#i want it to have like internet in it so like internet[word]

[theetherealbloom]

The Things I Would Do, Just To Be Here With You

Summary: Amidst the whirlwind of movie premieres and busy schedules, you and Pedro Pascal, both thriving in your respective careers, find ways to celebrate each other despite the distance. While Pedro promotes Gladiator 2 in London, he longs for your presence at the after-party.

Or, you two would scream at the stars for keeping you apart... and the government too.

“Pedro Pascal x f!reader, Pedro is promoting Gladiator 2, and reader is in Wicked (Elphaba or Galinda of course!) for the screenplay of Wicked, and they are just really supportive of each other but also joke about their own movie being the best. Finding time to come to each other’s premiers. Posting behind the scenes or visiting each other.” — From @imaginemixedfandom

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Red Carpet, Cameras, Paparazzi, Long Distance, Timezone Difference, Social Media, Interviews, I’m not a Spanish speaker, I might be wrong with the terms, please don’t come after me T^T,

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Ty @imaginemixedfandom for giving the idea! I didn’t really want to replace the reader with the cast of Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo. Those two are just too iconic. So instead I will make the reader a writer for the screenplay adaptation of Wicked tehe. You all should listen to brent iii by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler, it’s absolutely one of my favorite albums of this year. Lastly, remember this is all fictional and for fun! Enjoyyyy my loves!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: and the government too! By Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler

gif by @andrew-garfielld

| Main Masterlist |

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — EVENING

“Hi.” Your voice was soft as you nestled deeper into the duvet, your body cocooned in its comforting folds.

“Hola, mi amor.” Pedro’s face lit up on your phone screen, the warm timbre of his voice washing over you like a balm. “I miss you.” “I miss you too… so much,” you replied with a little pout. The time difference between London and New York was merciless. Between his packed schedule promoting Gladiator 2 and prepping for Fantastic Four, and your whirlwind of work with the Wicked movie premiere, your conversations had been reduced to stolen moments like this. Still, even through a screen, Pedro had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. “You look cozy,” he said with a lopsided grin, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Meanwhile, I’m freezing my ass off here on set. I think my nose might fall off.” You laughed softly, the sound tinged with longing. “I’d trade you, you know. I’ll take the cold if it means I get to see you.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He leaned closer to the camera, his face filling your screen. “If I weren’t contractually obligated to be here, I’d hop on the next flight and show up at your premiere tomorrow. Red carpet and all.” You smiled wistfully, your fingers brushing against the edge of your phone as if you could reach through it to touch him. “You’d outshine me. Imagine the headlines: ‘Pedro Pascal steals the show at Wicked premiere.’” “Please. Everyone’s going to be talking about you. ‘Brilliant screenwriter dazzles Hollywood!’” He paused, his tone softening. “You’re incredible, you know that?” Your throat tightened at his words, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Stop, or I’ll actually cry, and my face will be all puffy for tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Okay, okay. But seriously, mi amor, I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard for this.” “And so have you,” you countered. “The Gladiator 2 trailer broke the internet, and you still found time to send me flowers last week. You’re amazing, Pedro.” “Yeah, but flowers aren’t the same as being there with you.” His voice dipped, a hint of regret slipping through. “I hate being this far away.” You sighed, your heart aching in tandem with his. “Me too.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence filled with the unspoken tension of your shared longing. Then, Pedro’s grin returned, bright and mischievous. “So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “who do you think has the better movie? Be honest.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Are you seriously asking me to compare Wicked to Gladiator 2? One’s a heartfelt, magical adaptation, and the other is a testosterone-filled epic. They’re different.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, crossing his arms. “Sounds like you’re dodging the question. I knew you were scared to admit Gladiator 2 is better.”

You scoffed, sitting up straighter in bed. “Scared? Please. I just don’t want to hurt your feelings when Wicked inevitably becomes a global phenomenon.”

Pedro laughed, the sound rich and contagious. “You’re lucky I love you. Otherwise, this would be grounds for war.”

“Lucky? You’re the lucky one,” you shot back, smirking. “I’ll prove it when I finally see you in person again. But until then…”

You brought the phone closer, pressing a soft kiss to the screen. Pedro mimicked your gesture, his lips brushing his camera lens.

“Goodnight, mi vida,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Pedro.” Your voice was tender, laced with all the love you couldn’t put into words.

As the call ended, you clutched the phone to your chest, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. Despite the distance, despite the chaos of your lives, you knew one thing for certain: Pedro Pascal would always be worth the wait.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — MORNING

Today was the day. You were walking the red carpet for the Wicked movie premiere. A sea of celebrities, producers, fellow writers, and editors would surround you. The sheer magnitude of it all left you feeling both giddy and utterly petrified.  

You smoothed your hands over the silk robe you wore, your palms damp with nerves. While you loved the craft of storytelling, the spotlight had always felt daunting. You preferred to let your work speak for itself—a tendency that paired surprisingly well with dating Pedro Pascal, the literal human embodiment of charisma and charm.  

“There, all done,” Laura, your makeup artist, said with a satisfied grin.  

You blinked at your reflection in the mirror. Your skin glowed, your eyes were accentuated just enough to look striking without overwhelming, and your lips were painted a perfect shade of confidence.  

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you said, giving her a warm smile.  

“Of course I did,” Laura replied with a wink. “Big night for my favorite screenwriter.”  

Mia, your stylist, emerged from behind a rack of gowns, holding up the dress. “Speaking of big nights... Ready to put this beauty on?”  

You nodded, though your smile wavered. “I just wish Pedro were here,” you admitted, your voice quieter now.  

Laura and Mia exchanged sympathetic glances before Laura gently squeezed your shoulder. “You’re going to look incredible, and he’d lose his mind if he saw you. How about we take some pictures to send him? A little preview for the man himself.”  

You hesitated, glancing at your phone on the vanity. “I don’t want to distract him. He’s busy with interviews and set work. London and New York aren’t exactly next door…”  

“All is fair in love and war,” Laura teased, her giggle breaking the tension. “Come on, babe! If anything, it’ll be motivation for him to hop on the next flight.”  

Mia chimed in, smirking. “Or just to remind him what he’s missing. Trust me, teasing Pedro is a public service.”  

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the nerves lift slightly. “Fine, fine. But if he complains, I’m blaming you two.”  

They ushered you into the dress—a masterpiece of emerald silk and intricate detailing that clung perfectly in all the right places. As Mia zipped you up, Laura stepped back, her hands pressed dramatically over her heart.  

“Pedro’s going to lose his shit.”  

“You look like a literal goddess,” Mia added, spinning you toward the mirror.  

For a moment, you hardly recognized yourself. The reflection staring back radiated elegance and confidence, even if you didn’t entirely feel it yet.  

“Okay, okay. Take the pictures,” you relented, biting your lip as you tried to contain your grin.  

Laura grabbed your phone and started snapping. You struck a few playful poses, twirling and laughing as Mia adjusted the hem of your dress. It felt silly, but imagining Pedro’s reaction warmed your chest.  

Once the photos were taken, you grabbed your phone and hovered over the message screen. You debated for a moment, then attached the best photo and typed a quick message.  

You: Wish you were here. But since you’re not... Enjoy this. Don’t let it distract you too much, cariño.  

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, the familiar swoosh of the message sending making your heart race.  

The reply came faster than you expected.  

Pedro: Distract me? How am I supposed to do anything now? You look like an angel. No, better than an angel. Drop-dead stunning. 

You couldn’t stop the grin from taking over your face.  

Pedro: Red carpet better be ready. They’ve got no idea who they’re dealing with tonight.  

The butterflies in your stomach multiplied tenfold. Before you could reply, another message appeared.  

Pedro: I’m so proud of you. Go knock ’em dead, mi amor. I love you.  

Your throat tightened, and you had to blink back the sudden tears threatening to ruin Laura’s hard work. You tapped out a quick reply.  

You: I love you too. Now go back to being the coolest man alive.  

“You okay over there?” Mia asked, watching you with a knowing smile.  

“More than okay,” you said softly, tucking your phone away.  

As you prepared to step into the whirlwind of the premiere, Pedro’s words echoed in your mind. Even from thousands of miles away, he made you feel invincible.  

Tonight wasn’t just about the red carpet or the glitz and glamour. It was about celebrating what you loved—and knowing Pedro would always be your biggest cheerleader, no matter where in the world he was.  

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON — AFTERNOON  

Pedro sighed deeply, his head resting against the back of his chair. The steady hum of activity on set felt like background noise, the voices and clatter muffled by the ache in his chest. His fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, the motion absent-minded, a physical echo of the restlessness he felt inside.  

He missed you.  

It wasn’t the casual longing of someone who hadn’t seen their partner in a while—it was the kind of yearning that settled into his bones, heavy and persistent. A few hundred miles of ocean separated you, but it may as well have been an entire galaxy.  

He opened his phone and scrolled back to the picture you’d sent him that morning. The emerald dress, the way it hugged your form, the way your eyes sparkled even in a still image—it took his breath away. You looked like a dream. His dream.  

“If I were there right now…” he murmured under his breath, running his thumb over the screen as if he could touch you.  

If it were as simple as hopping on a flight, he’d already be on his way. He imagined the way you’d light up when you saw him, how you’d rush into his arms. He’d bury his face in your hair, inhale your scent, and hold you so tightly that he’d forget about the world outside.  

But it wasn’t that simple. The timing was off, as it so often was with both your careers in full swing. He was tied to the production schedule of Fantastic Four, and you were in the spotlight for Wicked. The universe seemed determined to keep you apart, and for the first time in years, Pedro felt the cracks in his patience.  

He closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Damn stars. Damn schedules. Damn… government,” he muttered bitterly. The laugh that followed was humorless, the frustration thick in his voice.  

If he could, he’d scream at the stars for conspiring against you both. Curse the invisible forces that made life so complicated. He’d barter with time itself, twist it and stretch it, just to have you here with him for a few stolen moments.  

He wondered what you were doing right now. Were you nervous about the red carpet? Did you feel as hollow without him as he felt without you? Pedro clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him. You deserved to have him there, to walk that carpet with you, to hold your hand and beam with pride as you took in the applause for your work.  

“Pedro, they’re ready for you!”  

The call from a production assistant jolted him from his thoughts. He blinked, the weight of reality crashing back down as he stood and stretched.  

“Be right there,” he called back, tucking his phone into his pocket.  

As he made his way back to the soundstage, he couldn’t shake the thought of tomorrow. The Gladiator 2 premiere loomed ahead, another milestone he should be celebrating with you by his side. Instead, you’d be halfway across the world.  

But one day, he promised himself, one day, nothing will keep us apart.  

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — EVENING 

The flashing lights were relentless, casting an almost blinding glow over the red carpet. The screams of fans and the constant click of cameras created a symphony of chaos, one you weren’t entirely comfortable navigating. You’d always preferred the quiet—curled up with a book, tucked away from the world’s prying eyes.  

But tonight, you smiled and posed alongside your cast and the production crew. You owed it to them, to yourself, and to the story you’d helped bring to life.  

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Winnie Holzman, the original writer of Wicked, leaned in with a smile, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the crowd.  

You nodded, though your voice was tinged with nervousness. “It’s incredible. Overwhelming, but in the best way.”  

“You’ve done amazing work,” Dana Fox chimed in, her excitement infectious. “We wouldn’t be standing here without your screenplay tying it all together.”  

Jon M. Chu, ever the cheerleader, clapped you lightly on the back. “Tonight’s your night too. Own it.”  

You laughed softly, feeling a little more at ease with their encouragement. Together, the four of you posed for the cameras, sharing a few candid laughs before heading closer to the press area.  

As you stepped into the spotlight for interviews, the questions started flying.  

“How does it feel to see Wicked finally come to life on the big screen?”  

“It feels surreal,” you answered, your smile genuine. “Everyone on this project has poured so much heart into it. To see it come together like this is... overwhelming in the best way.”  

“You’re known for being quite private. How are you handling all the attention tonight?”  

“It’s definitely out of my comfort zone,” you admitted with a small laugh. “But I’m surrounded by such a talented and supportive team, which makes it easier.”  

Then, inevitably, came the question you’d been bracing for. “We couldn’t help but notice that Pedro Pascal isn’t here tonight. Do you miss him?”  

The question tugged at something deep inside you. “I miss him so much,” you said softly, your expression softening. “He’s busy promoting Gladiator 2 and filming in London. I know he wishes he could be here, just like I wish I could be there for him. We’re both incredibly proud of each other, though.” You grinned, a playful sparkle in your eyes. “But, of course, Wicked is better. Don’t tell him I said that.”  

The interviewer laughed, and you followed with a wink before stepping away.  

AFTER THE PREMIERE  

As the credits rolled and the crowd applauded, you walked alongside Jon, Winnie, and Dana toward the exit. The night air was cool and refreshing after the heat of the theater.  

“You were glowing on that carpet,” Winnie teased, nudging you gently.  

Jon smirked. “Bet it’s because of a certain someone who couldn’t make it.”  

You flushed immediately, your cheeks warming. “Stop,” you mumbled, though your smile betrayed your embarrassment.  

“Oh, come on,” Dana added with a laugh. “You were gushing about him earlier. Just admit it—you’re head over heels.”  

You sighed dramatically, though your heart raced just thinking about Pedro. “Okay, fine. I miss him like crazy. I just—” You paused, glancing up at the stars. “I wish I could be there for him, you know? For his premiere. He’s always so supportive of me. It feels wrong not to do the same.”  

Jon stopped walking, turning to face you with a thoughtful look. “So go.”  

“What?”  

“Go to him,” he said with a shrug. “Take the jet. I’ll make the call.”  

You blinked at him, stunned. “You—you’d let me do that?”  

“Of course,” Jon said, waving off your concern. “You’re part of the heart of this project. If being with him makes you happy, it’s worth it.”  

“But I don’t have a ticket, and I need to pack, and—”  

Dana held up a hand, already pulling out her phone. “Relax. I’ll call a car, and we’ll pack together. You just focus on getting there.”  

Before you could protest further, Jon had already stepped aside, dialing someone on his phone. Dana grabbed your arm and started steering you toward the waiting car.  

“You’re really doing this,” she said, grinning.  

“I—I guess I am.” Your voice trembled with excitement and nerves. “What if I don’t make it in time? What if—”  

Dana cut you off with a gentle squeeze on your shoulder. “You’ll make it. And even if you don’t, just being there will mean everything to him.”  

AT THE AIRPORT  

The private jet was waiting for you, its sleek frame illuminated by the glow of the runway lights. You quickly texted Pedro’s manager and assistant, letting them know you were on your way.  

You: I’m coming to London. Please don’t tell him. I want it to be a surprise.  

The response was almost immediate:  

Franklin Latt: Got it. He’s going to lose his mind—in the best way.  

As you settled into your seat and the jet began to taxi, your heart raced. Seven hours separated you from Pedro, but for the first time in days, the distance didn’t feel insurmountable.  

You leaned your head back against the seat, clutching your phone tightly as you closed your eyes. You could already picture the look on his face when he saw you.  

Just hold on, Pedro. I’m on my way.  

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON, ODEON LUXE LEICESTER SQUARE — EVENING

The energy in Leicester Square was electric. Fans filled the barricades, the roar of excitement nearly drowning out the camera flashes as Pedro made his way down the red carpet. Dressed in a sharp black shirt, the top unbuttoned, slacks, his signature charm, and a warm smile lit up every interaction as he stopped to greet fans and pose for photos.

The press area was bustling, and soon Pedro found himself standing in front of a journalist holding a microphone.

“Pedro, congratulations on Gladiator 2! How does it feel to be here tonight celebrating this film?”

Pedro grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It feels incredible. This is one of those projects you dream about as an actor, and to see it all come together, to see everyone’s hard work pay off, it’s… it’s a real honor.”

The interviewer nodded. “You’ve had an amazing year, between this and your other projects. But we couldn’t help but notice that someone special in your life had a big night recently—the Wicked premiere in New York. Did you get a chance to see any photos?”

Pedro’s face lit up instantly, a laugh bubbling out of him. “Oh, I did. Believe me, I did. She sent me some pictures, and I’ve seen the ones floating around online too. I mean… she looked absolutely stunning. Like, knock-you-out, breathtakingly gorgeous. I might be a little biased, but still.”

The crowd nearby caught wind of his gushing, and a few cheers erupted. Pedro laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Honestly, I’m so proud of her,” he continued, his voice softening. “She poured so much of herself into that screenplay, and to see her get the recognition she deserves? It’s the best feeling in the world.”

The interviewer smiled. “There’s definitely a lot of love and mutual admiration between you two. Word on the street is you’ve got a bit of a friendly competition going on—Gladiator 2 versus Wicked. Any truth to that?”

Pedro chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, it’s absolutely true. We’ve got a bet going. She’s convinced Wicked is going to sweep the box office, and I, of course, have complete faith in Gladiator 2. Let’s just say the stakes are high—winner gets breakfast in bed for a week.”

The interviewer laughed along with him. “That’s adorable. Who’s winning so far?”

Pedro smirked. “Let’s just say she’s got me a little worried. But I’ll never admit that to her.”

LATER, BACKSTAGE

Pedro leaned against the wall, sipping from a glass of water while chatting with Paul Mescal. Their conversation flowed easily, but Pedro’s gaze kept drifting toward the entrance, as if hoping for some sort of miracle.

“You’ve got that look again,” Paul teased, nudging him with his elbow.

“What look?” Pedro asked, feigning ignorance.

“The ‘I’m desperately in love and missing my girl’ look,” Paul quipped with a grin.

Denzel Washington, who had just joined the conversation, chuckled. “He’s not wrong, man. You’ve been staring off into space like a lovesick teenager.”

Joe Quinn walked by, overhearing the exchange and throwing in his two cents. “It’s cute, though. Very romantic. Someone should write a movie about it.”

Pedro rolled his eyes, though a bashful smile crept onto his face. “Okay, okay, I miss her. Can you blame me? She’s halfway across the world, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Frank, Pedro’s manager, stepped in, giving him a supportive pat on the back. “You’ve got it bad, buddy. But hey, it’s not a bad problem to have.”

Frank couldn’t help but smile to himself, already knowing what Pedro didn’t—that you were on your way. He could only imagine Pedro’s reaction when he saw you walk through those doors.

“Alright,” Pedro said with a dramatic sigh, “can we please focus on the fact that we’re here for Gladiator 2 and not my love life?”

“Sure,” Paul said, smirking. “But if she shows up, we’re all watching you lose it.”

Pedro laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll take that bet.”

Little did he know, he was about to owe a lot of people a round of drinks.

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON, ODEON LUXE LEICESTER SQUARE — EVENING  

The crowd in the after-party buzzed with excitement, a mix of A-list chatter and glasses clinking. Pedro stood near Lux, their conversation about the night’s success lighthearted, though his gaze kept drifting toward the entrance. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that the ache of missing you hadn’t dulled, even amidst all the celebration.  

Lux, sharp-eyed as always, caught the slight shift in his expression and smirked. “You’ve got that look again,” she teased.  

“What look?” Pedro asked, feigning nonchalance as he sipped his drink.  

“The one that screams, ‘I wish she were here.’” Lux nudged his arm playfully.  

Before he could muster a witty retort, Lux’s eyes darted toward the entrance, widening in surprise. “Well, speak of the devil…”  

Pedro turned, following her gaze, and the breath left his lungs.  

There you were, stepping into the room, your black silk gown catching the dim lights perfectly. Your hair, slightly tousled from the rush, framed your face with an effortless beauty that made his heart stop. Heads turned as you walked in with Frank, but Pedro didn’t notice anyone else.  

He froze, jaw slack, his mind racing to comprehend that you were actually here.  

“Pedro,” Lux whispered, amused. “Close your mouth before you catch a fly.”  

But Pedro couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was watch as you walked toward him, the soft smile on your lips turning into a grin as your eyes met his. He vaguely registered Joe, Paul, and Denzel laughing nearby, but he didn’t care. You were here.  

When you finally stopped in front of him, your grin widened, and you quipped, “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was terrible—there’s a movie premiere happening, and I—”  

Before you could finish, Pedro moved.  

He swept you up in his arms, lifting you off your feet as a chorus of cheers, whistles, and laughter erupted around you. You let out a surprised giggle, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he held you close, burying his face against your shoulder.  

“Dios mío,” Pedro murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re here.”  

“I’m here,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his curls.  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with love. “I can’t believe this. You’re really here.”  

You smiled, tears threatening to spill as you cupped his face. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun without me.”  

Pedro didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance, kissing you with a fervor that made the entire room fade away. The kiss was deep, all-consuming, and when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.  

Your laughter broke the moment, and Pedro pressed his forehead to yours, his hands still firmly around your waist as if afraid you might disappear. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.  

“For what?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.  

“For being here. For being you. For… everything.” His voice was low, reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’ll never stop thanking the universe for it.”  

You kissed him again, a soft press of lips this time, and smiled against his mouth. “You don’t have to thank the universe. Just let me love you.”  

Pedro let out a soft laugh, his arms tightening around you. “You’re incredible, you know that?”  

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” you teased, resting your head against his chest as the room slowly came back into focus.  

From the sidelines, Joe nudged Paul, chuckling. “Think he’s gonna let her go anytime soon?”  

Paul smirked. “Not a chance.”  

Denzel clinked his glass against Joe’s. “Now that’s a man in love.”  

And Pedro? He didn’t care about the laughter, the cameras, or even the early morning call time tomorrow. For now, you were in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

[moonstruckme]

Hi, I love the emt!marauders you post, I was wondering if u could write one that the reader has a chronic disease that involves getting sore when it's cold? Idk how to explain, I have lupus, and when it's cold, my joints tend to get sensitive and sore...so something with fluff/comfort, pls?

Thank you for requesting my love <3

cw: reader has unspecified chronic pain that flares up in the cold, I relied on the internet to write this so if anything seems wrong/inaccurate please let me know

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 887 words

Sirius is furious with himself for not checking the weather report. It’s so rare that you all have time off work on the same day, it’s possible you’d gotten ahead of yourselves in the excitement, but the sudden onset of winter wasn’t part of anyone’s plan. Even in Remus’ coat and tucked under James’ arm, you’ve gone quiet and withdrawn. Sirius can practically see you cringing with every step you take down the sidewalk. 

The other boys are similarly concerned.

“Let’s pop in here,” James suggests, maneuvering you all towards a bookstore. 

“Jamie,” you say, voice all sweetness even when it’s threaded through with exhaustion, “don’t go in somewhere you don’t want to just for me.” 

“Doll, I know how it might seem that way,” says Sirius, “but despite popular misconception, James actually can read.” 

You crack a smile, though it looks like it costs you. “Right, thanks, but we’re supposed to be out doing things we all like. If we went into a bookstore, you two would just end up sitting somewhere while Remus and I looked around.” 

“I like seeing you comfortable,” James says, somewhat poutily, “and I like buying you things. A bookstore is sounding rather enjoyable right now.” 

“Don’t you want to go inside?” Remus touches his knuckles gently underneath the butterfly-shaped rash on your cheeks that’s worsening due to the sun and cold. It’s not a terribly frigid day but the wind makes it worse, and however you try to act your boyfriends can see the toll it’s taking on you. “Even if it’s just for a while, it’ll be good to give yourself a break.” 

“Rem’s cold too,” Sirius says, noting the tension in the other boy’s posture now that he’s given up his coat, “aren’t you, lovely? C’mon, I know where we can go.” 

You don’t seem to have it in you to protest as Sirius leads you all down the block to the coffee shop around the corner. The heat is blasting inside. He finds you a table away from the door, where the cold breeze coming in can’t reach you and the whirring of the coffee grinders is less deafening. James insists on buying you each a warm beverage and a sweet (only you and Remus protest this; Sirius doesn’t know why you bother). 

“My poor girl,” Sirius murmurs, holding your frozen hands carefully in his. Remus’ coat pockets have done an insufficient job protecting them. Sirius devotes himself to rubbing warmth into each finger. 

“I think my drink would do as good a job of warming them up,” you say amusedly. 

“As good? I’m insulted.” 

“You know she really should be stretching her joints herself, love,” says Remus. 

“I do know,” Sirius replies primly, “thank you very much. It’s only that I’m very selfish.” 

Remus hums into his tea. “Selfish enough to let her drink go cold.” 

Sirius relents and lets you pick up your mug. You squeeze his hands thankfully before letting go. 

The windows at the front of the shop are foggy. It’s not cold enough yet for frost around the edges, but the mist gives the bustling street a blurred, wintry look, like the four of you are encapsulated in a warm snow globe scene, unmoving and separate from the outside world. Sirius finds it rather peaceful. 

“Did anyone bring ibuprofen?” James asks. 

You cringe sheepishly. “No, sorry. I forgot it at home.” 

“Don’t be sorry, lovie.” James palms the back of your neck, thumb rubbing soothingly. “Any of us could’ve thought of it. We’ll stop somewhere and grab a bottle.” 

“It never hurts to have extra,” Remus agrees before you can argue. 

“Okay,” you say, voice gone soft as it often does when you feel your boyfriends are taking too much notice of you. Sirius doesn’t understand your aversion to this in the slightest. “Thanks.” 

“It’s ungodly freezing out,” Sirius complains. “I move that we make a coffee shop stop every two blocks.” 

James’ face lights. “It could be like appetizer hopping—”

“But with pastries,” Sirius finishes. 

You don’t immediately argue, a promising sign. Remus appears to be warming to the idea as well. “We’d have to pace ourselves a bit more,” he points out, looking at your table cramped with plates and saucers. “Maybe at each place we pick one thing to share.” 

Sirius scoffs. “Suit yourself. I’m not splitting a muffin into four pieces and eating only one.” 

James looks as though he agrees, but he only says cheerily, “We’ll figure it out as we go. Does that sound good?” 

He poses the question to everyone, but they all know he’s really only asking you. Remus and Sirius give their assent quickly and you shrink a bit in your seat, embarrassed. 

“If it really doesn’t sound too inconvenient for you guys.” You lift one shoulder in a shrug. Sirius thinks with satisfaction that the motion looks easier than it might have when you first came in from the cold. “Then yeah, I’m alright with it.” 

“Oh, yes,” Sirius teases, “an afternoon spent enjoying coffee and pastries with the three most fetching people on the continent. I should really rethink this, it may be too inconvenient.” 

“Prick.” James elbows him and leans over to wrap an arm around you protectively, but your smile blooms, and that’s all Sirius wanted in the end.

[quilitain]

I'm a guy who managed to avoid falling into that alt-right pipeline and honestly? I can understand why so many men succumb to it. I don't agree with their choice, I don't support the hurt they inflict on others and I try to guide people away when I get the chance, but I've been on the edge of that abyss and I understand how easy it is to fall.

Growing up, over and over I'd hear women, women I considered friends, women I looked up to and respected and wanted to learn from talk about the horrors of men, how awful, wretched, repulsive, hurtful, and just plain evil they were. How uncomfortable they made them, how uneasy and afraid.

And I learned. And I listened. And I internalized those lessons.

Yes, at no time were they ever directing their comments at me, but at the same time, never did they seem to care that their words were hurting me either. And when I do speak up I'm usually met with some variation of "oh we didn't mean you" or more commonly "oh if you're not like that you shouldn't be offended".

I've gotten to a point where I am ashamed of my gender. I'm ashamed of being a man, of being born into a gender that causes that much pain and suffering. I feel disgusted and repulsed by my own body, I suppressed my romantic feelings so much that I had a mental breakdown when I finally did develop feelings for someone because I was so repulsed by myself and afraid that I would become just another man like the ones I'd heard so much about. I don't want to change gender, I just don't want to be seen as a violent monster just because I share a gender with some people who act that way.

Even now the general atmosphere I get from the very liberal spaces on the Internet I like to hang out in is that I'm not welcome there. I am tolerated, but I am, at best, an enemy turncoat. A potential threat that just isn't actively dangerous. A monster on a leash. I do see small spots of improvement, but the people pushing back usually deliberately, explicitly make exceptions for men. I see TERFs getting called out, but their arguments that AMAB are inherently violent and dangerous to women get parroted around without irony so long as they only specify cis men. I see callout posts promoting and encouraging masculinity and acceptance of masculinity, but only for transmascs or butch women. And like, these are good movements, I support them wholeheartedly and have pretty much made peace with the fact that they are aimed at people who have it a lot worse off than I do. But at the same time it doesn't feel great to once again be told that "everyone is valid and worthy of love, except you".

If you grow up being made to feel that way, isolated, othered, monstrous, and don't yet realize the true motivations of the majority of right-wing "support" groups it becomes incredibly easy for them to lure you in, and once you're isolated and immersed in their echo chamber it's incredibly difficult to escape.

No, it isn't on liberals to coddle and reassure men, but maybe some effort could be made to treat them with the same nuance and understanding we reserve for literally anyone else?

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[mywitchyblog]

Message to @alphaltrainreflection

First of all, bitch, where did I ever say anything about "eroticizing inferiority"? Like, be fucking for real. Show me the receipts. Because unless you’re reading between lines that don’t exist, nothing in my post said anything about power dynamics, submission, or “inferiority.” It sounds like you’re projecting some judgmental bullshit that I didn’t even invite into the conversation. So let’s start there—check yourself before you come into my space twisting my words to fit your weird little agenda.

Second of all, and I mean this with every ounce of sincerity, shut the fuck up. Genuinely, if you don’t like what you see, don’t interact. It’s that simple. Not everyone has to match your narrow idea of what shifting is “supposed” to be. Shifting isn’t some gated community where you get to play security guard and decide who’s allowed in. So do us all a favor, take that rigid-ass energy, and keep it to yourself, bitch.

Let’s be real for a second. You said, “sex freaks who insist on eroticizing inferiority are ruining shifting.” Bitch, nobody’s ruining anything—especially not me. All I said was that I want to get fucked. Plain and simple. If my desire to shift for a good time offends you, you’re free to move along. Shifting means different things to different people, and if sex is part of that, it’s totally valid. If I want to shift to a reality for some damn good dick, who the fuck are you to get all sanctimonious about it? Newsflash: your opinion on what’s “appropriate” doesn’t apply here, darling.

And let’s get one thing fucking clear, because clearly, you need this spelled out: even if someone did want to shift to a reality where they take on a more passive, submissive role, what of it? Why the fuck does that bother you so much? Some people spend their whole lives having to be strong, holding shit together, constantly defending themselves, and staying in control just to survive. Maybe, just maybe, they want to create a reality where they can finally let go, surrender, and trust someone who respects them and won’t take advantage of them. Imagine that—feeling safe enough to let down your guard and explore a side of yourself you don’t get to express in this life. For some people, that’s healing. For others, it’s fun. Either way, it’s their choice, not yours. So back the fuck off.

So let’s talk about this “ruining shifting” nonsense you pulled out of nowhere. Bitch, the only thing “ruining” anything is people like you, stomping into conversations uninvited and acting like you’re the gatekeeper of how others should experience their desires. You’re clinging to this imaginary rulebook about what’s “appropriate” for shifting as if that makes you morally superior, but all it does is make you look insecure, judgmental, and way too invested in other people’s business. Spoiler alert: nobody gives a fuck about your approval or needs it to validate their experience.

Here’s the truth, since you seem to need a wake-up call: shifting is deeply personal. It’s about self-determination and freedom, not conforming to some rigid-ass code of conduct set by random bitches on the internet. If someone wants to shift for spiritual growth, self-discovery, sexual exploration, or all of the above, that’s their fucking prerogative. Shaming them because it doesn’t align with your limited, vanilla-ass view of what’s “appropriate” is straight-up pathetic.

And by the way, bitch, sex is a natural, beautiful, and completely valid part of life. If I want to shift for sex, or if someone else wants to shift to feel cherished, adored, or, yes, even submissive, that’s nobody’s fucking business but ours. Maybe instead of trying to drag others down to your level of insecurity, you could take a hard look in the mirror and figure out why other people’s sexual autonomy bothers you so damn much. Because this isn’t about “ruining shifting”; it’s about you being uncomfortable with the idea of someone enjoying themselves in a way that’s different from what you deem acceptable. Maybe some self-reflection would do you some good.

To every other shifter out there who’s ever been made to feel guilty or “lesser” for shifting for your own reasons, listen up: you don’t owe anyone an explanation, and you don’t need anyone’s approval. Your DR, your fucking rules. If shifting for you is about finding love, intimacy, exploration, or yes, even some good dick, that’s your choice. Don’t let some insecure bitch shame you or make you feel like you’re somehow ruining the experience just because it doesn’t fit into their narrow little box. Shifting is about creating the life and reality you want to live—whatever the fuck that looks like for you.

So, here’s a suggestion: take your unsolicited, holier-than-thou attitude and keep it to yourself. If you can’t handle seeing people talk openly about their desires and goals for shifting, then bitch, scroll past and save yourself the outrage. Because at the end of the day, I’m not here to please you, and neither is anyone else. We’re here to live our best lives, however we see fit, and if that’s too much for you, the door’s right over there.

To everyone who’s out here shifting for what they want, keep going. Own your desires, own your reality, and don’t let anyone’s outdated judgment make you feel like you’re doing it wrong. Shifting is your journey, and if that includes exploring intimacy, vulnerability, or sexuality, you’re not alone. You’re valid, and your experience is just as real and important as anyone else’s.

Consider this your reminder that no one’s begging for your approval. I’ll be over here, unbothered, shifting for exactly what I want, and loving every fucking second of it. ✨

[justallihere]

Almost a year ago, at about 2 in the morning, I posted a little (lol) fic called storm in the quiet. I’d gotten the sudden urge to write the evening before and stayed up late to finish that first chapter, and then I posted it before I could talk myself out of it. I woke up the next morning to half a dozen or so comments, which was, frankly, half a dozen more than I was expecting. I thought I’d be lucky if 20 people read it—I’d have been over the fucking moon if just one person took the time to tell me they liked it.

At the time, I didn’t expect that it would grow into anything. I wrote it for myself, because this story had grown roots in the back of my brain and refused to be weeded out. Those of you who have been around since the beginning probably remember that the number of fics in the fandom at the time was pretty small, so if there was a specific story I wanted to read, I was going to have to write it myself.

And, apparently, a lot of you wanted to read it too. The initial response was unexpected, but the way this story has grown beyond those first few loyal readers and been loved by so many is truly incomprehensible. The past year has been hard. It seems like every day something has gone wrong. There have been times when I truly didn’t feel like myself, and every minute felt like a slog. There have been times when I didn’t want to write, when I didn’t care at all about some fic I was posting anonymously on the internet, but I know that as much as writing it was my escape, getting to read it was yours. And at the end of the day I’ve always been able to come here, to this community, and see so many kind words, and it was the encouragement I needed to continue, for me and for you. It has helped me more than I can ever properly tell you.

Thank you for loving this story—imperfect and messy as it is, with all its broken parts. I left pieces of myself in these words, so thank you for treating them with care. It means everything 🩷

[meo-eiru]

I kinda like the small yet big detail in the game, like I'm sure myself and some other people were expecting a wholesome dating sim that would also get quite spicy (FROM HOW WE KNOW MERU)

And we all just kinda got kicked in the butt, like Starling being too hot to be true yet so terrifying at the same time, but not the terrifying kind that we know, like Micah or Silas etc

More like the type that makes you forget that he still is more a siren than a merman, like he successfully managed to lure in the whole community with his hot ass😭😭and then we get backstabbed by him munching our fingers off as if they're some carrots, like as a simple lunch snack-💀💀

Or in the other ending where it's basically simply Mae dying and getting turned into a possession and probably just another body to fill up with tongues

From my interpretation, Starling doesn't really have that kind of romantic interest in Mae, but she kinda thought it could go into that direction, but then got stabbed in the back like that😭😭(probs everyone who played it, thought like Mae there too kinda💀so we all got the betrayal🙁)

And you guys did a really good job in simply catching us all off guard in most scenes, it's it's beautifully written and drawn, I love that game so much!!!

Spoilers for the game

Honestly maybe Sel would give a different answer but I do think Starling likes Maelyn. Due to his past and what he has now become his way of showing it is probably different, but for Starling I don't think Maelyn is just another body for storing tongues. If that was the case he wouldn't have went out of his way to clean her body up, find a wedding dress and "marry" her in his own makeshift way.

He probably didn't even view it as a betrayal. Because until the very end Starling was making sure the no longer breathing Maelyn could be comfortable in her pearl necklace.

For the writing style, probably Sel writing the story played a big part in this.

Sel and I have very similar tastes in a lot of things, on levels I myself can't believe sometimes. But we do have a different style at how we depict similar concepts.

I love presenting dark stories on a silver platter. Prettied up with the most delicious icings and shiniest sprinkles. I like my stories and characters to look beautiful. Enjoy them while thinking you're just having whimsy adventures only to realize you're done for once you truly look. Like Silas. It's easy to make fun of him, forget the things he is capable of doing as you're too busy enjoying his silliness. He feels safe, a gentle giant who loves and takes care of you.

But he's still a man who has forced himself on you not only physically but also mentally. Trapped and limited you beyond belief. No electricity, no internet, no contact with anyone other than him. Only talking to him, only feeling him, only knowing him, only consuming him. A beautiful and sweet man no human mind can handle for more than a few weeks.

But Sel, from what I've seen, is a bit different. She doesn't shy away from showing the darkness and scariness of the stories she makes. Before you even know it you'll be facing concepts you didn't think could be possible.

And not only that, she hides so much under every word she uses. Often times the things she places in front of you are not even the scariest parts. The more you read and the more you decipher they get deeper.

I'm frankly a big fan of the things she writes. They often leave me flabbergasted (and mortified, she knows what I mean) but they are also so so fun. So scary yet beautifully poetic.

I know she doesn't like being under the spotlight that much. But ever since I met her and saw her stories I wanted more people to get the chance to see and appreciate them the way they deserved. I think they are truly special, and they make me want to do my best to illustrate them in the perfect way possible.

Honestly I'm not sure if I'm good enough at it, but if it helps the stories reach more people I'm happy with it.

I don't know if she'll read this post so that's why I'm being sappy like this but I genuinely hope you guys like her stories like I do. And I hope both you and I can see more and more of it.

[johnnylandslide]

WoL Magic Cards Tutorial!

I'd made a custom Magic: the Gathering card of Johnny recently, and shared it in the Seafloor discord, and since there was a lot of interest in the concept I figured a tutorial might be nice so we have something to do while we wait for plugins to come back. Here goes!

Download CardConjurer This is the tool I use to make custom cards. It's just a web app developed by a college student; he got DMCA'd by WOTC so it's not hosted on the internet anymore, but you can still run it locally.

Just unzip the contents somewhere, and then run launcher.exe when you're ready. It should open up the app in a browser tab.

2. Navigate to the Card Creator

3. Pick out a Frame

Enter this search box on the right. We're going to be using the Nickname ("Godzilla") frames. These give us a small subtitle box below the card name that indicates what the Magic card's actual name is.

If you want to create a custom card instead, use the Borderless frames.

In the menu below, you should see the different colors of the borderless frames. You'll have to add three of these elements to the card: the text box, the card name, and the power/toughness box. Do them in that order, by clicking each element and then Add Frame to Card. If your card is legendary (or if you feel like it), use the Crown option rather than just Title.

You'll have to choose the correct color. If your chosen card is monocolor or >=3 colors, this is very easy since you can just choose that color or gold, but for two-color cards the process is slightly more involved. First, add the color that goes on the left using the Add Frame to Card button, and then add the right color using the Add Frame to Card (Right Half) button. Use the gold power/toughness box.

If any of the card elements get out of order, you can reorder them using the layers controls at the bottom of the page.

4. Import the card text

Navigate to the Import/Save tab, and type in the name of the real card you're putting your OC over. Select the specific version of it using the dropdown afterwards.

(For some reason, Firefox suggests completing this field with my credit card information. I think it knows more about Magic than it's letting on.)

After the card is imported, navigate back to the Frame tab, and click Load Frame Version. This will force the text on the card to fit into the frame set that's currently selected in the bar on the right, which should still be the Nickname ("Godzilla") from earlier.

We should have something closely resembling the real card in the editor, now.

5. Make it yours!

First off, go to the Art tab, and upload your image. Once it shows up, you can adjust it by clicking the actual card in the editor. Clicking and dragging pans it around, shift+clicking scales, and ctrl+click rotates.

Next, pop over to the Set Symbol tab and remove it, since this is your own card and isn't from a Magic set.

And now, go over to the Text tab to finish this off! Start by entering your card name into the Nickname tab.

If your chosen card name is too long and ends up clipping the mana cost, you can reduce the width of the text box with the Edit Bounds menu until it fits.

Next, go to Rules Text to update the name if the card refers to itself. I changed all instances of "Vadrik" to "Johnny". Since this card is really just to look at and not to play with, I also renamed the Day/Night mechanic to fit the Black Mage flavor even better. Feel free to get creative!

You can use {flavor} to add flavor text as well. I added the {lns} commands after some words to add line breaks to make the text blocks look better.

You can also edit the typeline in the Type tab, if the creature type doesn't match your WoL. Johnny is already a Human Wizard though, so I didn't have to do that. Technically this would be a mechanical change of the card, but since these aren't real cards anyway I think it's a valid concession to make. Just don't go abusing it if you actually end up printing these out LOL

6. Download the card image

Finally, head back over to Import/Save, scroll all the way to the bottom, and hit Download you card.

And you're done! There's obviously a lot more that's possible with CardConjurer, and tons of avenues for creativity. If you end up following this tutorial, or creating any other FFXIV-related MTG cards, I would really love to see them!

[sugarnspice630]

Hey! I really enjoy your writing and audios 😊 So I saw something on instagram the other day about if Ateez will one day do a thirst tweets video. Got me thinking, and so if Ateez did thirst tweets, what kind of tweets do you think each member would have and what would be their reactions??

Thrist Tweets - Ateez Edition

A/N: I LOVE THIS IDEA ANON!!! I'd be happy to provide some tweets I think they'd get to read! I scoured the internet to find the best official Atiny thirst tweets I could find. Let me know if your account is featured! Please be sure to drop a like, reblog if you enjoyed it, and comment your favorite part! Happy reading!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆───

Yunho:

"Oh!" Yunho remarks softly and places his hand over his mouth and leans off to the side. His face and ears turning a bright red as he giggles at the reaction image from the Atiny. "I know a lot of Atiny like my hands so... I'll continue to do my best to show them off to you." He pauses while looking at the camera, purses his lips together and nods softly.

Yeosang:

His mouth curls into a small o shape and he chuckles lightly. Yeosang stares at the phone for a few seconds, not knowing how to react, till the words "Oh my-!" roll out of his mouth. "Oh...my Atiny. I'm afraid I might hurt you if I do that."

Seonghwa:

"That's quite a list." Seonghwa rereads the tweet in front of him. A soft toothy smirk appears on his face and he looks up at the camera through his eyebrows. "Perhaps we can make that happen, yeah?" His one eyebrow rises at the end of the sentence, then a full fledged smile comes across his face, embarrassed by how he just responded.

Hongjoong:

Hongjoong cracks the biggest smile he can, with all of his teeth showing. His eyes squeezing shut as he leans forward in a silent laugh. "Just...hit me up." He raises his hand, sticking out his pinky and thumb to make a telephone, over to his ear and shakes it while smirking slyly. "I'll make myself available just for you."

Wooyoung:

He stays quiet while reading over the tweet a few more times. He softly bites his lip and squints his eyes, trying desperately to think of a clever response. "Sounds like you're hungry for some breakfast....I can bring the sausage." His tongue glides across his lip and he catches it in his teeth, leaving it stick out a little.

San:

"Oh?" He shuts his eyes tightly and purses his lips, trying to hide his laughter at the reaction picture. He puts his hand into a fist and covers his mouth, looking off to the side, blush spreading onto his cheeks. "If this is what Atiny want, I'll continue to make my chest look incredible for you." He says as he places his arm over his pecs, one hand gripping his defined chest.

Mingi:

"So you're the one who did that?" He chuckles lightly, thinking back to the Bouncy music video. "Perhaps I could turn myself in to you? You keep the money and just take me as the reward." He raises his eyebrow towards the camera with a straight face and then busts out into laughter.

Jongho:

"You don't think I know how attractive I am?" He pauses and pouts towards the camera, putting up a fake facade of being hurt by the comment. His facial expression drops as his tone gets more serious. "No no no...I'm just saving your heart from not being able to take my full potential."

Tags: @pre1ttyies @isiloiale @moongoddess1982 @xuchiya @myloveforyunho @ywtfvs @meowmeeps @tinyelfperson @httpseungmxn @acupoftaewithsomesuga @tiredlittlevirgo @no1likevie @arki-sha @yeosangsbbg @sanipan @10nantscompanion @sugawara-levi @skzooluvr @hongjng8

[stxneflxwers]

tough love.

⋯⁂ summary. he could use tough love, but only yours.

⋯⁂ a/n. this glorious idea hit me... i had to write it immediately !! also if it reads weird halfway thru, it's cuz my internet fucking died and i had to finish this at two different times D:

⋯⁂ characters. aventurine x gn reader.

⋯⁂ cw. post-penacony. all lowercase. reader is brutally honest. aventurine gets some tough love. hurt/comfort. you knew each other pre-penacony. some cussing. awkward confession. you give him a hug.

aventurine is tired. fatigued. exhausted.

penacony has been one brutally eye-opening experience after another for him, and many others. a part of him wants to sleep for so long, so so long. perhaps not permanently, but when he feels well enough to face the world again. maybe.

this place is a goddamn nightmare, he thinks with a wry and weak chuckle.

right now, he's standing in clockie studios theme park – a place he's grown to partly resent, partly appreciate. he stares down the repaired big screen with crossed arms as he leans against a wall. it's now so isolated here, but people have bigger fish to fry, he thinks. yet... he can't help but feel so small in comparison. briefly, he feels relieved he isn't in the spotlight.

"you know, that was pretty shitty of you. maybe the shittiest. but... maybe you've learned your lesson, hm?"

a familiar voice nearby echoes in his ears – your voice. your sweet yet painfully forthright voice. you're perhaps the only damned person in this unforgiving universe that could hope to understand his inner machinations.

now, he finds himself appreciating you more than ever. maybe he's ready to be seen, even just a little. but only by you.

he smirks, "yeah, maybe i did." he laughs weakly.

silence casts a thick blanket over you two. maybe for a moment too long.

"you know," you start again, "i've been incredibly worried over your dumb ass." you sigh, yet it's the sweetest sound to him.

"ah," he mutters shyly, "my bad." he can't stop smiling, but it's hardly one borne from his false bravado.

"...damn right it's 'your bad'," you frown slightly, the sight hurts to see. and then you stride up to him with tentative confidence, "...i missed you, too." you stand a couple of paces away from him.

"you know what? i missed you like hell too." he confesses, there's something mysteriously soft in his gaze as he stares you down. his gaze lacks its usual lightlessness, it's the first time you've ever seen a shimmer of something honest in him.

"you're finally changing, then!" you grin, finally closing the distance, "i believe in you, aven. i always have, i always will. and, well…" you hesitate, a rare occurrence. "…i'm honored to witness your growth and change. you're not immutable… and, inevitably, everything is mutable." you whisper.

aventurine can't stop himself from blushing.

he's not sure why he's blushing – is it the proximity? no, he's used to standing near you. is it your words? no, not that either. is it your mere presence? ...maybe.

you notice his pink cheeks immediately. and you grin.

"what's with that look on your face, huh–"

"i love you."

you damn near choke on your own oxygen. (not that oxygen is entirely a necessity in a dream.) now you're the flustered one. actually, both of you are flustered – his red face rivaling your surprised expression.

"i–" he starts, "uh..." his mouth hangs open. why in the absolute hell did he just blurt that out? "haha! got ya! you know me and my–"

"that wasn't a prank, so don't even try pulling that on me..." your surprise shifts into a half-hearted glare, and a little pout that he wants to kiss so badly.

"haha... o-okay, not a prank..." he raises his hands defensively.

and then there's naught but silence. very awkward silence. the most awkward silence. he's still blushing, you're still glaring. he glances around, as if searching for the nearest exit, and when his eyes land back on you, you've taken a step closer to him.

"i love you too, you reckless idiot."

you sigh as your expression softens, even your voice is as light as a halovian's feather. it's music to his ears. he cracks a small smile, it's genuine and bashful with the way it curves his lips.

"...and i know my love can't fill the holes in your heart," you whisper, "but... you'll let me at least help you out with putting band-aids on for now, right?" you smile, he can taste how bittersweet it must feel for you.

"heh," he laughs breathily, "as long as it's you helping out."

"good. i can't keep pushing my way into your world, anyway, so... please... let me stay a while longer." you pull him into a tentative, careful hug – holding him like he's made of glass. and maybe he is.

"i..." he trails off as a sudden surge of emotions threatens to overwhelm him, bubbling in his chest. "stay." he hides his face in your shoulder.

"for as long as you'll have me."

"then... always?"

"always."

[bitchslapblastoids]

thinking about the more cutting elements of the show... thinking about how they prod at the grotesquerie that is the youtube landscape now. something that was originally homespun and free and fun is now this soulless maw of manipulation and cynicism, and they're naming names.

thinking about the more cutting elements of their feedback for us; how the sweet homespun thing they birthed then morphed into something massive with its own acute levels of grotesquerie and horrors for the two of them. and how alongside all of the giddy love and joy and euphoria i've experienced these past couple of days, i have also been feeling some more complicated feelings. and i guess some of that may be shame, because for all the years i've loved them so, i was in the trenches participating in the retraumatization of dan (a word that kind of bowled me over to hear). and i sure as shit wasn't 12. i just fervidly wanted to know every damn thing i could. still do, i guess. tis my nature. but hearing dan describe him and phil as the internet's 'first true crime case' had me feeling quite specifically chastened. and sad.

because it is sad that their private world had all these porous slippery bits and all these intrusions and this panopticon around them and their every move, tracking every blush, every whisper of a mention of attraction to men, every possible slip-up, every morsel of their deeply personal love for one another. i imagine a feeling akin to a trapped animal. with helicopters overhead and a searchlight. and you don't know where the predator is or even if there is a predator at all or if you're the one who has done something wrong, all you know is you're trapped.

this isn't a mea culpa; i'm not looking for feedback or reassurances or anything. i really feel super duper okay about feeling this weirdness. i think it's probably good and healthy. i'm sure it's cathartic as hell for them to finally say all of this and point the finger at (some of) us. and we're moving on. they've moved on. i'm aware. and i don't think anyone else should feel any kind of way; i am not a proponent of shame. i'm sure you all know my entrenched live and let live approach to fandom, so it feels weird to make this post when i've railed so much against the phandom's guilt complex.

but i did just want to dog-ear this somewhere. that among all of the sappy giddy fluttery feelings, i'm also feeling some weirdness and some reflection. and that amidst all of the joy and hilarity, there was some heavy fucking shit in that show. and so it is odd to feel like i was in some small way a participant in the construction and reinforcement of some of that shit. i know this may all feel like..yeah...duh...rudimentary....and yes of course i've considered this all before, i am self aware, yes. but it's different hearing it so explicitly from them in the flesh, you know?

[aliceintheworld]

PURE ATTRACTION | JJK | TATTOO ARTIST

Pairing: TattooArtistJungkook X NaiveReader

summary: "I shouldn’t be watching a man undressing, specially not from the house next door."

Warning: angst 😭 (I know, but I promise it will pass soon) kiss, crying, Jungkook being an idiot, but regretting later (he will suffer a bit more in the next chapters, I promise) alcoholic drink, confession 😍

A/N: I know, I promised I would post this yesterday, but my internet stopped working and there was nothing I could do 🤷‍♀️ anyway, here it is: finally things are aligning a little bit. Spoiler alert: the OC's mother will soon find out what’s going on, and things will get ugly 😬. Speaking of which, PURE ATTRACTION is coming to an end, and I'm already thinking about new projects. I hope you can join me on this journey 🤟

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CAPITULO 11

The fright pulls me away from Y/N instantly. When I look back, it's Bora calling me. She stops walking and stares at us for a few seconds. Then she smiles in a mischievous way, almost as if we were doing something more than a near kiss. I can't ignore the bad feeling that overwhelms me when I can't achieve my goal. I know I'm confused and should avoid playing with someone else's feelings, but being apart from her these past few days, has been my greatest martyrdom.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She giggles, biting her lower lip.

“You didn’t interrupt anything.” Y/N quickly shakes her head, embarrassed. “I need to see Hayun. Is she around?”

“Yes.” Bora nods in agreement. “Jungkook, Namjoon was looking for you. Please go see him. No one can stand him anymore, seriously. It feels like a funeral over there.”

“I’ll be right there.” I sigh, feeling I have no choice. I didn't want to go, but I know I need to. I glance at Y/N one last time before heading inside Yoongi's house. I try to maintain a calm expression, but I can’t. I’m so dazed by everything happening that I can barely think straight.

Namjoon came to Busan out of the blue, and even though I have some regard for him, I didn’t want him to do it. I shouldn’t have mentioned the party to him, but I'm so used to having him in my life, I didn’t expect him to travel, just to see me. I didn’t want to do this to Y/N; she must be thinking horrible things about me—part of which are true—but before heading to Seoul, I wanted to talk to her and clear things up, not this mess that just happened. When she left my apartment that day, I spent hours in my room, echoing her words in my head.

I’m a proud person. I don’t like being wrong, and when I am, it’s hard for me to stop, breathe, and ask for forgiveness. However, that same day, I knew I needed to do it. I knew I needed to talk to Y/N and resolve everything before it was too late. Contrary to what she says, I really do like her. She makes me feel good, makes me happy... whenever I’m with her, I don’t think about anything else. My world, filled with problems and worries, becomes a world that is only hers. I wanted to say this to her, but I'm so confused about Namjoon that I'm afraid to make the situation worse and regret it even more.

As I approach the house, I see him among my friends, leaning against the wall. He seems unfazed by the grim situation, but I know he is bothered. I’ve known him for years, and I know he liked everyone before all the shit hit the fan, throwing our dreams and what we built together, in the trash. He smiles at me when he sees me, and I can’t reciprocate in the same way. The pride I once felt being with him, no longer exist.

“Is everything okay?” I ask when I reach Namjoon. He shrugs and shows me a red cup with a clear drink. It looks like water, but I'm pretty sure it isn’t.

“I’ve been better.” He explains in a slurred voice, watching Taehyung and Yoori kissing in the corner. It used to be the two of us, the lovey-dovey couple. “Is everything okay? You were with that girl for a good while.”

“I needed to talk to her.” I say honestly, feeling anxious; it’s like I’m doing something wrong when I know I’m not.

“She seems important... the way you looked at her...” He suggests, but it doesn’t seem serious. It’s as if he’s saying all this, but knows there’s no possibility of any involvement. Y/N isn’t the type of person I would have approached with interest, in the past, and Namjoon knows that.

“She is important.” I confirm, trying to stay relaxed. Namjoon bites his lip and looks at me with an expression I can't decipher.

“You’re joking, right?” He asks; his jaw tightens, waiting for a response.

“I’m not.” I shake my head; my heart pounding almost as loud as the music. “We had a connection, and she’s important to me, that's why we talked.”

“Wow.” Namjoon scoffs, drinking more of his drink. He rolls his eyes ironically, and then sighs. “You really bounce back quickly.”

“What did you expect me to do? Wait for you?”

“No, just that you’d wait until everything could align.”

“You didn’t wait, Namjoon.” My throat burns with my growl. How can he be so hypocritical? “You ended everything. You slept with that guy from your work when we were about to move in together.”

“I made a mistake. You needed one mistake to end everything.” He replies.

“I needed one mistake to realize you weren’t the right person for me.” I say, clarifying the fact for both him and me. ��Love doesn’t hurt, doesn’t deceive. What you did... you just ruined everything. What are you really doing here?”

“I thought I was welcome in your life.” He argues, and it’s the first time I see pain and regret in his eyes. He steps closer to me, his short breaths hitting my face. Him being taller than me never bothered me, but now it feels like he’s a tower over me. A mountain. “I thought you still loved me.”

“I loved the person I thought you were.” I say, closing my eyes. My throat tightens and my chest feels heavy. All the good moments we had together flash in my mind. The first time I saw him, the first time we made love. The first time I said I loved him, scared that he wouldn’t feel the same, and Namjoon reciprocated, exceeding all my expectations. All of that no longer exists. The Jungkook who was crazy about him, who admired him, is just a shadow of who I am now. I loved him so much that I almost overlooked his betrayal for us to be together. I no longer see a future for us, I see nothing but emptiness.

“I made a mistake once, Jungkook. Just once.” He says with a slurred tongue. He looks drunk and sad. A bad combination.

“Namjoon, that’s enough. This is serious now. I want this to end. Go back to Seoul. Stay in your apartment. You need to forget me and move on. We’re not good for each other.”

“We can fix all this. We can move on together.”

“We can’t, because I’ve already made my decision. You no longer fit in my life.” I’ve never been so decisive as I am now. I remember, in the back of my mind, the way I feel every time I see Y/N; none of this feels right.What he did is unforgivable, and I could never trust him again. It just seems wrong. His dark eyes fill with tears, and he takes another step closer to me. His scent mixed with alcohol is still good, but doesn't draw me like three months ago.

“I can show you that you still want me. That I still have you.” He whispers, and even though I don’t want to, I close my eyes to welcome him. For the last time. Just this once, and then everything will be over.

His mouth crashes against mine with ferocity. He seems to show through his actions that he’s regretful, and I can feel it, but it’s not enough. In the midst of the kiss, I take everything from him. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him against me. Namjoon is mine, for the last time. All these years together, I thought it would be forever, but we can’t be anymore. His tongue meets mine in a wildness I recognize. I grunt between his lips as I feel his hand on my back, so forcefully that it’s as if he wants to merge with me. The kiss is sexual, but devoid of feeling. Y/N echoes in my head once again, from when we kissed in your room while her mom was knocking on the door. When our lips met, I felt so much more than just physical contact or her touch. It’s then that I realize it’s not worth it. All the suffering has passed, and I don’t need this anymore. I abruptly pull away from him. Our heavy, quick breaths mix as I stare into his eyes. He tries to get closer again, but I don't allow it. I push him away with my hands, trembling, anxious and sad.

“It’s over.” I whisper. His face contorts as if I’ve punched him. I feel sorry for him, but I can’t deceive us anymore. “It’s over. That was the last time we kissed. The last time you touched me. I didn’t end our relationship. You did.” I conclude; my voice comes out hoarse and in a grunt from deep in my throat. There’s no anger, no resentment towards him. Namjoon doesn’t respond, completely silent, and how could he?

I cover my face with my hands, and let out a sigh mixed with relief and anguish, escaping my soul. When I turn around, my eyes unconsciously go to the woman who, since I met her, changed something within me. Her eyes, however, are filled with tears; her cheeks flushed as if she’s holding back an impending cry. Only then do I realize that Y/N must have seen the kiss with Namjoon, and I can’t imagine what she must be thinking. Before I can react, she turns her back and walks away from the crowded room.

“Y/N!” I shout through the people, but my voice sounds low amidst the music. I move instinctively and hurry after her. Her body almost disappears down the hallway, but I run faster, pushing past two guys who look like they want to kill me, and a girl, who yells at me for bumping into her. None of this stops me until I manage to catch her by the arm. “Y/N, stop!”

“Let me go!” She twists her wrist, shaking her body so I’ll release her. I loosen my grip on her skin, afraid of hurting her, and she pulls away again, faster this time. She heads for the main door of the house and flings it open.

“I’m not letting you go!” I yell at her, walking faster as the facade of the house gets further away from us. “Y/N, listen to me!”

“Stop following me!” She screams at me; her usually sweet and soft voice sounds angry and hurt. I run faster until I can stand in front of her. I don’t touch her, but I don’t let her pass, using my body like a wall to block her path. “Let me through, Jungkook.”

“No.” I shake my head. Her face twists. Her nose crinkles, and her forehead furrows. I’m sure if she could hit me right now, she would.

“Let me through.” She pleads again, taking short steps that I once again block.

“No, not until you listen to me.” I say with such force that she flinches. Her angry, hardened face transforms into an ironic laugh, which fades as more tears fill her eyes. Her white, smooth neck is filled with veins, as if she’s about to burst with rage. Her breath comes fast, as if she doesn’t have enough air.

“You’re a fucking bastard, a total son of bitch. I don't want to listen anything.” She growls at me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her curse; it’s so strange that it feels like those words don’t belong to her. “How can you do this to me? Yo-You are... I don’t even have words to describe you!”

“I know! I know! I’m a fucking mess, do you think I don’t know that?”

“You’re a son of bitch!” She screams again at me, pushing against my chest. “I want to punch you right now! I want to hit you until you turn into someone Irrecognizable.” She pushes me again, but I hardly budge. Although she’s angry and furious with me, I’m much bigger and stronger than her. I remain silent, watching as the trapped tears begin to flow down her face. The face that so often had been lit up with joy when she was with me, now looks defeated.

“I know... Y/N, I know.” I respond in a whisper. I stop her from pushing me again, holding onto her fist. I imagined she would use her strength against me and pull away one more time, but she doesn’t. Her silent crying takes over her body, and her shoulders shake. The pain I feel seeing her this way, knowing that I caused it leaves me frozen, but my arms move before I can think, and I hug her.

Her face aligns against my neck, and her sobs grow deeper. I open my mouth to say something, to apologize for everything I’ve caused her, but the words stick in my throat, and a voice in my head tells me that even if I tell her how sorry I am, nothing changes what I did. I hurt her, regardless. Apologies, unfortunately, don’t help much in this case.

“I’m sorry.” I say, contradicting all my thoughts. Even knowing that words don’t help at all, I say again: “I’m really sorry. Forgive me, Y/N.” I plead, closing my eyes. I feel her arms wrap around my body, bringing me a pleasure I can't even describe. How long has it been since I felt that excitement from just a hug?

“Stop apologizing.” She asks, pulling away from me. In the place of her warm body, only coldness remains in mine, with her distance. “Why did you kiss him? Why did you say all those things to me and then kissed him?”

“Because I needed to.” I clarify. Y/N opens her mouth to say something, perhaps to curse me again, but I’m quicker. “It’s over. We are nothing more than strangers now."

“How come?”

“That was the last time we were together, after almost five years. After everything, I needed this ending. I realized he no longer fits me.” I say, and not feeling the sadness I felt before, just imagining such a situation, brings me hope. Hope that I won’t have to suffer for Namjoon anymore. That I won’t have to feel anguish and pain over him.

“I don’t... I don’t know what to say.” Y/N shrugs, wiping her wet, swollen face. “But I don’t take back what I said. You really are a bastard.”

“I know.” I agree, unable to deny any of her statements. “And I also know that I hurt you, but I want to fix what I did. I want to fix all the shit I made you go through.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” She presses her lips together; those red lips I love so much, that for a second, I get lost in thought. I miss kissing her. Talking to her. Observing the little wrinkle at the corner of her right eye, every time she laughs. Not when she smiles, but when she giggles heartily. I never thought this could happen so quickly, even after Namjoon, but my heart leaps just thinking about her. Thinking about our kisses.

“Y/N, I can finally fix what I did wrong. That day I was so confused. I told you I didn't want something serious, but I did. I was scared; I just didn't want to get hurt again.” I confess to her, recalling the memories of that morning, when I turned my back on her because I couldn't bear to look into her eyes, as she left my apartment.

“Do you really think I'm going to believe all of this? After everything you've done to me? You're being a damn liar, a manipulative jerk." she grunts; I can see the anger in her eyes, the disbelief radiating from her.

“Y/N, I needed that. To finally know what I wanted.”

“You needed a kiss? You're a joke. Seriously.”

“Believe me.” I plead, my voice a whisper. I lean closer to her, holding her face in my hands. Her cheeks are flushed from crying, from the turmoil of emotions. “I want you.”

“I won’t be your consolation prize.” She whispers back, furrowing her brows. Y/N seems so determined and strong, that it's like all my words means nothing to her.

“You’re not.”

“I won’t be your second option.” She repeats, grunting at me.

“You’re none of that.” I repeat, irritated that she even thinks that way. She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks away, as if she could be saved by someone amid the darkness of the neighborhood. When she finds no one else, she sighs, biting her lips hard.

"I wish you had said all of this earlier. How can I believe anything you say now?" she asks, and unfortunately, I have no answer for that question.

"I'm sorry again," I beg, defeated. "Y/N, can I take you home? Can we talk about this somewhere else?" I ask, a bit hesitant. I want her to understand that even though I made many mistakes, I'm willing to do anything to show her how important she is to me. Y/N shakes her head, however, breaking all my hopes.

"I can't be near you. Every time I'm close, I end up losing control." She says, and I completely understand what she means. Whenever we're alone, I feel an energy between us that draws us together like an invisible magnet. I smile, agreeing with her.

"I can't control myself when I'm with you, either," I respond earnestly, and her previously sad face lights up with embarrassment.

"Jungkook, stop," she pleads, almost through clenched teeth. Her cheeks are flushed now, thanks to my words.

"I'm telling the truth. Deal with it."

"I really need to go," she changes the subject, shaking her head. Then she sighs, looking at her fingers. "I... I’ll call a taxi." She turns her back to me, before I can react.

"What? What do you mean?" I follow her again, as she walks back to Yoongi's house. Y/N looks at me, as if mentally questioning what I'm doing so close to her, but I don't care.

"Jungkook, go back to your party," she commands, walking faster.

"I'm not letting you take a taxi home at this hour. Forget it." I shrug, annoyed. She may not want to listen to me or look at my face, but nothing will convince me to let her go with a stranger in the middle of the night.

"What does it have to do with you?" she questions without looking at me, and I have to walk faster to get in front of her again. Her irritated, mocking, and sarcastic expression fades, when I look her in the eyes.

"Stop talking like that. Do you really think I don't care about you?"

"You are a—"

"I’m a jerk. I know. I just asked if you really think I don't care about you. Do you really think I don’t want what’s best for you?"

"I don’t know," she replies, shrugging. "After tonight, I can't think about anything else," she argues, furrowing her brows. I step closer to her, taking a short step forward. Her perfume, different from Namjoon's, completely captivates me. It's as if everything about her is designed to drive me crazy.

"Y/N, let me take you. My car is over there, across the street," I whisper, locking my gaze with hers, noticing how her pupils dilate when she accidentally glances at my mouth.

"I don’t know," she repeats, as if she’s fighting something internally.

"I'll take you. We don’t have to say a word to each other. You get in the car and then get out when we reach your place," I conclude, hopeful. She pauses for a moment and sighs, looking at her fingers again. It seems she's contemplating my offer for a few seconds, still uncertain.

"Okay," she says softly, as if afraid of her own decision. Her voice, once filled with anger, now sounds neutral. If I could choose any superpower right now, it would definitely be the ability to read her mind.

I clear my throat, nodding, and slowly step back from her, wary that any sudden movement might make her change her mind. My car isn’t too far away, so we walk in silence for just a minute. Yoongi's house still seems lively, with people coming and going through the main gate. I take one last look at the place, mentally thanking myself for leaving the car key in my pocket, as I glance at Y/N without saying a word. She remains silent the whole time, while I quickly open her door and then mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how she pulls on her seatbelt and looks at me for a moment, as if she’s examining me.

Even under her gaze, I don’t utter a single word. My whole body feels tense, alive, electric. I dare to contemplate her, the same way she does with me, taking in her from head to toe, from her Converse sneakers to her dress that’s much larger than her body, with a small slit opening on her left leg that, for God’s sake, reveals her smooth, soft skin –the same skin I had touched and taken everything from, just days ago. I clear my throat and start the car, reluctant to leave my spot.

A sudden rain starts to wet the windshield, and I thank the universe for, even if not intentionally, give me more time with this. The entire drive is a torture and, at the same time, a source of pleasure. I keep thinking to myself that if I can’t convince her, this might be one of the last times I ever see her before I go to Seoul. I savor everything about her: her scent, her presence, her calmness amidst so many storms, trying to imprint all these details in my mind. How did I get to this point? How could I be so confused about Namjoon when I’m clearly in love with her? Obsessed with everything she does?

When her house comes into view, I swallow hard, feeling my mouth dry. I want to say so many things, yet no words seem right. I look at her face, and almost immediately, she looks at me too. We both sit in silence, listening the rain and lost in thought. Then she smiles shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Thank you for bringing me," she says, looking down. "And I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have cursed at you. I shouldn’t have said all those things. I... Jungkook, I wanted to see you hurt, just like I felt, but I had no right. I was wrong for that. I want you to be happy. I want you to be loved, no matter who you’re with." She confess, and her eyes crinkle the way only hers do, calm and serene. I open my mouth to say something, to affirm she had every right over me, but she gets out of the car before I can tell her everything. "Goodbye." She whispers with a weak smile, giving me her back and entering before the rain makes her wetter.

I stay there for a moment, frozen, breathing heavily. I look at the door of her house, and then at my mother’s, thinking that, unlike my father, I’ve always considered myself brave. I’ve always seen myself as a confident person. With everything that has happened in my life, I have never taken a step back, and I have never let fear paralyze me or hold me back from anything. I get out my car hesitantly, but I don’t stop. I walk quickly to the short steps, and ring the doorbell, freezing with cold and the water. Y/N opens the door a second later, almost as if she was waiting for me on the other side. Her face illuminated by the yellow streetlight.

"Y/N, I don’t want you to leave my life," I declare breathlessly; my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest. "I have no right to say this and I don’t even deserve you to listen to me, but I want you to know that since the first time I saw you, at your bedroom window, everything about you caught my attention. The way you speak, the way you look at me, how you listen to everyone as if they all deserve your attention, how empathetic you are, and how simply good you are... I can’t stop thinking about you. I talk about you to my friends, to my mother. I miss you even when we haven’t seen each other for a short time... I don’t want this to end. Us. I don't want us to end." I laugh desperately, not even knowing what I am doing, filled with hope and moments of us together in my mind. I can literally feel my blood rushing through my body, pulsing strong like never before.

"Jungkook, you—" She tries to say, but I stop her by placing my hands on her cheeks. I lean in so close I can feel her breath on my face.

"I know I’m an idiot, but I’m so damn in love with you that I deserve a second chance, just to show you that I’m worthy of you, that I can make every day, from now on, the best day of your life." I whisper, gazing into her eyes. They widen in shock and surprise. Tears form in them, and one falls onto my thumb, on the apple of her cheek.

"I’m in love with you too," she confesses in a whisper, and I have to lean in closer to assure myself that I’m not dreaming. She smiles, as if she senses my confusion. "I’m in love with you too," she confirms, just for my ears.

And I can’t hold back any longer. I can’t anymore. It's when I kiss her, so intensely and suddenly, that it takes her a few seconds to respond. Her soft lips form a sweet smile against mine, and I can't help but chuckle too, happy, content, all at once. She places her hands on my face, tenderly, and then winks at me. Her eyelashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks because of the rain.

"Come in, I don't want you to get sick from the cold," she invites me, pulling me in. Then she kisses me one more time.

Thank God for this fucking rain.

Ask for a TAGLIST in the comments

@ane102 @joonwater @ttipa @kookienooki @missbangtangirl @kelsyx33 @minimoninini @myjungkookthighs @elivision

[ticklishraspberries]

hi

I read your post about your courage to talk about tickling in therapy. And that you are thinking about sharing bits of it with us. ❤️‍🩹 If you feel comfortable? Please, do so. I started therapy a while ago, but haven’t had the courage or mental unloading level to talk about this chapter, tbh.

Hello!! I'm gonna use your ask as the place to talk about this, so yes, I really hope this can possibly be helpful to you and others!! This is mostly going to be about dealing with shame surrounding tickling and sort of...why I think it became a kink for me? Trigger warnings for mentions of grooming, sexual abuse, and pornography.

So, I grew up with unrestricted internet access as a child. My parents had no idea how to deal with growing technology, and they really didn't understand how to put child safety features on or how to even check the history, so I could pretty much do whatever I wanted.

From a very young age, I started experiencing the feeling that I thought about tickling differently than other people, but there wasn't really shame about it, I just knew that it...mattered more to me than others? I would describe it as more of a fixation, and now as an adult who has been diagnosed with autism, I'd say it might have something to do with that.

As a very young child, I would look up things about tickling, and I was immediately met with fetish content. Back in the early 2000's, even fanfiction was mostly sexual. Harry Potter ticklefics were all, like, an underage Hermione being non-consensually tickled by magical plants, or Voldemort or Snape using it to torture Harry.

As an impressionable child, I began to internalize the idea that this likely innocent interest in tickling was a dark, perverted sexual deviance and developed a debilitating sense of shame towards it. It's why the word would make me cringe, why I stopped letting my family do it to me, why I would feel disgusted and embarrassed when it happened in shows and movies.

Recently, my partner, our mutual best friend, and I had this very deep talk about fetishes. We all have one that we are deeply ashamed of (obviously I'm not going to share theirs) and both of them have never judged me for a single second about tickling. Whenever it happened in media we were watching, my friend expressed not knowing how to handle it for my sake, because I would very clearly get uncomfortable.

He encouraged me to really think about why it made me uncomfortable, especially in a room with 2 of the only people in my life who would never judge me for it, and I decided to take his advice and really dwell on it.

There had been a reason that I had to bring it up in therapy previously, it's a long and frankly far too personal story to share, but I had really danced around what it was and my therapist ended up asking if she could guess what I was talking about, and she correctly guessed that it was tickling. My therapist is super chill and comfortable talking about literally anything with me, and she didn't make me feel judged at all. In fact, she was like, "I think a lot of people find that hot as like, foreplay at least!" and fully promised me that it was normal and nothing to be ashamed of.

Basically, with a mixture of self-reflection, discussing it in therapy, and talking about it with my partner and our friend, I have come to this conclusion: Being exposed to tickling as a sexual fetish at such a young age, as a child with no prior concept of what sex was or consent or anything, I was conditioned by pornography and inappropiate fanfiction/fanart the believe that there is something perverted and predatory about me liking tickling.

As someone with sexual trauma that was occurring around the same age that I discovered these things online, seeing the constant non-consensual and underage elements in these things made me see myself in the same light as people who were abusing me.

The ironic thing about this is, tickling is not inherently sexual to me, but I never let myself experience it platonically until very recently, because I was convinced I could not separate the sexual aspect from the innocent fixation. Tickling between myself and my platonic friends, or just playful/romantic tickling with my partner is also fun for me, and it doesn't turn me on. But I really struggled to acknowledge that these things could coexist, because I only ever saw the sexual side of it at the most impressionable age.

I have really bad intrusive thoughts, and a lot of self-esteem issues that make it very hard for me to trust myself and view myself in a positive way, so my mentally ill brain essentially convinced me that I was perverted, that I was a predator, etc. for simply...liking tickling. Even though logically I can understand that I am not a bad person, I don't want to non-consensually tickle people, I value consent, all of those important things, I felt like there was just something inherently wrong about liking it, and so, while I have preached being comfortable with it on this blog, I didn't even realize how deeply I have hated myself for years for it.

That is one reason why I think this blog and this community have been therapeutic for me, and why I still rarely write NSFW fanfiction. Tickling is a kink for me, yes, but I can fully separate when a situation is sexual or not. Recently, I have been able to start healing this. The friend I mentioned earlier knows how I feel about tickling and is still comfortable with it happening between us, which has really helped me begin to view it as a fun/safe/platonic thing again, and I'm getting way better at not getting uncomfortable when it happens in media.

My therapist has suggested doing some deeper work on this, but I kind of feel like I got to the bottom of the problem and am already feeling a lot better about it. However, I'm sure it will come up again.

I just wanted to share this because I always said talking about tickling in therapy would be my worst nightmare, that I would never do it, etc. and it ended up being a really positive experience that has made me so much more comfortable in myself and liking tickling.

I hope this could be insightful or helpful to some of you!! Thanks if you read this far.

[royal-chandler]

inspired by TZP's appearance at the premiere of Queer 💫

grammar and i really couldn't mesh well today, i'm sorry.

--

The car slows down and the bounce of Alex’s knee speeds up in the backseat. It’s stilled when Henry’s hand folds over it, easily stealing Alex’s attention from the reel of landmarks that lead to the DGA Theater Complex. Henry’s smile is a private and small curve that crowds out everything else. 

Henry comments, “You look like you’re about to leap out of your skin, darling. We can still wait, if you’d like. There’s no pressure.”

Drifting a hand down, Alex threads his fingers through Henry’s and admires the warm and perfect fit of them. “I’m not having a record-scratch moment. And we’re not postponing or calling this off. Or, fuck even worse, appearing as friends to have the internet continually mislabel us as a bromance. It’s not nerves or cold feet, it’s anticipation.”

“An incredibly vibrant anticipation.”

“And your subdued energy, I should take that as?”

“Barely restrained excitement.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Of course,” Henry says with a mock-serious nod that he might as well have patented, "I'm going to be sharing the same space as Luca Guadagnino. As a massive fan, that thrills me to no end.”

Alex laughs out of surprise and plays along, leaning in. “Wow, he rates higher than Daniel Craig?”

“Alex, honestly. You think that I haven’t already met the most recent iteration of James Bond? Me, a son of Arthur Fox? We’re well acquainted, love. He’s been at my dinner table quite often,” Henry divulges.

“Huh.” Alex's curiosity is genuine now. Clearing his throat in an attempt to sidestep an embarrassing needy tone, his question still comes out clumsy, words tripping over gravel, “No, uh, farther than the dining room? Uh, just dinner.”

“He’s rather happy with his wife and I’ve never been...courted as a supernumerary,” Henry says thoughtfully. And then with his free hand, he’s carding Alex’s hair, pulling on an end in a way that makes Alex’s toes curl in his shoes. Showing off his cheekbones, Henry grins wide when Alex hisses between his teeth. He's generous with his touch, his fingers slipping down to Alex’s mouth and skipping over its opened seam, pausing at the pout of his bottom lip. Henry’s voice drops in volume as he adds with a sweet kiss, “Plus, he’s not my type whatsoever. Far removed from it and no one fills out a tux better than you. Even James Bond. So, there’s zero reason to be jealous.”

“What? Who’s jealous? I am not jealous.”

“I’d hope not. Soon enough, the whole world will know that I’m yours.”

To the left of his sternum, Alex's heart gallops. The same wild pick-up from weeks before when he’d first held the invite to the premiere, the title of the film brash and defiant across the top. Unapologetically Queer. Over the sloping script encouraging a plus-one, Alex had rubbed his thumb back and forth, like he could wear a patch into the parchment. He hadn’t been able to let it go until he had Henry on the phone, tears swelling and unsteady as the black and white of the invite blurred and the choice became clear.  

“And that Henry fucking Fox calls me his boyfriend. Kind of insane,” Alex remarks, remembering the Melbourne Climate Conference and literally running into the Prince of England. Getting to his feet with a two-inch advantage and still feeling like he didn’t measure up and never would, gutted by Henry’s refusal to take his hand. Later, in a hospital closet, he’d find out that Henry had been hollow that day as well, pitted by fresh grief.

“Good insane?” Henry asks.

“Always. I like the kind of crazy you drive me to,” Alex admits and sees happiness light in Henry’s forest eyes. He sees forever. Alex wants it so badly, he has to dip his gaze lower before he loses himself there completely. He loiters at the necklace that hangs from Henry’s neck, its silver pendant resting against the notch of his collarbone like an ornament. A gift from Alex that the public has been speculating the origins of since it first appeared on a beach trip Henry had taken with Bea and Pez—noteworthy for the simple fact that the Prince never wore jewelry aside from his signet ring. “I mean, let’s get started on this fucking outfit, baby.”

“Alex, enough.”

“You’re in a cardigan that’s barely holding on! What am I supposed to do with that? I’m merely a man.”

Paired with dark grey pants, the cardigan is powder blue and delicately knitted with a lace pattern, see-through over a black tank and even softer than it looks. It’s a formal contrast to Alex’s dark denim jeans and wool workwear jacket but together, the intent behind the ensembles will be undeniable—that, like any other couple, they’re meant to match.

Fondly, Alex shakes his head. “When the big headline reads ‘Prince Henry, finally saved from drowning as First Son ACD yanks him out of oversized double-breasted suits’, I’ll get my gratification. You’ll see.”

“They are not oversized,” Henry argues, a blush across his face.

Alex tells him, “If you didn’t bare your chest every once in a while, your shoulders would be your best kept secret. Forget about me.”

“Not ever,” Henry answers.

As if cued, the car rolls to a stop and a silhouette appears outside the window. They’ve got thirty seconds and, in a deliberate callback to the moment he realized saying anything less than love to Henry felt like lying and asked him out on this date, Alex wonders, “Are you ready?”

“So fucking impatient,” Henry says with a laugh and Alex is head over heels for all of him.

When the door is opened, Alex doesn’t let go of Henry’s hand. He carefully waits for Henry to climb out behind him and then places his proud smile to the skin of Henry’s cheek—what he had wanted and wished to do at the charity polo match in London and every other public appearance that followed after.

Ahead of them is a long, loud line of press and chaotic bursts of blinding lights. A shit ton of questions and a sprawling red carpet that they won’t be able to walk back.

They move forward with purpose, together every step of the way.

--

i'd like to kindly thank @caressthosecheekbones for telling me that Henry should wear Nick's iconic cardigan 💛

and @mylucayathoughts , here you go! 🤍

[freuleinanna]

Oh heyyy! I'm sorry for barging in, but I saw it today and I just couldn't unthink that! I hope you maybe like it <3 gif just for the vibes

Actors AU | Agatha and Rio are exes who have had a child together, lost a child together, and are now forced to work together again.

Word count: approx. 3000

Grief and trauma are a big theme, so is healing. Namedrops of the characters are irrelevant and are for fun. It's not a TV series meta, I just thought it would be hehe fonny. Social handle's made up too.

AO3 link

*********************************************

‘So, what can we expect in terms of, uh, in terms of the dynamics between the two of you?’

‘Ohhhhhhh, you know…’

‘I know, I do know! It’s too early in the stages and whatnot, but is there anything you can say? Are there any premises, any arcs for your characters already?’

A sly smile slithers across Rio’s lips. Agatha’s looking at her over her shoulder, unsure of what to say. The new project is all hushed up for now, of course.

‘I’m sensing some… hesitation here, ladies?’

Rio’s hand on her back, wrapping her hair around her finger in little curls. Eye contact, way too long. Fan-video-worth long. There’s a shitload of them all over the Internet, dubbed with the sappiest music and in-love-rose filter. Happy, happy.

‘Some insane shit, my guy,’ Rio finally chuckles.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Oh, I mean, full on. It’s, like, plot-wise it’s demon hoards, and religion, and bloody sacrifices…’

‘What?!’

There she goes.

‘…but really it’s a commentary on acceptance, on the grief of living in this insane world, and like, unreal amount of trauma dumping. Yeah.’

Deadpan. No expression, just making shit up. Agatha’s nodding along.

‘Right, hon?’

‘Oh, yeah!’

Something clicks, and she’s game. Rio’s fingers in her hair, and the feeling is so light, so generous, it bursts out of her with laughter.

‘So much trauma! Uh-huh, ‘cause I’ll be playing the sacrificial lamb, and you’re…’

‘I’m gonna be the demonic priest. So, there you have it.’

‘A wild ride, for sure.’

The audience is riled up. Applause come. They laugh. Cameras are rolling, forever imprinting happiness onto the lenses, every last bit of it. It is one of the last bits, actually. It’s going to spill her guts on the floor when @agatharioreallove tags her on a clip a year later (before the news comes out), showing their happy, loving faces from exactly that interview.

And then, a billion of sad, my-heart-is-breaking-for-them tags.

FUCK, she’ll be hollering in the emptiness of the living room, FUCK! Can’t you leave us the hell alone?! Fucking…

For cunt’s sake.

Our child is dead.

Our child is dead.

Fuck.

******

1 year later.

‘Thank you so much for showing up. I know it’s…’

The journalist is trying mad hard to be respectful, but also to still get a chewy piece.

‘How do you… How does one even do something like that?’

‘There’s a thing called contract, sweet cheeks.’

‘I mean, sure, but I’m… Wow, that was a raw thing to say.’

‘Things are raw.’

Awkward silence. There’s a glance over at the security guy, an unnerved tug at the collar.

‘What, do you expect us to murder each other live?’

‘Ha-ha.’

Nothing fucking funny about that.

‘I mean, everyone expected the project to get dropped, and… here you are, preparing to shoot. How was that? How was that decision made?’

Agatha’s hair in a tight bun, and she’s stroking a loose lock away from her face. Rio’s eyes are daggers. Agatha doesn’t need to look to know it.

How was it made?

Through cursing and screaming, that’s how. Kicking chairs across rooms. Throwing lamps at her agent, God bless her. Lilia’s a fucking saint draped in Sicilian shawl.

‘Aight.’

Rio fidgets, Agatha can hear it. Here’s the part she winces at, uncontrollably. Be a doll and think for a second, because you’re only not charged the lost potential value fee if you deliver the film by those scripts. What’s not clicking? And she wanted to tell that story. They both did, a love letter from parents to children. Who could’ve thought.

How was it made?

Rio’s hand perches to her shoulder, staying there like an all-too-familiar ghost. Spine tingles with rage.

‘It was hard. You can imagine…’

‘Sure… ’

‘…if you’re not an asshole. Are you?’

‘Oh, I’m—I’m not! I-- really--’

‘Good, then.’

Agatha’s dry chuckle is Oscar-worthy. She had bid a fortune on the script rights to buy them out, so she’s bound. And Rio? Rio’s completely went off the rails. Her brain train doesn’t even remember there were rails once. She’s lashed out so much she’s become a liability to everyone who has the displeasure of working with her. A bare-foot beggar in the woods is what she is without this film. So is Agatha, unfortunately. Two beggars clapping their naked ass-cheeks on the wind.

Unless they go through fucking hell.

With everybody watching.

Twenty minutes and gallons of constant internal vomit later, the interviewer stops the cameras, says goodbye, and leaves. Rio’s hand disappears. Agatha leans back and closes her eyes, waiting for another press-junket-junkie, back as straight as she’s never been.

Phone’s keyboard is spitting out quick, audible taps. Why, why does she always need to keep the sound on?

‘Fuck you.’

Agatha knows well that her voice has cracks in it. A decent amount of disdain too, she hopes. Taps are avalanching even quicker.

‘Aw, your first words to me. You haven’t been developing functional communication mechanisms, have you?’

Tap-tap-tap.

‘Go stand in the corner and die, Rio.’

‘Fuck you too.’

It’s so cold, she might have gotten frostbites. From their voices alone.

*********************

Table-reading / Rehearsals.

‘Okay, don’t be mad, but?..’

‘You don’t have to say it.’

‘It sucks balls. I’m sorry, but you just suck balls.’

‘I do no such thing, ever.’

Teen’s face wrinkles with worry. Billy, Bobby, Tommy, Toby? Whatever. He’s a teen, so, he’s Teen. A plucky assistant, and a huge pain in her moral ass.

‘Could you maybe… Cunty filter off, okay?’

‘Ugh, Teen.’

Still, Agatha’s looking this twig of a kid over, feeling worry build in the ruins of her insides.

‘What else are they saying?’ She smirks with venom. ‘Besides our chemistry being off?’

‘Basically, that it’s a Mariana Trench of flaming shit, but that it still has to be done.’

She nods, un-amused. Yeah, otherwise it’s another pile of fees, liabilities, script ownership debates, the whole petty army of Hollywood law-humpers on her back. Teen is slurping on his… blue-colored god-knows-what. Then stops, under her glare.

Rio’s afar, in the distance. Like she’s always been since… Well. Since Nicky.

‘I can’t,’ Agatha whispers before she can stop it, and clutches at her coat nervously, realizing she’s said it aloud. There’s something strangely calming in a way Teen avoids touching her, but remains just behind her shoulder, listening softly. ‘I can’t, I—I can’t.’

‘Can’t what?’

She shakes her head. Rio’s there. So is anger, so is hurt, so is everything scorching, manifesting in her oh-so-loved-once face. So is missing her fingers curling up her hair. But more, still anger.

‘I can’t say those things. The script. Not in a meaningful way. Not when--’

‘How else are you supposed to say it?’

‘Huh?’

Her comforting assistant steps from one foot to another, then lowers himself to the level of her chair. His voice crackles with nerves. His shadow supports hers. He’s saying things Agatha never wants to hear, because Nicky died, but the script brings her and Rio into a nightmare of a centuries-old witch and Death incarnate battle over a child’s soul.

‘You’ve lived them. How else are you supposed to say those things? You’ve lived them.’

Happy videos of their faces, laced fingers, loving gazes during the interview. Sad montages and thousands of close-ups of them visibly drawing away from each other at the hint of a touch. Hurting like the sun, spilling red while falling to the doom. Fuck.

‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself with a straw, huh?’

‘Sure. Okay.’

*******************************

Shooting: Day whatever, because at this point, everyone’s frustrated.

‘Oh, shit.’

‘Is she drunk?’

‘Fucking impossible— Somebody get Vidal in her trailer!’

‘Do we keep a setup?’

‘For fuck’s-- ’

‘That’s a PR nightmare.’

‘She’s not gonna sober up, is she?’

‘Not before she vomits half her stomach down the sewers, she’s not. Un-fucking-believable. Can somebody get Harkness?’

‘She’s gonna kill her.’

‘Maybe don’t tell her, smartass?’

‘She’s gonna know, and then she’s gonna kill her.’

‘What a mess.’

‘Leave it, just… everything, leave it. And get Alice to Jen for make-up. We’re gonna reschedule her scenes for today.’

‘What an A-list crap-pile on meth.’

****************

When Rio sobers up, it’s not entirely clear whether she’s dead or not, but she thinks, well. Either way there are hook-bladed daggers buried in her body, tugging in all directions at once. Hangover or hell, not much difference.

The hardest of daggers, the sharpest and most resilient one, turns out to be a scythe. And it’s in Agatha’s eyes.

‘Alive?’

A familiar voice makes the bells toll. Deep tonality of disappointment, the one which roots in hurt and blooms with blame, is a homesick sound.

‘Unfortunately so.’

‘Good. I need you alive for being skinned by the crew tomorrow.’

‘Gee,’ she croaks. ‘Sounds hot.’

Managing to pull herself into a sitting position, Rio wipes her mouth.

‘I kinda hoped I’ll just black out for the rest of the shooting. No luck, then.’

All signs are there: Agatha’s trembling hands, the way she keeps gesticulating with her whole palms in frustration. Her hateful stare, of course. There’s a storm coming. Hurricane Harkness, ready to pour molten steel. Rio sneers, taking it.

‘Come on, I know you have words.’

‘God, you’re a bitch.’ That, Agatha says with her whole chest without missing a beat, as though grateful for a convenient way of spitting some of the pain out. Those words unlock her frustrated lips. ‘Why. Seriously, why now? Neither of us wanted to do it. We’ve gone through a minefield, got fucked in the ass by every interviewer ever with a hot poker and a sympathy lube. Why not just… Do it and be gone, huh? Rio? Just one fucking movie. Why the fuck do you need to act up now?’

‘Because now, it hurts.’

And Agatha’s eyes dart away in a habit so shivery and familiar, it burns Rio’s chest worse than years of mutual blame. The woman who’s never been her wife, the woman who’s shared a son with her; now the woman who’s been so enraged, so devastated, so focused on her own irreplaceable loss that she couldn’t bring herself to look at Rio’s. Because, what if she recognizes the same pain?

People are fucking nutjobs.

‘It hurts, Agatha,’ Rio repeats quietly, with careful weight placed on each word. ‘Because I lost him too, and I didn’t get to live through my pain. I was handling yours.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘Guess it’s catching up on me.’

Hangovers don’t gently break your ribs, Rio knows. So it must be something else, like truth. Agatha’s disbelieving fury is war-like.

‘What, you got a different story?’ Rio teases, despite desperately wanting not to. Don’t tip the scale, thoughts echo, why are you like that? Why are you doing this? Why now?

Because. It. Hurts.

‘You left, Rio. When I needed you the most, you left.’

‘Needed me?’

‘And now you’re strutting back to, what exactly? Give your feelings a performance?’

‘You’ve shut me out.’

Heavy breathing. Some metallic croaking in the voice.

‘I’ve?--’

‘You’ve scolded me out. You’ve frozen me out, Agatha. You needed a space to grieve and you locked the fucking door beh--’

She stops abruptly. Draws air to say the only thing that mattered.

‘I was alone.’ I was grieving, and you couldn’t look at my face. I was grieving, and your own grief was just too big to notice mine. ‘Suppose I’d stayed. With all the time in the world, would you have hated me less?’

She sees locks of Agatha’s hair swing, heartbreakingly beautiful. Always the little things that destroy you.

‘I didn’t hate you.’

‘No?’ It’s cruel to smile. The alternative is weeping.

‘No.’

‘You sure hid it well, then.’

‘Rio, I--’

It’s a muscle memory, alright. Bodies remembering how to intertwine, how to save each other from loneliness. Hands reaching out. Breath aching to get mixed. It almost, almost happens. The warmth of it flees just before a newer, colder habit kicks in, which isn’t completely unlike cutting through arteries of hope drying in the air.

The woman Rio’s engraved into her lungs yanks them out with her need to blame someone, anyone, and walks away, still holding them.

‘I can’t, I—Don’t do that to me.’

‘I’m not doing anything.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I know.’

A beat of silence.

‘I’m done, Agatha.’ Rio smirks, broken. ‘You win. From now on, I’ll be on my best behavior.’

Agatha Harkness, an unbearable load-mouth and a genius pervert with cussing, bites her tongue and leaves. Rio feels like Death.

***************************************

Shooting: Pivotal day.

The day everyone remembers, but nobody talks about.

And then—Life.

Not at once, and not beautiful. Life isn’t a fragile flower blossoming out of nowhere. Life is actually someone’s gooey remains, definitely someone’s shit at some point, and there’s nothing fragile about it. It fights and claws, but given time, it overcomes people and buildings alike. It grows. It grows.

Given time, it stops running from the dirt whence it came, and starts reaching down with roots to accept the unthinkable.

Flowers fallen out of Agatha’s hair are white. Her hands are covered in fresh soil. Streaming down her face, tears bitter and gentle.

‘Please, my love!’

Death stops before a weeping mother. Cameras are rolling, Rio’s mind has completely switched off. Everything’s blank. Pulsating sounds in her ears are ringing with the remnants of please, my love – and Agatha’s horrifying expression. Something bruised and raw from familiarity, with which it comes.

Death – or Rio – shouldn’t rage against her helplessness. Death takes children, after all, it’s a known fact. Sometimes, it’s just… It’s just unfair. And sometimes, even Death – and Rio – can’t take being the reason for such heartbreak.

‘I can offer--’ she starts. Then, ‘No.’

Some muttering, well-earned, is heard from behind.

‘I can offer only time,’ someone whispers, reminding her of the line.

‘I know,’ she says. Then again, ‘No.’

Agatha’s face is shaded with concern.

‘What are you?--’

‘I can’t offer time.’

Taking up the skirts of her dress, Rio steps forward, toward her. Agatha draws back. Agatha the actor is wrecking her nails against stone, trying to fight Agatha… Rio’s Agatha.

‘Boys die.’

Rio nearly chokes on those words, and still it isn’t as bad as Agatha’s reaction. Invisible to anyone who’s not close enough, anger, bitterness, and grief birth real tears, instantly hot over the camera ones. But Rio is close, isn’t she? She is. For the first time in what feels like centuries of roaming wild, she’s actually there.

‘Boys die,’ she whispers, ‘and it’s never fair, but they do. And there isn’t time enough to heal that pain.’

‘Stop this.’

‘I can’t bring him back…’

‘I’m serious, Rio, stop this!’

‘…because I haven’t taken anything.’

She burns her fingers on Agatha’s face, yet it’s still worth touching it.

‘It’s not your fault, it’s not mine either.’

‘We loved him.’

Thousands of clips all over the Internet, of them showing off their happiness.

Aww, they’re the best parents <3

I NEED them to be my parents!!!

Sweet music.

Heart emojis.

Wait, are they actually raising a kid together???????

Talking about Nicky.

Talking, talking, unable to contain that joy.

And on that, Agatha breaks. Her lips twitch with a sob. Rio’s on the ground beside her, holding her face in a way that urges to listen. And her Agatha, not the character or the actor, is crying into her open palm.

‘I wanted more time. I just wanted more time, that’s all, I--’

‘We loved him so much that it… broke something, when he died.’

‘How can…’ From under closed eyes, more grief. Then a gaze so piercingly blue, it staggers Rio with ferocity of color. ‘How can I live with that? How can you live with that? How does everything not remind you of him, huh? How are you not – so – angry? Why – were you not – angry?’

Nobody could have possibly thought they’re ad-libbing. Yet nobody intervened, bless the fools. In the shadow of Rio’s face, Agatha’s darkened eyes glint almost purple.

‘I needed you to be angry, along with me. I needed you to be fucking furious about his death, and you just…’

‘Accepted it.’

Rio nods, and feels her own tears, warm and heavy like August rain. Some of them drop of Agatha’s hands. Their hands and their tears come together.

‘Because, Agatha,’ she’s barely resisting the sobbing herself. Perhaps, that’s how Death feels. Rio nods with heartbreak and compassion, and inevitability they bring. ‘Because, Agatha, boys die.’

I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that they do, and there’s nothing I could do about it, but I forgot that people die too, from suffering. We almost died, too, right next to each other.

Agatha’s chest is heaving with breath. She’s fighting against Rio’s hands, and then she’s holding them, and then her arms are pressing Rio closer with all their strength.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ For not listening. For being angry with you, because you weren’t ready to accept. For not fully understanding. For lashing out. For leaving.

‘I didn’t—I—I’m sorry,’ for not acknowledging your loss. For needing my fury so much, I thought I’d stopped needing you. For blaming you.

And suddenly flowers bloom.

Not literally, of course, but they bloom in how Agatha’s fully sobbing into the crook of Rio’s neck. They also bloom in how Rio’s holding her: gently, stroking her back all the while. Wrapping little curls of hair around her fingers. Most of them bloom on their lips as they touch skin. Blessing, apologizing, healing.

Desperation and trauma are flowing up, up, toward grief and by it, up again, to the bright-red rage, around the gigantic ill-intentioned walls, over broken pieces of good memories thrown against it, toward air. Toward breathing.

Toward love,

and having spent years half-severed only to find that each deconstructed piece still fits perfectly as you hold each other tight,

and even toward kissing the salt.

Toward, it seems, life.

Because it’s always the cycle, isn’t it?

Out of death, life.

Actor au where they are exes who had a kid together but never got married but then the kid died(because i hate happy people) then they are forced to work with each other and drama ensue

[contagious-watermelon]

Why do I keep seeing transmascs and trans men insisting or implying that all trans men are "female socialized," or "understand the female experience," or "navigated the world as a woman." Because yeah, sure, that can be true for some people. especially if you weren't gnc at all as a kid and didn't crack your egg until well into adulthood, it makes sense.

But they don't stop at saying they had that experience. It always comes with an addendum that trans men, as a group, all can relate to this experience. I don't know about the entirety of my demographic, but I never got even a little bit of what some of them talk about. I didn't even believe that women were scared of going out at night until I kept consistently seeing them say it, online or wherever, for years. I never realized catcalling was a thing until I saw some women complaining about it on reddit.

But they posit it as some sort of, you're safer than cis men, right? You know what it's like? Which, on top of being patently, demonstrably false in the case of myself and many other trans men, holds some unpleasant and often outright hostile implications about trans women. And they always deny it, but if you can't even conceptualize someone like me who grew up gnc, and never got the bulk (or any?) of whatever we consider to be 'female socialization,' what does that say about what you think trans girls went through, growing up? I don't want to speak for them, as I've never experienced that firsthand, but I can guarantee that (if you're even a little bit obviously trans) people don't treat you like a cis kid of the opposite gender. By and large, they don't get treated like cis boys.

It just makes me mad that we're taking this inaccurate framework that (ever so conveniently) puts trans people into the box of our assumed birth gender, and trying to fancy it up and use it with a faux-progressive veneer; never mind the way that transphobes use it to bar trans women from being athletes, or using the bathroom, or having access to any gendered resources they need. It would be bad enough to try and dust it off and use it even if it were largely accurate, due to the aforementioned connections to outright transphobia, but it literally is patently false. Not in all cases, obviously, but why are we trying to revamp this untrue, inaccurate generalization and pretend that we can make it 'trans-inclusive?'

[ghostespresso]

staff logging on to tumblr dot com today