He lays there in silence for a moment, seemingly contemplating his words before he speaks, “I think you need to talk to your boss,” you open your mouth to protest but he cuts you off with a gentle squeeze, “This amount of work isn’t healthy. I mean, why hasn’t the workload been separated and passed around to all of your co-workers? It’s fucking stupid if you ask me. She’s obviously taking advantage of your brilliance-”

“-Matt,” You cut him off with an amused smile. His eyes glint at the sound of your giggles as if that was his mission all along and he won first place. 

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me. If anything I’m being selfish.” He grins cheekily, kissing your palm as it raises to cup his cheek. “And why, pray tell, are you being selfish?” Your smile is sly and knowing. 

“Because I’m doing this to get my beautiful girl back and into my arms. Foggy isn’t as good company as you, y’know.” You giggle, holding him tightly as your mind settles on a decision. “I’ve missed you too.”

Tomorrow you’ll call your boss and ask for a lessened workload. But for now, you’re just going to lay in bed with the man you love dearly and let him hold you tightly. 

[livelaughlovesubs]

For the prompt event just one more from me- Writer's choice Freebee for any character and prompt(s) you want

As a treat

I WANNA WRITE LICKING BOOTS OR HEELS i dont really care which character

Dom!Rich!reader x sub!Broke!male!character

Warning: sadistic reader & masochistic character, sugar baby character, boots/ shoes licking (the soles too), dirt eating, power play, mention of vomit (didn’t happen), stepping, cumming untouched, degration

Anniversary event

He was just so pathetic you couldn’t help it. Really, it made your senses get disoriented whenever you pretty begs you with his tail between his legs, asking for money with an ashamed look across his face. Your sweet little sugar baby was insatiable, wasnt he? The audacity he had, to ask for more when he was already getting a lot— and he knew very well how ungrateful that must sound. That’s why the least he could do is get on his knee while hesitantly pleading with you, not even daring to look you in the eyes.

Gently, you tapped his clothed thighs with the tip of your shoe, staring down at him all amused. He didn’t know, since he wasn’t looking at you, but you enjoyed seeing him embarrass himself whenever he just acts so damn disgraceful. Slowly, you moved your leg upwards. First along his thighs, to his pelvis, ignoring his bulge— then tracing the outlines of his bellybutton, up to his chest and lastly— right below his chin and tilting his face upwards.

“What is it this time?” You questioned coldly, betraying your true emotions. “…I erm, god, c-could I get a little more ca-,,, pocket money?” His words were bitter, he felt uncomfortable muttering such things, be it due to shame or other reasons. “Didn’t you just got it last week?” He was dead silent, so quiet even, that he could hear the tapping of your finger on your knee. “I know- I just, I need it. Just a little bit, it’s not much to you anyway right?” How you adored that little tremble in his voice, he truly was tailored to fit your taste.

You sighed, acting all begrudgingly, “can’t you at least tell me why you need the cash?” Instead of answering, he just pleaded, “please, just a little more, I only need like 2k—!” You interrupted him by tapping his cheek with your shoe, chuckling in disbelief, “hah! A little? Sweetie, you think I’m a tree that grows money?” He was sweating a little, skin glistening under the low-saturated light of the lamp. “It means a lot to me, please… master?”

Would you look at that, now he’s using every trick in the book to try to win you over.

“That’s not enough to convince me~” you ended your sentence with a higher pitch, exposing yourself, giving him hints on what he should do. This was not the first time you’ve played this game with him, so luckily he still remembers your teachings. “I’ll do my best to persuade you then…” he whispered meekly, hands bawled into fists as he rests them on the ground, turning his face around a little to push your shoes to his lips.

With lingering skepticism, he stuck his tongue out, licking a long trail over the front of your footwear. The material was shining with his spit now, all clean and rid of any dust. The male grimaced silently, before swallowing the lump in his throat. You watched with preying eyes and a sadistic smirk, enjoying the show he was putting on for you. Next, he used the tip of his tongue to lick over the sides, trying hard to ignore the straight up awful taste of dirt. He didn’t even want to think about what exactly he was eating, squeezing his eyes shut, doing it with his intuition.

You helped him a little as well, moving your foot up and down to grant him easier access. A pool of arousal building in your stomach as you restrained your desire to be even more mean, to step and to kick him, to make him do even more nasty stuff— all that can wait. For now, you’ll focused on the appetiser.

Once he was done with polishing your shoes with his hot and wet muscle, he gulped down all the filth, pondering over whether or not this was enough. He didn’t need to think a lot, because you answered his confusions for him by pressing soles of your footgear against his face. “You aren’t done yet, pretty boy.” Shivers ran down his spine at the horrors and humiliation, though it turned into perverted lust in the matter of seconds. He had to take a few seconds to prepare himself mentally, but then he stuck his tongue out again.

He brought it across your soles once, licking all across the place. The taste of sand and was seems to be glass plagued his taste buds, and he gaged. Nonetheless, he managed to swallow it, at the price of feeling something coming up as he did. His cheeks darkened into a blush, droplets of sweat rolling down the sides of his forehead. You didn’t say much as you watched him with intense eyes. Even though he wasn’t looking up at you, he could still feel your gaze, and he shook slightly at the thought of that.

Many minutes passed, and the longer this went on, the more he became erect. Was it because of your watching gaze, piercing through his soul? Or was it due to his perverted nature, because he enjoyed the pain and humiliation? It was a question he didn’t want to answer, out of consideration for his remaining pride. The feeling of vomiting was tattering inside him, he felt a little nauseous as well, but he succeeded in pushing through it all, cleaning your shoes with great precision.

Soon, it was as clean as new.

At that point his tongue felt sore, and the sand was crunching between his teeth. Some tears were collecting in the corners of his eyes, all due to the overwhelmingly terrible taste. Finally, you talked again, he was starting to miss your voice, he desperately needed you to guide him through it all, to make him feel better. “Good job, you did so good, good boy.” You reached out to pat his head, stroking through his hair a little.

This gentleness was such a stark contrast to what happened only minuets before, that his entire body was shaken with pleasure. He couldn’t help but whine pathetically, bucking his hard on up against nothing. You didn’t even notice how he got hard, and how his pre was soaking through his pants already. Smiling all content, you pressed down on the tent with your now almost sparkling shoe, commenting, “such a dirty masochist, you enjoyed choking on the filthy that clung to my shoes? I guess that suits mutt like you.”

Again, he whined, bending forwards with his upper body, hands twitching to grab your ankle but he knew better than to act on his impulses. “Hnng.. y-yes.. I’m just a dirty mutt.” God, just look at how big your grin grew. “Well, but I can’t deny you did a great job. Fine I’ll give you 1K.” You then applied more pressure to his bulge, making him arch his back and moan out in blissful, ecstatic pain, “ahh-nHGHHh..!!??”

His eyes rolled to the back of his scull, drool running down his chin. This defiles form of his was more than depraved, it was sinful and degenerate. “To get to 2k… you’ll have to clean it again.” You stated, pressing down even more, causing him to cum into his pants. “HaaAaNNGghh…! Y/nnnNghh ♥︎♡～” He was already so worked up from before, and so sensitive due to your degration, please don’t blame him for cumming so fast…♡

Instead of being mad, you laughed, and brought your now in cum covered shoe to his lips again, tapping his flush lips. “So, get to work, pretty boy.”

He really needed the money after all, so he had no choice but to oblige, right? And it was surely sorely for the money ♥︎

(Edit: don’t ask why I wrote this with Toji in mind, also with the reader being younger [to add more shame], but that’s for you to decide)

[mapis-putellas]

Three’s a crowd

Pairing: Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x reader

Words: 3389

Warnings: swearing

Summary: You accidentally tell Ona about your relationship with Ingrid and Mapi despite promising them you’d keep it to yourself. Their reaction is nothing like you expect.

Notes: I’m sorry I’m advance for the terrible Spanish. Also, this may not flow smoothly and I apologise for that. I tried my best!

"I mean, I'd make out with them but like -platonically, you know?"

"You can't make out with someone platonically, idiota."

"Of course you can! We've done it like, so many times before already. I mean, maybe it was platonic at first, anyway. But it's definitely not now." You wave your hand dismissively. It takes promptly three seconds before you freeze in the midst of shoving your belongings into your back at the words that had just escaped your mouth without meaning to. Eyes widening, you turn to face Ona who was staring at you with a look of pure shock on her face. Her mouth was agape, hands frozen mid air in the midst of pulling off her jersey.

"qué?" Her eyebrow raise.

You panic. "Uhh, nothing. I said nothing," you scramble to collect the rest of your things, hoisting your kitbag onto your shoulder before slowly backing away from her. "You're just hearing things, Ona. I didn't say anything."

You see, this...relationship, or whatever was going on between Mapi, Ingrid and yourself was new. So new, in fact, it didn't quite have a label. In the privacy of their home, you were like any typical throuple. You kissed. Cuddled. Held hands. They'd dote over you and you craved their attention and affection. In public, however, they tended to stay away from you. Not in a mean way. A least, you didn't think so anyway. Sure they'd speak to you. Pull you into he occasional side hug if you did particularly well in training. Soft, subtle smiles would be shared between the three of you.

But that was it, and that was okay. It was just easier that way anyway. Nobody questioned you; talked you into thinking that maybe joining their relationship wasn't the best idea. You were already going a good enough job of that yourself, after all, and the rumours and speculations that would surely appear if started being affectionate in public certainly wouldn’t help.

It wasn't like you didn't want to be with them, because you very much did. It was just...they were perfect together. Had been together for years before bringing you into the mix. What did you bring into this...relationship that they didn't already have?

The answer was nothing.

Perhaps that train of thought wasn't fair, you thought. It had only been a month, after all. A month was nothing. It was why you'd chosen to remain silent. That way, you wouldn't cause any issues.

"ey ey ey, no," her hand grabs your arm, preventing you from making your escape. "You are not going anywhere chica. Sentarse." She all but demands, pointing your cubby.

"No, Ona," you futility attempt to free your arm. Ingrid was going to kill you. Literally murder you before bringing you back to clean up the mess. Both she and Mapi had asked you to keep this to yourself, and you'd broken their trust before talking without thinking. You and your stupid big mouth.

"Really. I have to go. I said I would-"

Ona shakes her head, effectively cutting you off mid sentence. "Sentarse." She says again, sounding less amused than she had before. It has you shrinking in place, but yet, your stubbornness has you once again shaking your head.

"No. I'm not a dog." The door was just there. Your eyes desperately flicker around the room in hopes of finding something that would distract the defender so you make a break for it.

"Y/n, I swear-"

"What is going on?" A new voice fills the room, and both your heads turn at the sound. At the sight of Mapi standing before you, tanned, tattooed arms crossed against her chest, your eyes wide almost comically. Oh shit. Shit shit shit. You were dead. You were so dead.

Mapi's eyes flicker from Ona's face to her grasp around your arm, prompting the defender for sigh heavily before dropping it. She turns and sits, bending down to begin removing her boots. The knowing smirk on her face was hidden. She knew it.

"Qué está pasando?" Mapi asks again, dropping her arms and making her over to you. You instinctively take a small step closer to her, staring at Ona with pleading eyes when she looks up and makes eye contact. She stares right back at you for a few moments before sighing lightly and shaking her head, rising to her feet and tugging off her jersey.

"Nada," she finally speaks, and you let out a subconscious breath of relief as feel your heart beginning to settle in your chest. Crises averted. For now, anyway.

Mapi eyes Ona for a second before nodding and turning to face you. You don't seem to realise the look of concern still etched on your face, but the Spaniard decides that for now, she'd drop the subject in an effort to prevent furthering your impending panic.

"Are you ready to go?" She asks instead, and you nod, allowing her to place a steady hand on the small of your back to guide you out of the locker room. You glance back at Ona who just so happened to be staring right back at you. She raises an eyebrow and tilts her head slightly to the side in question, and you nod, the defender mimicking it before focusing her attention back to her kitbag.

"Ingrid is in the car already." Mapi tells you in her heavily accented English as you make your way outside, her hand absentmindedly trailing up and down your back in a subconscious action of comfort.

You hum does little to comfort her.

"What happened, amor?" She gently pulls you to a stop, her hand on your hip gently coaxing you to face her. You comply, albeit a little hesitantly, eyes focusing on the tattoo on her neck. Looks can be deceiving. They could be indeed. A small part of you admittedly wants to tell her, but you figure doing so and spilling your guts and in the middle of a car park with all your teammates surrounding you wouldn't be the best idea.

"Later?" You plead instead, and though the Spaniard hesitates, she nods her head and once again starts guiding you back to her car with her hand on the small of your back. The remainder of the walk was completed in silence, Mapi opening the trunk of her car allowing you to dump your kitbag in the there along with Ingrid's and her own before opening the back passenger door.

You slip inside with a tight smile and without your usual kiss to her cheek in thanks, and the defender finds herself frowning as she closes the door and makes her way round to the drivers side, completely missing your less than enthusiastic greeting to Ingrid. You settle in the back with your headphones in, perhaps a not so mature response, but one you deemed necessary to get your thoughts together before the inevitable conversation ahead.

"Is she okay?" The Norwegian questions, glancing back a you in concern. She doesn't normally like talking about you with you in such close proximity, but she figures due to the loud music currently emanating from your headphones that you wouldn't be able to hear them. Besides, she was only doing so out of concern.

Mapi shrugs, "no sé. Ona said something, I think. Said something she did not mean to, maybe?" Her eyes follow Ingrid's for a second before she starts the car, pulling out of her parking space with relative ease. The plan had been for you to stay with them tonight, so she purposely misses the turn to your apartment and continues straight to theirs.

"Ona said something to her?" Ingrid frowns.

"Sí. She look like, how you say..." Mapi tightens her hands around the steering wheel, "como un ciervo atrapado en los faros?"

"A dear caught in headlights?" Ingrid responds, and Mapi nods.

"Sí." The Spaniard confirms.

Ingrid reaches out and places a steady hand on the defenders thigh, giving the bare, tanned skin a soft squeeze. "Did you ask?"

Mapi nods as she eases the car to a stop at a red light. "Talk later, she said. So obstinada." She grumbles.

Ingrid couldn't help but smile, "Like you, you mean?" She teases, earning herself a playful punch to the arm.

"She is worse." The Spaniard grumbles, and Ingrid laughs softly.

With a quiet sigh, you place your AirPod back into your ear. You were stubborn, she was right. But it wasn't like you weren't willing to talk about it. You just didn't want to do so where there was a risk somebody would hear.

The looming conversation ahead seemed way more daunting now.

*

"Go shower, bebé," Mapi finally breaks the silence as Ingrid closes the front door and locks it behind her, and you nod mutely as you kick of your shoes and make your way down the hall to their bathroom. Their bathroom. Ingrid and Mapi's. Not yours. That thought alone makes your eyes burn with tears.

Pathetic.

You miss the look of concern shared between both women share as you close the bathroom door behind you.

"I need to text Ona." Mapi murmurs as she pulls out her phone, a gentle hand resting atop of her own stopping her in her tracks.

"Qué?"

Ingrid shakes her head, "I know it's hard, but you need to let her come to us. It's obvious that she doesn't want us to know what happened with her and Ona, and we need to respect that. Forcing her to talk will only end badly."

Mapi sighs, knowing her girlfriend was right. Still, she couldn't help but push.

"But, what if-”

"No, kjære," Ingrid takes both Mapi's hand in her own and squeezes. "Let her come to us."

"Sí, mi amor."

Both knew the topic of conversation between you and Ona had evidently been about them. If not, you would have come to them. Just like you had when Lucy had said something to upset you. It wasn't like you to push them away. Mapi knew that. She also knew Ingrid was right about letting you come to them, despite her reluctance to do everything possible to figure out what was going on.

"Okay. Go find us a movie to watch. I'll make a start on diner." Ingrid places a soft kiss against the Spaniards cheek before disappearing through to the kitchen. Mapi watches her go before letting out a quiet sigh and curling up on the corner of the couch, picking up the remote to turn on the tv.

You finish with your shower long before Ingrid finishes with dinner, and you appear in the threshold of the living room clad in both their clothes. Ingrid's sweater, and Mapi's sweatpants, your hair wet and hanging down by your face.

Mapi gestures you over with one of those smiles that makes you melt, "Let me do your hair, amor. Sit." She opens her legs and pats the spot in between them. Your reluctance was evident as you comply, placing your hands on either of the Spaniards thighs as you settle and allow her to start combing through your hair.

"Dinner smells good." You finally find it within you to talk as you feel Mapi's fingers beginning to part your hair with the intention of braiding it. You didn't like leaving your hair down to sleep, and you found it endearing that Mapi had somehow remembered that fact despite it being weeks since you’d told her.

"Mhh," Mapi hums, "huele deliciosa." She agrees.

After tying off your hair with a hair tie, Mapi's tattooed arms loop around your waist, her hands clasped together against your stomach. You expect her to talk. To push you into opening up about what had happened earlier. But she surprisingly does neither. She simply rests her chin against your shoulder and presses a kiss to your cheek before once again picking up the remote.

"You pick." She mumbles into your ear, and you nod, eyes skimming over the screen.

Ingrid makes her way into the room just as you'd decided on the lion king, carrying a plate in either hand. She hands one off to both you and Mapi before once again disappearing and returning with her own.

It was pasta. Your favourite.

"Gracias." Mapi grins, settling back against the couch with you still between her legs and shoving a large forkful of food into her mouth.

Ingrid stares at you with a smile, one you couldn't help but mimic as you both watch the Spaniard stuff her face. Knowing you were in the way, you shift yourself over Mapi's leg and settle on the couch between them instead.

You ignore Mapi's playful pout at the action.

"Thank you." You whisper, and Ingrid smiles again as she gives your thigh a squeeze.

"You're welcome, elskling."

It didn't take long before dinner was quickly demolished, three empty plates sat on the coffee table as the three of you lay comfortably on the couch. You were in between Ingrid's legs now, your back to her chest with one of her arms wrapped securely around your waist. Mapi was curled up next you both, her head on Ingrid's shoulder as the Norwegian combs her fingers through her hair.

The defenders arm was thrown lazily over your stomach, tattooed hand resting on the gentle curve of your waist. Your own hand settles on top of her arm, the pad of your thumb trailing over warm skin. 

The silence between you was comfortable. You were comfortable. So much so you almost want to bring up the elephant in the room. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

You sit up suddenly, yanking yourself out of both woman's grip. Mapi whines unhappily, but Ingrid nudges her softly as she shakes her head and sits up too.

Understanding, Mapi sighs lightly and forces herself to sit in front of you, her rear end perched on the edge of the coffee table. She tries to take your hands, but frowns when you gently push them away.

"I told Ona." You blurt out.

Ingrid's eyes widen, but you didn't need to see it to know she was disappointed. You could tell by the way an alarmed Mapi meets her gaze over your shoulder. You desperately try and fix your mistake.

"Well, I didn't tell her. We were talking, and it just slipped out. I didn't mean for it to happen. I swear. It was just a joke. I mean, it wasn't a joke. I was just trying to tell her a joke. That's when it happened. Please don't be mad. Or well, you can be mad. I betrayed your trust. But please don't be mad. It was an accident, I swear." You weren't aware that you had started crying until you feel Mapi's hands cup your cheeks and wipe away your tears.

Her hands were warm, and you relish in the feeling as you force yourself to take a few breaths. Ingrid's arms, you now notice, were tight around you too, her hands beneath your shirt resting on the bare skin of your stomach. You inhale and exhale, feeling her hands move with you.

"It is okay," Mapi was the first to speak, scooting a little closer and moving her hands to rest on either of your thighs. You desperately cling to to them with your own. "I am not mad. And Ingrid is not too, right?"

"Right." The Norwegian murmurs in your ear, her chin hooked over your shoulder. Her hair tickles your cheek.

"But I told..." You whisper, your voice breaking slightly, leaning back into Ingrid as much as your body would allow.

"Sí. You did," Mapi agrees. "But it was an accident, no? You did not mean to."

"Mapi's right, elskling."

"I always am." Mapi smirks, and you couldn't help but laugh when Ingrid playfully kicks her with her foot.

"She is right,” Ingrid repeats. “We are not mad at you. Being mad at you for something you didn't mean to do would be stupid. And besides, it's about time we start letting people know, mhhh?"

You blink, craning your head to the side so you were more or less looking Ingrid in the eye. She stares down at you, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your nose. It scrunches up at the action, and both she and Mapi share a look when you flush and bashfully stare down at your lap. When Mapi reaches out to take your hands again, this time you let her.

"You want to tell people? About us?" You murmur.

This was not how you thought this conversation would go.

"Mhh," Ingrid nods. "Sí." Mapi agrees.

"But, what if..." you trail off.

"What if what, amor? Talk to us, por favor." Mapi coaxes, squeezing your hands again. You look up at her, and she smiles oh so gently at you it has your mouth opening before you could give it permission to do so.

"People will talk. About us. And that won't bother me, not really. But I don't want you guys to change your mind. You were perfect before, and I don't exactly bring anything to the table." You admit.

"Baby, no. Do not think like that. This is new, yes, but that does not mean we have any doubts," Ingrid starts, her frown identical to Mapi's whose eyes have grown shiny at your words. "I can almost guarantee people will talk. That's just what they do when they see something that they're not used to. But that doesn't mean their opinions matter."

You nod, feeling something inside you slotting into place.

"My opinion, yours, Ingrid's are what matter amor. If we are happy, then that is all that matters, sí?"

"Sí." You nod.

"You are happy?" Mapi pushes, and you nod with a genuine smile. "Bueno. Now stand, por favor." She holds her hands out for you to take, and you place your own into them allowing her to easily pull you to your feet. With a kiss to your forehead, she takes your place in between Ingrid's legs and tugs on the material of your sweater to pull you closer.

You yet again comply, ending up sat on her lap with your legs either side of her hips atop of Ingrid's thighs. Mapi's arms loop tightly around your waist, holding you tightly to them both, and you melt in their embrace as you rest your head against her shoulder.

Ingrid's face was just millimetres away from your own, and you smile when you feel her lips press softly against the top of your head.

"Something to the table. What does that mean?" Mapi settles back into Ingrid when she feels the Norwegian secure her arms around both herself and you.

Your eyes rip open. Damn. You hoped they wouldn't bring this part up. When Ingrid remains silent, it becomes clear she expects you to answer Mapi's question. So with a sigh, you do.

"It's an idiom. It means to do something that will benefit others." You mumble, less than happy.

Mapi's eyebrows furrow.

"You do not think you benefit us?" She places her hands on each of your sides and gently tugs your upper body away from her. You let her, but not without a pout and refusing to meet her eyes.

"Bebé, look at me por favor."

You shake your head.

"Elskling." Ingrid's warning voice echos around the room along with her fingers tapping gently under your chin, and you sigh heavily as you comply with the Spaniards words. Mapi's eyes immediately meet your own, but they didn't hold the stern look Ingrid's did.

"You do not think you benefit us?" She asks again, and you hesitate to shake your head.

"Por qué?"

"I don't know. I just...your relationship was perfect before me." You fumble with the chain hanging from Mapi's neck.

"No relationship is perfect, my love." Ingrid cuts in, Mapi nodding in agreement. "We love each other, yes. But all couples have their issues. Including us."

"If anything, being with you only makes us stronger. Because now there's three of us, instead of two. Meaning there is lots more love and time to go around." Ingrid hand grips your thigh and squeezes. You rest your own on top of it, gripping her fingers and squeezing hard.

Mapi nuzzles her nose with your own for a second before dropping her head back onto Ingrid's shoulder. "You make us better, sí?" She reaches up and cups your cheek, her thumb grazing gently over the still damp skin.

Your lips quirk up into a hesitant smile.

"There's that smile." Ingrid coos, and you flush slightly as you fall forward into their arms, hiding your face into the Spaniards neck. Mapi grins as she cups the back of your head, and Ingrid mimics is as she presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Our girl."

**

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