#i’m bad at articulating my thoughts in the first place so might as well try to work on that

[ntaras]

i scrolled through my bi-han tag and oh wow. i really just a month long breakdown about him

[rubykgrant]

(a little thing I wrote for a bigger fic, but I like how absolutely nonsensical Jon and Martin's "meet-cute" was, and now Jon gets to let Martin know the secret dorky side he's been hiding behind his very serious attitude~)

“If you don’t mind me being blunt?”

“By all means,” Jon encourages him.

“When exactly did you start to notice me- that is, notice that you found me attractive?”

“Oh, well… haha, um- that actually happened almost right away…” Jon’s mouth makes that flat little smirk that means he’s mildly embarrassed.

“Right away? Oh, come on…” Martin has trouble believing that.

“No, honestly. Before I really even knew you, before I convinced myself you were the bane of my existence, my very FIRST thought when I saw you was- he’s lovely,”

“You’re just trying to butter me up!” Martin argues, but feels himself blushing. Just barely.

“Hmm, ‘lovely’ was the first WORD that formed in my head. I suppose my other thoughts were less articulate,” Jon doesn’t elaborate on that (only twice had he allowed himself to gush about his early thoughts regarding Martin, which never really went away; once to Georgie, once to Daisy. Georgie had called him a sap, and Daisy had called him unhinged. He wonders what they would have both said together, if they’d had the chance to compare notes).

Martin continues to shake his head, unconvinced.

Jon thinks this over.

“Do you remember when we met?” Jon asks, leaning beside Martin at the sink; his body-language looks like somebody at a pub, about to drop what they believe to be a winner of a pick-up line.

“Yes, unfortunately. I think we BOTH made pretty strong first-impressions on each other,” Martin replies.

“Mmm, very much so. But- when you first ran up, and asked if I had seen a dog? I thought you were trying to tell me a joke,”

“You thought- what? A joke?” Martin turns to look at Jon.

“A joke. I was surprised right out of my train of thought, forgot about whatever I had been doing, forgot to keep my aloof and serious attitude as the new Head Archivist. I didn’t know what to think, and I was so taken off-guard, it made me genuinely intrigued. I was even excited to see if I could figure out the joke, be all impressive and clever. But then…” Jon trailed off, rolling his eyes.

“Then I made it clear- an actual dog was running around inside the building,” Martin finished. “Honestly Jon, what kind of joke could that have been?”

“Hmm… have you seen a dog? I was hoping somebody could help me SPOT one,” Jon answers. Martin’s jaw drops. That was indeed a terrible pun… but Jon isn’t finished. “Have you seen a dog? I CANINE find it anywhere! Have you seen a dog? I’m having a RUFF time looking on my own! Have you seen a dog? I’ve searched this place a HOUND-dred times! Have you seen a dog? This one is im-PAW-sible for me to find! Have you seen a dog? I’m worried it might be in GREAT DANE-ger! Have you seen-”

“STOP, HAHAHA, STOP- YOU’RE GONNA KILL ME!” Martin doubles-over, and slides down against the cupboards under the sink. He’s laughing so hard he’s crying, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Terrible puns aside, my first thoughts of you were- Oh, somebody is talking to me? Oh, he’s telling me a joke? Oh, he’s lovely. Oh, I can impress this lovely man when he sees how good I am at figuring out jokes! OH, HE LET A DOG INTO THE BUILDING!”

Martin laughs again, helplessly hiding his face in his knees. Jon steps away from the sink, crouching down in front of him. Martin continues to giggle, peeking through his fingers as Jon lightly strokes his hair.

“Is that what I should have done? Won your heart with bad puns?” Martin asks.

“I’m not sure I’m much of a prize, but you certainly won my heart, regardless. The problem was ME, almost everything about you kept catching my attention, I just had my head up my own arse. I’m not good enough for you,” Jon answers. Martin finally moves his hands away from his face, catching Jon’s with his own.

“Maybe you just need to step-up and BE good enough for me?”

“I can try,” Jon says with a smile that implies he’s actually determined to do exactly that. Martin leans forward and kisses him.

[fuckingfinwions]

going back to the institutionalized/dehumanized a/b/o verse

"I wish I could do something better for Amrod", Maedhros said.

"He'll be home in a couple days," Fingon replied, and began rubbing his omega's shoulder soothingly. "No one will hurt him, with Feanor and Amras there to watch over him."

"Maybe not, but heat is still terrible without a bondmate."

“He’ll be fine, that’s what the heat hotels are for. And your father did a good job of navigating you through them; even got you bred by your bondmate in advance.” Fingon nipped at Maedhros's ear.

Maedhros whined, then asked, "What were the heat hotels like, for you?"

"No anywhere near as good as having a bondmate. So obviously designed by betas, with more concern about keeping alphas from causing problems than about pleasure in my time there. Overall, a bit of a tease."

"A tease?"

“Definitely. There’s this nice handsome omega, dripping with slick, and I only get to knot them once. Right at the moment my knot’s gone down enough to bask in the afterglow, maybe play with their cock or work a finger in their hole alongside my cock, I’m pulled away to another omega. There’s no time for anything but the most basic sex, the omega can’t suck my balls or lick my knot because they’re too desperate to get fucked, and their mouth is covered beside. The gags mean I can’t even tell them what I want to do to them, and can barely hear their reaction. Do you know, before we bonded I thought you were quiet in bed?”

“I just prefer to use words rather than the garbled whining you can make around a gag.”

“Yes, you’re very articulate in heat.” Fingon teased. “Begging for my cock, or sometimes just ‘more’ but you can’t think of what. Still much hotter than just lying there silently.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you say how glad you are that we’re bonded.”

“I am though. Were you trying to get me turned on? Because you did that too.”

“No. I want to tell you it was like at the heat hotel for me.”

“Hmm, and you don’t expect talking about how you got pounded to turn me on?”

“It might, but I need you to understand. Especially since Amrod still has to go there.”

“All right I’m listening.”

“The heat hotel was better than being left alone in a room, I suppose. But I was in an unfamiliar place every time, smelling of nothing until I’d been there long enough for it to smell of a dozen strange alphas. It never quite satisfied, to have an alpha show up for an hour or so. Sure, a knot chased away the worst of the heat, but I couldn’t relax at all, couldn't let go and just experience the moment; I was always aware that this alpha would abandon me and a new alpha was about to come through the door. The closest it came to being good was when I was bred there, knowing for once that this had a purpose.”

"That does sound bad." Fingon placed his hand around Maedhros's neck, feeling the pulse and reassuring Maedhros that he definitely belonged to the alpha now, whatever had happened in the past. "Would it have helped to have your own bedding? Or to have a friend in the room, rather than the hall? Amras does go along as another guardian, and I think Feanor has given up on him not seeing sex."

"A familiar scent might help? I'd have all these strange alphas in space that felt like mine, so it would be more invasive but less disorienting. And I doubt a beta in the room would help at all."

"Well, I won't give you up even for a week, so Amrod unfortunately can't have a familiar omega in the room."

Maedhros nodded. "I can bundle up his sheets and such next time, so they don't have your scent on them and annoy the alphas."

"Good idea. You also can't go because any alpha who saw you in a heat hotel would go for you first, and Amrod would never even get knotted." Fingon pulled Maedhros into his lap.

"Fingon! Be serious, Amrod would be in heat and naked and I'd be fully clothed."

"Just like his first heat, where I pinned you to the floor while Amrod whined in emptiness twenty feet away."

"We're bonded, it's different."

Fingon paused for a moment and adopted an expression of deep thoughtfulness, then shook his head. "Nope. You're simply that hot." Fingon dragged Maedhros's tunic off. "The absolutely-" Fingon nipped Maedhros's collarbone and trailed lower "most" bite "fuckable" bite "omega" bite "in all" bite "the world" Fingon reached Maedhros's nipple and held on.

Maedhros moaned, and was very thoroughly distracted from worrying over Amrod.

__

Fingon didn't forget what Maedhros had said though. He came up with a plan to make Amrod's next heat better, and shared it with Maedhros.

Maedhros was a bit concerned, but it really did seem like it would comfort their son. And if Amrod didn't like it, he could always go back to the heat hotel the next time.

Fingon told Amrod to come to him or Maedhros at the start of his next heat, not Amras or Feanor. The rest of the details would wait - best for Amrod not to worry too much in advance.

__

"Fingon Ada?" Amrod knocked on the door frame as he entered the courtyard.

Fingon had been climbing the oak tree, but swung down at Amrod's call. "What is it? - Oh little omega, you are so sweet and ready."

Fingon had obviously figured it out as soon as he got downwind of Amrod, but Amrod nodded anyway. "I'm in heat, and you said to tell you before I go the heat hotel with my guardians."

"That's right. We're doing something different this time for your heat." Fingon took Amrod's hand and led him into the house. "Maedhros is going to bring some of your bedding so it smells like you."

Amrod followed; Fingon's explanation covered why they weren't going to Amrod's own bedroom, but were instead entered the master suite.

Maedhros was reading in front of the fire. "Hello Fingon. Hello Amrod." He set his book down to kiss Fingon on the lips.

Fingon raised his free hand to the back of Maedhros's head, and didn't let him up until they were both gasping for air. "Amrod's in heat again. Bring his pillows in here."

"Yes Alpha."

"Good boy."

Amrod bit his own lip to keep from moaning. He tried to ignore that he was holding the hand of a half naked alpha - Fingon didn't wear a tunic to exercise - in the alpha's bedroom. But it was difficult when Fingon kept saying things like that, even if not to him. Amrod was so focused on controlling himself that he didn't even notice where he was walking until he was backed up against the bed. "Ada?"

"Shh, no need to worry my omega. I'm here."

"Why did you take me to your bed?" It smelled good, the familiar scents of Amrod's parents mingled with sex. But Amrod didn't want to relax in it when any minute he'd be told to climb in the carriage and go to the heat hotel.

"I told you we're doing something different this heat. You're my omega, and I'm going to fuck you and knot you as much as you need. No strange places, no parade of unfamiliar alphas."

Amrod blushed. "What about Maedhros?"

"He'll be back soon with your bedding. And then in a nest of all our scents you can let go and let me claim you."

Amrod instinctively tilted his head back, though the thick leather collar meant his neck wasn't actually bare for the alpha to bite and bond. "He won't mind?"

"Why should he? He'll be here the whole time, and can watch me take care of our son. Now strip and lay down."

Amrod pulled off his outer robe, but the laces on his tunic seemed to have tangled into one giant snarl, and he fumbled with it for several seconds.

"Nevermind that, we can take off your top when I'm inside you." Fingon instead reached for Amrod's crotch, unfastening his pants in seconds and brushing against his dick.

Amrod whined, and Fingon reach further back, fingers dipping between Amrod's cheeks.

"You're so wet for me, practically dripping and you haven't even seem my cock yet."

"I want to. I want your cock alpha, want you to push me down and breed me. Knot my hole and fill me up until I'm bursting."

Fingon growled and shoved two fingers inside Amrod. "Oh, I will. But I told you to get on the bed. Lay on your back and spread your legs." Fingon pulled his fingers out and gave a sharp swat to Amrod's ass.

Amrod scrambled back quickly and tried to get in position. His half removed pants still stuck around his knees stopped him for a moment, and Amrod blushed as he took them off all the way. Then he spread as far he could, knees bent and feet braced against the bed to show his hole to his alpha. He raised his face forward to see whether Fingon liked it.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Fingon said. He pushed Amrod's tunic up to his armpits and bit his belly.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" Maedhros asked with amusement as he walked in carrying nearly a dozen pillows.

"Not at all, you're just in time for the main event." Fingon pulled off his own trousers, revealing his hard cock with the knot already visibly enlarged at the base.

Amrod moaned.

"He is magnificent, isn't he?" Maedhros said. "Just relax though, and our alpha will take good care of you."

Fingon walked up to the bed and pushed Amrod's knees even wider, settling between them and pinning Amrod thoroughly to the mattress

"Normally you're in heat for a few hours on the carriage ride before you get knotted. So Fingon might feel a bit bigger than you're used to." Maedhros said hurriedly when he realized Fingon wasn't going to slow down.

"Don't worry though, you can take it." Fingon said. "My sweet little omega, made just for me."

Fingon thrust into Amrod in one long stroke. Amrod's moan of pleasure turned into a whimper at the end, but Fingon leaned down to capture his lips. Amrod's answering kiss was sloppy and unskilled, but that made sense - all his times with other alphas had been wearing a mask and a gag.

Fingon lets his hands wander over Amrod's body, calming his son and learning every part of him. Soon Fingon began to thrust, quickly finding Amrod's prostate and hitting it every time.

Fingon's knot was growing, stretching Amrod's hole more with every stroke. Amrod was indeed less loose and less slick than normal, but Fingon was very good at taking his mind off any discomfort, with lips and fingers exploring all of Amrod's most sensitive spots.

Amrod came after only a few minutes, sum spattering both his belly and his alpha's Fingon thrust a few more times and then ground his hips, letting Amras's hole clenching in orgasm bring him over the peak as well. Fingon let himself collapse nearly on top of Amrod, catching himself on his forearms and thoroughly shielding Amrod from the world.

Maedhros gave them only a few moments to recover. He trailed kisses across Fingon's shoulders, reminding his alpha he was there but not demanding a reply.

Amrod was the first to speak. "Thank you alpha."

Fingon chuckled slightly, but said, "The pleasure is very much mine. We raised a very polite son, didn't we Maedhros?"

"Yes we did. Amrod, would you like help with the laces?"

Amrod looked again at his tunic, and sighed. "Yes, I can't see well enough to untie it from this angle."

Fingon leaned back so that Maedhros would have enough space, making both him and Amrod moan as Fingon's cock shifted inside the young omega. "What about you love? Are your clothes stuck as well?"

"No, I just though one of us should be dressed in case we need to talk to Feanor, or to get something from another room."

"Feanor has already seen you naked plenty of times, and you can always put something on later if it's needed. I'm taking these off you." Fingon was as good as his word, and pulled Maedhros's pants down immediately. The shirt required a little more coordination, but Maedhros let go of the laces on Amrod's tunic long enough to get his own over his head and arms.

"Should someone tell Feanor?" Amrod asked after a few minutes of the three of them lying on the bed together.

"He or Amras will notice you're not at dinner in a few hours," Fingon said. "There's no point in getting them involved sooner."

"But - shouldn't my guardian know I'm in heat and need care?"

"I'm your alpha, and quite capable of caring for you right here."

"My love," Maedhros said, "how much did you actually explain?"

"Enough to calm Amrod down and make him stop worrying about beta-style relationships."

Maedhros rolled his eyes and kissed Fingon's chin, darting back out of reach before Fingon could start making out with him. "Amrod, you're not going to the heat hotel. Fingon is going to stay with you the whole time, in this room, and knot you as often as you want. When your heat is over, you'll get to decide what you want next time, either Fingon the whole time or a typical the heat hotel."

"But I thought alphas hated letting anyone but them fuck their bondmates?"

"Yes, which is one of several reasons why Fingon isn't bonding you, and the collar is staying on. You also aren't going to get bred this heat; the Song on your womb remains as it has been."

Amrod nodded, and looked up at Fingon. It was a novelty to be able to read the expression of the alpha inside him, perhaps they all looked this smug once they finally knotted him. But he doubted they were as beautiful as his ada.

"I'm still surprised Feanor agreed to this idea, he likes traditional stuff like the heat hotel."

"Feanor is smart enough not to pull me away from my omega once I've already knotted," Fingon said.

"Wait did you not tell him?"

"Like I said, I'm going to take care of you. If you don't want this again I won't force you, but no one was going stop me from giving you a good heat for once."

"But-"

"Besides, non-traditional can be fun. Maedhros, kneel over his face, ass towards me."

"Is this going where I think it is, alpha?" Maedhros asked as he made his way across the truly inordinate number of pillows.

"Yes. You're going to show Amrod how much an omega enjoys it is when an alpha puts his tongue in your hole, even though it's much smaller than a cock."

"Oh yes, alpha!"

[confuzzled-crow77]

I nearly lost my life in the Outsiders SMP (+ for the thousandth time): 

“Buttery voice” Ori with your buttery voice stop giving Owen a bad rap 

ONE. TIME. BEKY. (I’m really irritated right now so this is probably gonna be a rage filled one; like the others weren’t 😭)

Beky you can’t fucking listen to him so shut the fuck up about them being weird. Yeah go shit yourself. 

Woooooow it’s almost as if they’re literally trying to survive and just get by and there’s more important things than shit water so shut the hell up. Thanks for your time 😌<3 

I am relieved and privileged to not know who “the great bekymon” is before this so sit yo ass down in that fat ass chair and- 

Oeca you’re wearing a furry suit. 

You’ve deteriorated my dude. (No hate to furries; bro just looks funky as hell) 

Bekymon come back here you ass. 

If you’re staying temporarily then you’re going back in so get a spine and go. Also get a few braincells and realize this please and thank you. 

Is something growling??? Oh just some zombies. You’re fine. 

lol love how Owen is sitting like a little gremlin creation with one leg propped up and leaning forward like a hunchback. 

WTF you’re going to die you’re going to die you’re going to die you’re going to- 

Is he eating lettuce 

If you say it’s going to go well it’s not going to go well. That’s the first rule of Percy Jackson. 

It might be because I have problems with organization and excess but it makes me want to die seeing all the trash in his chests. 

For a second I thought Oeca was going to kiss him or something. 

“Not an instant death but certainly-“ *falls in immediately* 

Woah. 

Woah. 

Suspenseful music. 

Dark corridor. 

Unknown territory. 

God man those arrows like Oeca. 

Oh my god extended music at the end!! Gotta say I love the little theme they have; it’s very sad and kind of adventurous at the same time. 

Here is what I’m thinking: it’s gonna kick off after this and I’m going to keep my notes app open to jot down my emotions and everything. That means if you want well thought out theories and explanations and articulate essays on everything, then you’re in the wrong place. But if you’re here for trash thoughts and overreactions, please feel free to stay and look down on me. 

Outsiders SMP Thoughts Journal! ;P

Heyyyy, so I’m watching the first five episodes of the Outsiders SMP and I thought I’d record my thoughts. I’ve never watched an SMP so this is going to be a very different experience. If you’re a fan and I say bad stuff I’m genuinely sorry; I’m sure it’s just not my thing. But who knows?

Here’s to @uni-amaly who is the mega fan who got me to do this.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Episode 1: So, I have read the first book of the Maze Runners. I think the concept is very interesting but it’s not my FAVORITE book. Let’s see if Outsiders does any better. First thoughts are: this is weird. And not the story or anything, just…I dunno, it’s Minecraft and it kinda takes me out of it. But I’m literally four minutes in.

“Is that blood?” “It’s ketchup.” “I’m not sure I want my name written in ketchup on a wall-“

Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why not mustard?

Love Owen’s accent. I’m a sucker for accents.

Oeca is my favorite. Hes so unhinged I love him: “you guys wanna play a fun game where I throw a knife in the air-“ “NO NO NO.” And that’s the literal first thing he shows a complete stranger. 😭

Wait I’m confused. Owen has a British accent but he said “toe-MAY-toes” instead of “toe-maw-toes.” 🤨

Love how as soon as the other lady person says goodnight he immediately starts having an existential crisis.

Also confession: I have zero idea who any of these YouTubers are. So really going into this raw. Gonna watch episode two in a hot moment!

[kaiwewi]

Miscommunication

Synopsis: the hero seems to be preferring Other Villain's company. Villain has a very hard time accepting that.

“You talk to Other Villain.”

The hero frowned at them, again. “Huh?”

“I said…” They glowered at their silly little foe. For that was definitely all the hero was to them, just some stupid enemy, certainly nothing special. “You always talk to Other Villain.”

“Other Villain?” the hero repeated, sounding wary.

“Yes, Other Villain!” Why did the hero have to make them repeat that disgusting name over and over again? Rude. “Why them? You never just hang around and talk with me. You can’t seriously think they’ve got something I don’t.”

Other Villain was a pretentious jerk, so they rather thought that they were the one who had quite a few things that Other Villain didn’t have. For example, a personality.

That really wasn’t the point though.

Or maybe it was. It kind of was.…

“Sorry?” The hero’s face was definitely flushing, which didn’t at all make them look cute. It didn’t. “I- I just… don’t understand you?”

Wow, wasn’t that rich.

“You just don’t understand me,” they mimicked, sneering. “What, am I not articulate enough for you? Not as ‘well-spoken’ as Other Villain?”

(Other Villain was not well-spoken.)

The way they’d spit Other Villain’s name made it sound like an insult and even that was still way too good for that prick. Everything was too good for that prick.

Especially the hero.

How anyone could stand Other Villain’s presence for longer than a minute was beyond them. The hero didn’t seem to think so though, constantly making idle conversation and sometimes even banter – banter! – with the bastard.

“Uhm, I… I don’t really know…” the hero trailed off, looking very uncomfortable.

Why? Because they’d insulted Other Villain? Would someone as good as the hero really feel bad on Other Villain’s behalf?

Somehow, the mere idea was truly infuriating.

“You know,” they said and closed in on the hero, making their nemesis retreat towards the wall until the hero was trapped between them and the cold brick stones, “I find it rude that you bicker with Other Villain and laugh about their lame ass jokes, and yet you won’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge me when I’m trying to make small talk.

“You don’t even pretend to pay attention when I monologue. All you ever do is frown at me.”

They searched the hero’s eyes – wide and confused – with their own narrow-eyed gaze. The hero’s brows were creased deeper than ever.

Perhaps the hero simply didn’t care, didn’t give a single fuck about them.

Their hands curled into fists, and something in them snapped.

“If you hate me, at least tell me to my face,” they shouted. They hadn’t meant to shout.

The hero shrank back. “What? That’s not true!”

They shoved the hero then. They hadn’t meant to do that either.

But how dare the hero suddenly play at innocence now? Did the hero really not realise how they were feeling, being ignored and scorned without having done anything near significant enough to warrant such a treatment?

They’d actually put in a lot of completely fruitless effort over the past couple of weeks, being all polite and friendly, always trying to engage the hero in conversation. To which they’d received nothing in return.

Nichts. Nada. Niente.

It wasn’t fair.

“Fantastic.” They gave the hero the nastiest look they could muster, and if their bottom lip was trembling that was due to anger and nothing else. “Keep playing dumb then.”

“I just… don’t understand,” the hero said in a voice so small they might as well have been whispering. Shuffling their feet, agitated and looking extremely unhappy, the hero chewed on their bottom lip.

Dammit all. They should have known this would be a colossal waste of time.

They could have cried, or laughed. Neither seemed like an appropriate reaction. What difference did it make anyway? Why did they even care in the first place?

They swallowed against the lump in their throat, taking two steps back to allow the hero enough space to brush past them.

The hero didn’t leave though, only stared at them, red-faced and fidgeting.

“Okay listen,” the hero finally said, a little too loud and a little too fast, “I can’t talk to you.”

A muscle in their jaw twitched. If this would turn out to be some nonsense, bullshit excuse…

“No, I didn’t mean…” The hero cringed, then blurted, “it’s your stupid mask!”

“My… mask?” they repeated dumbly, pointing a finger at their face. What the fuck.

The hero nodded emphatically.

“Look, I can tell you’re upset. I think it’s about talking. And about Other Villain?” The frown on the hero’s face turned into a proper scowl. “But I can’t help it, okay?!” They sounded angry now, or perhaps only frustrated. Very, very frustrated.

Gritting their teeth and pointing a finger accusingly at them, the hero said, “my hearing is bad and I need to read lips. But I can’t do that because of your stupid mask covering your stupid mouth.”

Oh. Wow. Huh. Shit. Well, that explained a lot.

“Oh,” they said, staring blankly back at the hero. All traces of anger and annoyance so suddenly extinguished, they were left feeling oddly numb and at a total loss as to what would be an appropriate reaction to such a revelation.

They didn’t get a chance to answer though, because apparently the hero wasn’t quite finished yet.

“You know what?” Their nemesis rounded on them, practically seething. This time the colour in the hero’s cheeks wasn’t that gorgeous rosy blush. “No. Fuck you! I don’t owe you an explanation or an apology. It’s not my fault I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.”

With that, the hero rushed off, shoving them aside roughly even though there would have been plenty of space to walk past without touching. It didn’t exactly hurt, but the push did jerk them back to reality.

Absent-mindedly, they rubbed their shoulder, slowly nodding to themself. A smile began to curl their lips.

Their hero didn’t dislike them after all. Well, at least not on a personal level.

Thankfully, this also had absolutely nothing to do with Other Villain.

The entire thing was merely a communication problem. One that could easily be solved.

All they needed was a new mask.

———

For my other stories, visit my [MASTERLIST] ♥

[dragongutsixofficial]

I noticed that some of the people that are Edelgard critical are also the types that usually stan evil pretty boys.

Hey anon ! Thanks for your insight ! ^^

 I think I should begin by telling you what happened just after I read your ask. I was wondering how I could make an articulate answer (because I’m a mess), and so I decided to seek the perspective of my dearest mutual @ninadove, who I knew would have something interesting to say on the matter. You see, apart from being a massive Edelgard fan, she also has a 10+ year brainrot on a evil pretty guy from the Professor Layton saga: Clive Dove.

(Don't worry, I know the legend is pretty confusing.)

What are this bad but sad boy's crimes, might you ask ? Here's a list :

identity theft

heavy manipulation

Building an entire replica of London ten years in the future right under the city without a permit

Kidnapping people to populate his fake town as well as scientists

Using said scientists to build a death machine to eventually destroy the entirety of London

Pretty heavy stuff, right ? So, I screenshot your ask and sent it to her because I knew she in particular would have interesting stuff to say on the matter. And she did !

But the thing is, she read it sideways at first and misunderstood. She thought that your observation was that a lot of people who liked Edelgard also enjoyed evil pretty boys. And she told me, “it makes total sense”, and started explaining why. I’m summing up the gist of her reasoning here. Don't worry, this is relevant to answering your ask:

There is a phenomenon of constant demonization of antagonists, especially pretty male antagonists -evil pretty guys if you will. This is interesting when you realize that that kind of character is often tailored to speak to a younger audience, and especially to appeal to young girls. Those fangirls are, in turn, often shamed for taking an interest in characters which are deemed unredeemable. However, liking said characters isn’t bad in itself.

Indeed, the real problem arises if said fans of a character are willing to excuse their objectively bad actions because the evil pretty boy is, well, pretty. But that isn’t the case in the vast majority of cases. Most of them actually appreciate the complexity of the character they root for. Would @ninadove condone someone trying to commit a mass murder irl? No. Does she understand that Clive had damn good reasons for turning evil in the first place (his parents and most people in his apartment building were killed in an immoral scientific experiment which only took place due to a considerable amount of corruption, so he feels the need to “purge” the city of it), and that the situation is not black and white? Yeah, absolutely ! Clive isn’t the Devil Incarnate; but just as with Edelgard’s, some aspects of an evil pretty boy’s narrative might talk to people more, depending on where they’re at in life.

According to her, the fact that so many people who were already attracted to evil pretty boys were also attracted to Edelgard's character is a testament to the fact that it isn't just because they're hot guys that they're so popular, but because of the themes in their story, the moral dilemmas their actions lead the audience to, and the potential said audience sees in them. The very fact that she misunderstood your ask in the first place is proof of that- it's just the logic continuation of liking a given type of character.

Now, this isn't to say that some people don't act towards Edelgard the way they did towards Daenerys- but that as a general rule, one can't extrapolate what a person's values are irl  based on their personal fictional likes. A ton of people who stan a pretty evil boy will stan a pretty evil girl for the exact same reasons.

In the same way, the bullet points just above list a few of the criticisms fans of evil pretty boys are subjected to:

 that rooting for a fictional antagonist means that the fans would be willing to justify the same kind of crimes if they took place in the real world.

that the only reason they like the character is because they're only attracted to their physical appearance

that there is only one way to read and enjoy a fictional work and going against it is wrong, thus you should feel ashamed/are a bad person if you see it any different. If your blorbo is an antagonist then you should only view them as a villain.

Do you recognize any of these lines ? Yup. They're usually the ones hardcore Edelgard criticals use when talking about her fans.

So, what can we conclude from this ?

In truth, the problem isn’t with liking or disliking a character in itself. People will always enjoy different things -and that’s what’s so fun about fandom culture! In the same way, people are allowed to criticize any given character and call them out on their actions. I’ve seen some very eye-opening posts from some Edelcrits who helped me understand why so many people feel uneasy about Edelgard, and actually made me think even more about what her motivations are and who she is at her core, making her all the more interesting to me. I might disagree with some takes, yes, but I don’t have anything against them as long as they are said respectfully.

To me, at the very least, the real issue is when people cross the line to reality, and start making assumptions about other fans based on fiction. Most of the time, one’s blorbos aren’t a viable way of determining what kind of person they are. For instance: I have seen a lot of people criticize Edelgard’s imperialism and explain that it makes their skin crawls. I love Edelgard and I admire her character arc in CF, as well as her iron resolve to do whatever it takes to achieve her goals. Does that mean I condone imperialism in the real world, especially the modern forms of imperialism? Heck no. No way in hell would I ever support that kind of thing.

You never have a right to bully other people into thinking like you, however misguided you think they are, be you an Edelgard or a Dimitri stan. I once made a post about this exact issue, calling out people who claimed liking Rhea (who I personally kinda dislike) made you an abuse apologist.

Reciprocally, that means no one should have to feel bad about liking a fictional character if that brings them joy. I know liking Edelgard made me a better, more accepting person, and she keeps inspiring me to speak up for myself and others. We should fight against that trend that consists in shaming fans of certain characters. They really do make you better, as @ninadove pointed out herself just how much liking Clive Dove did for her.

All in all, what I mean is that we should all just try to be respectful and mindful of other fans. There is rarely such a thing as manicheism when it comes to antagonists like Edelgard and Clive, and we must always be careful about who we apply that kind of black-and-white logic to.

So, yeah ! I hope that clears up my perspective of things at least.^^ Thanks for sharing!!!

Edit: fixed Clive's picture cause it was incredibly blurry and honestly sad

Second edit: fixed some typos and also added Catra because damn girl

[ghostbustermelanieking]

67 for the kiss prompts 👀

of course it's another safehouse fic! warning for some self-loathing on the parts of jon and martin. 

67. When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More.

Jon's on the phone with Basira in the other room. Martin can hear the rise and fall of his voice through the walls. He halfway wishes he'd said yes to Jon's offer to put her on speaker—he wants to know how bad it is. Wants to know exactly how badly he fucked up when he followed Peter into those tunnels (in more than just the obvious ways). 

Jon's said it wasn't his fault. Said that this morning, over the eggs he'd scrambled on a whim that were going cold on Martin's plate, covering Martin's hand with his: "It wasn't your fault, Martin. It wasn't. I-it wasn't even just the Not-Sasha, it… Trevor and Julia…" And then he'd stopped, a pained expression on his face, and Martin knew he wasn't the only one feeling guilty for everything that happened at the Panopticon the day before. 

The reality of Jon being here is still so new, so strange, after not talking for months, for a year, what with the coma, and the Lonely… Martin doesn't think he ever even had Jon to his flat before this; he thinks he suggested it once, after a drink one night, if Jon wanted to come back and have some tea, and Jon had politely said no, thank you, with a look in his eyes that made Martin think maybe he was thinking about all the kidnappings. So, yes, this is the first time Jon's ever been here. After months of silence, months of Martin talking himself out of going down the hall and talking to Jon, telling Jon how glad he was that he's alive, how sorry he was that he couldn't stay, how much he hated this, every bit of it… After it all, Jon came for him. Peter's dead, and there's no reason for them to stay away now. 

It's a relief, beyond what Martin will ever be able to articulate, but it's still strange, after all this time. Waking up in his bed to find Jon lying on the other side, stiff and tentative under the covers. To find Jon in the kitchen after a shower, making eggs and tea. To have Jon halfway holding his hand. Even after everything—after that period before the Unknowing where they were really sort of friends… this is surreal in a way Martin can't really explain.

Jon had actually held his hand all the way out of the Lonely, all the way back to his flat. Had reached for it over the expanse of Martin's mattress and held on. Martin doesn't remember him letting go. He doesn't remember ever wanting him to. It's a good surreal, he thinks. It's good. 

Jon comes out of the kitchen, now, his hand clutched around his phone, his face grim. Martin startles a little, his hands clenching together in his lap. "H-how was it?" he says. "Is it… d-do they have any sign of…" (Basira had filled them in on Daisy last night.)

"No, no, no sign." Jon sighs a little. Sits down on the couch beside Martin, so close their knees bump together. He doesn't meet Martin's eyes. 

Martin feels a habitual lump of worry rise in his throat. "You can tell me, Jon," he says, in case Jon is trying to shield him somehow. "It's… it's bad, isn't it?"

"I… yeah. Yeah, it's not good." Jon looks at him finally, his expression suggesting that’s all he’s going to say, like he’s going to try and protect Martin no matter what Martin says. “Basira… Basira says they’ll blame me,” he adds. “Again. She says they were already asking questions, they… sh-she said they’ll be looking for me again.”

" What? " Martin's aware his voice sounds insulted, and he is, on Jon's behalf, framed again for murders he didn't commit. (Well. Jon did kill Peter, but. Martin's not mourning that, not at all, he deserved it, and Peter isolated himself enough that the police shouldn't be looking for him. And the thought of Jon being blamed again for something he didn't even do…) "You didn't do anything, h-how can they blame you?"

Jon laughs a little, quiet bitterness in there. "It's easy. A-and it is my fault, sort of. I'm the one who antagonized Julia and Trevor. I'm the one who… who kept that stupid table, and then destroyed it and let that thing out. I'm the one who…" He stops. Winces, shakes his head a little. "I-it doesn't matter," he says. "Basira's sure they'll blame me. She says I need to get out of London." 

Martin latches onto that, his heart leaping in his throat. Maybe he has no right to be this concerned, considering he's holed himself up for months, ignoring Jon and working with Peter for a plan that didn't even do anything —but he can't help but panic at the idea of Jon leaving again, going somewhere else, somewhere where they can't keep him safe… Not that Jon isn't entirely self-sufficient, he's been fine all this time, he's saved Martin, and not that Martin's been doing a good job at all, considering everything, Jon came into the Lonely because of him and could've just as easily been lost, and it would've been his fault. But after everything… America, Ny-Alesund, the Unknowing, every time Jon went somewhere and Martin didn't, and something horrible happened, and Martin just… 

He tries to force the panic out of his voice, tries to speak levelly when he says, "Leave… leave London? And go where? "

"Scotland, apparently. Daisy has a safehouse that she… that she obviously won't be doing, and Basira said…" Jon swallows hard, looks away. "Well, she said I should leave right away. She said she would bring me the key here, and I should leave on the next train." 

"Oh," says Martin. A part of him is nearly shouting, Don't go, don't leave me here, but this is ridiculous, Jon has to go, and he can't ask… not after everything Jon's done… (But he doesn't want Jon to leave, he doesn't want to be alone again.) "I… y-yeah. Yeah, that's best," he says, because he can't, and he'd rather have Jon alive and somewhere else than arrested or dead, again, and his throat is closing up a little. "If they're looking for you, you should leave as soon as possible." 

"Right," says Jon. "Right, a-and I would…" He's staring down at his hands, intently, like he's trying to find answers in the lines of his palms. Martin is thinking absently that he does that, too, and isn't it funny how many habits he and Jon share that he's never realized, when Jon looks up abruptly. He's got an expression that's almost shy on his face; he says, "I-I was wondering if you'd like to come with me."

They're quiet for a moment.. Martin's staring; he thinks he definitely might be staring. His mouth might be hanging open. Jon starts talking again, too fast and stammering and anxious: "O-obviously if you don't want to, th-there's no obligation, of course, i-it's just that I… well, I haven't seen you for such a long time, Martin, and w-we just started talking again, and I… I thought you might want t-to get out of here, maybe, the Institute, it's… and I don't want you to be alo—" 

Martin kisses him. Leans forward, just like that, and abruptly kisses Jon, cutting him off mid-sentence. Jon makes a little sound, a punched-out gasp, and his hand moves up, resting suddenly against Martin's jaw. 

It takes a moment for Martin to fully connect his actions— Jon just asked me to go to Scotland and You just kissed him —and he pulls away abruptly. "I-I'm sorry," he says wildly, thinking I should've asked, thinking Martin, you idiot, just because he followed you into the Lonely doesn't mean he wants to… 

Jon's looking at him. His eyes are dark and wet and full of some emotion Martin can't place, and he's just looking at him. His hand is still on Martin's jaw, his fingers warm against Martin's chilly skin. Martin's eyes dart to the side—to Jon's fingers, his bitten nails, resting against Martin's cheek—and then back to Jon. "I'm sorry," he says again, and Jon shakes his head, just a little. Rubs a thumb over Martin's cheek. 

The gesture is enough to make Martin want to break. Just shatter in a dozen little pieces inside. He's not sure what to say—his brain, wildly grasping, comes up with, "Are you sure you—" And Jon leans forward, just as abruptly as Martin did, and kisses him again. Kisses him gently, sweetly, with a sort of underlying desperation that sounds like it did in the Lonely last night. We need you. I need you. His hands are still on Martin's face. 

Martin makes a little sound of shock. Fumbles up with shaking hands to cover Jon's hand with his, to grasp it gently and desperately (the way Jon is kissing him) and not let go. Not this time.

Jon's the one to pull away, first, just far enough to rest his forehead against Martin's. He laughs a little, nervous energy, and doesn't let go of Martin's hand. "You don't need to apologize, Martin, you…" He laughs again, quietly. "I'm very sure. I am. I've been wanting to do that for… quite a long time."

"Oh," Martin says faintly, his thumb tracing the line of Jon's palm. "You have?"

Jon nods, his forehead thunking lightly against Martin's with the motion. Martin chuckles. "Me… me, too."

"Oh," Jon says softly. He squeezes Martin's hand. 

Martin looks down at their joined hands (on his knee, now), leaning into Jon a little. (Just a little.). "Yes," he says, and there is no tremble, no hint of hesitation in his voice. He's sure about this, maybe the surest he's been in a long time. "Yes, I'll go to Scotland with you."

[bump1nthen1ght]

I’m Still Hurting (Orc x Reader) Part 2

Pairings: Fem!Reader/Male!Orc

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Angst

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2107 words

Summary: You and your boyfriend establish a new normal

A/N: At long last, the highly requested part two! I had a bit of struggle coming up with a proper followup to the first part (which was part of why I left it with an open-ended ending in the first place lol). Little less angst this time, I felt these two deserved a little sweetness after the last chapter. Hope y'all enjoy!

Part 1

The first thing that caught your eye when you walked by the music store was the Grand Piano. It was gorgeous: Polished mahogany, a nice velvet seat, and keys that looked like they had never seen the sticky fingers of a curious 8 year old.

“Wow, is that new?”

You nod, admiring the old-fashioned air of the instrument. You knew jack shit about music, but even you could tell that this piano was an antique, one probably worth a good chunk of change.

“Must be. I’ve never seen it before and this place is on my way to work.”

Waruck hmms, pressing his hands up against the glass. His eyes sparkle when he sees the “Free to Play” sign right next to the piano. It probably reminds him of his Grandpa’s, the one he played when you guys visited his family for Christmas.

That was a long time ago.

“Want to go in?”

Waruck pulls away from the glass, eyebrows raised. He rubs the back of his neck and steps a couple feet back, trying to curb his enthusiasm.

“Uh, we don’t have to-”

“I don’t mind. It's been a while-” You pause, the slight-anxiety in the air making every casual word difficult, “It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play.”

Waruck smiles, small and polite, and opens the door of the shop for you. Before, he might have done a little bow and said “Ladies First” in a British accent.

But that was before, and this is now. Now, every comment is walking on eggshells, whispered tentatively and under your breath. Testing the waters for how comfortable you two could get around each other.

Still, it was exponential growth from two months ago.

--------

After your meeting at the coffee shop, you had asked Waruck for a month; A month of privacy, for you to collect your thoughts and feelings, to be alone for a bit. He had agreed immediately, shuffling out of the cafe with a hunched back and a melancholy air, but he had kept his promise. You took the time to focus on other things, shifting your relationship to the back of your mind and enjoying the day-to-day.

But a part of you felt a little bad, like maybe you were stringing Waruck along for an inevitable breakup. Getting his hopes up for an extra tortuous punishment that left a sour taste in your mouth. So on one brave Saturday night, you sent him a meme you saw on Instagram, one that reminded you of him.

That second month saw the two of you texting more and more frequently, sending little jokes, asking how your day was, so and so. Each week rebuilt a little bit more of that familiarity, that comfortableness. It finally got to the point where Waruck asked if you were free one weekend. He just wanted to get some lunch and stroll around the neighborhood for a bit. For the first time in a while, that idea didn’t seem too bad.

--------

The air is considerably cooler inside the store, a tiny bell ringing as a rush of air-conditioned air hits both of you. Waruck makes a beeline for the piano, his footsteps short and quick. You feel a smile crawl on your face; He always acted like an excited kid when it came to music.

Waruck plops down in the center of the stool, fingers lightly brushing over the keys in awe. You walk up the piano’s side, laying your hand on the wood and admiring the lack of smudge marks on the polished wood. Waruck tests out a G note and although the sound is short, it’s extremely pleasant. Waruck’s smile grows even larger.

“When I was a young boy…”

You mutter under your breath. Waruck chuckles, quickly continuing onto a G flat.

“My father took me into the city,” Waruck hums

“To see a marching band.” The two of you sing together, laughing a little bit too loudly and gaining a sharp look from the tired sales clerk. Waruck waves a little apology, but that playful grin stays on his face.

“Wow, that brings back some repressed Hot Topic memories.”

“Seriously. I can almost feel the book my band teacher used to thwack me with. Me and my buddies would sneak into the choir room and play that all the time.” Waruck’s fingers dance over a couple more notes, aimless.

You’ve always liked watching Waruck play. His fingers were so dextrous and controlled,  not to mention long and nicely articulated. He’d probably make good money from a hand-model side-gig.

“Want to take a seat?”

You shift your focus away from Waruck’s hands. He’s made space on the bench and pats the open space next to him.

“Yeah, sure.” You say, despite the fast pace your heart is now beating.

You keep a solid two inches of distance between your bodies, keeping your thighs together as to not brush your legs with his. It felt like a middle school dance, keeping a bible length away from your partner to avoid the disapproving stare of the chaperones.

Waruck nods, absentmindedly running his fingers up the scale. “Any requests?”

Immediately, all non-love songs depart from your brain. One of your favorite pieces sits on the tip of your tongue and your brain refuses to let it go. You shake your head.

“Nope. It’s all yours, music man.”

Waruck chuckles, a little louder and a lot more comfortable, as he sits deeper in his seat.

“Prepare,” Waruck cracks his knuckles, “to be amazed.”

You bite back a laugh. He’s still such a dork.

He starts to play, his hands easily finding the right keys, moving like a well-oiled machine. Your heart nearly skips a beat before it melts into a puddle of sentiment.

It’s your favorite.

The song brings back memories of your childhood, a rainy day in, and delicious food. It’s like chicken soup for the soul and you can feel any of the left over tension leave your body.

Waruck’s eyebrows furrow with concentration, but he has a large smile on his face, his large tusks peeking out from his lips. His arm stretches across the piano as the song hits its most fast-paced part. His biceps and shoulders lean more into your space, but the feeling isn’t unwelcome. It feels natural, as if his presence and yours is part of the piece itself.

Waruck’s thigh brushes against yours, but his pace doesn’t falter and neither does yours. You stay enraptured, watching how easily he slips into the music. You barely even notice how you have begun to lean closer to his side; Your mind says it’s to give his arms plenty of space to play, but it’s still far more comfortable than you are willing to admit.

How easy it feels, in the moment, to fall back into routine.

The song begins slowing to a stop, only a couple seconds left, when the sounds of the music shop return to you. A giggle from not too far rings discordant with Waruck’s piano.

Three girls stand not too far from you, watching with fascination as Waruck plays.

“Wow, he is so good!” One whispers to her friends.

There is nothing even remotely lascivious in their eyes or in their words, but a knife still twists in your gut. Your throat constricts as flashes of your bedroom, of unanswered texts, and a picture of a bar corner booth send needles down your spine and into your heart.

Is this wrong? Is this giddy feeling you have only distracting you from reality? Is it like this song, Waruck’s playing, beautiful but temporary?

“Ugh, I want what they have.”

“I know, right? How romantic.”

They’re wrong, you’re wrong, this is wrong; It’s fake, fake, fa-

Your eyes dart to and fro, trying to desperately avoid Waruck’s quickly overwhelming body heat and your audience, before it catches on the distorted shape of your reflection in the window.

The glass is old, slightly drooping, even the golden lettering of the music shop’s name looks dusty and sun-bleached.

But what is unmistakable is you and Waruck. Waruck, playing piano, and looking at you. Looking at you with the love in his eyes you thought had died, or had never been there at all. The group of girls stands in the background, small and out of focus.

And Waruck is staring at you.

“Are you okay?” Waruck asks, his warm hand on your shoulder.

You whip your neck around, almost getting whiplash.

You’re here, in the music store, with your boyfriend. He looks at you, brow slightly puzzled from your wild eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I,” You suck in a deep breath, “Sorry, I guess I got lost in my own head. That song gets me kind of nostalgic.”

Waruck pats your shoulder and you miss it’s heat when he pulls it back to his side. He smiles, but you can tell he is still slightly worried.

“No problem, I get it.”

You notice now how much closer Waruck is to you. His chest has shifted towards yours, the fabric of his shirt sleeve pressing against the skin of your bicep. Waruck’s knee absentmindedly knocks into yours, but the contact doesn’t sting or jolt you. Not even the continuing silence makes the situation awkward.

It’s nice.

“Do you want to check out the record aisle? They might actually have that piece on vinyl.”

Waruck gestures with his thumb to the piles of CD’s and records not too far from you two. You nod

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

--------

The two of you spend about an hour in the music store, pointing out hilarious cover art and admiring some vintage finds. Waruck even gets you to chuckle a couple of times, slowly bringing out his old cheesy puns.

Waruck’s missed this.

You two walk out of the music store at the tail end of one of Waruck’s jokes, you playfully punching his shoulder.

The two of you wander, in the opposite direction of your cars, for a little while. But Waruck hasn’t lost track of time; No, he’s soaking in every moment he can, every smile and lingering look you give him. Every reminder that this is real.

He spent a week agonizing over what he did. Stuck in silence as he gave you your space. His friends (His real friends, not those assholes from the bar) had offered to come by and keep him company, but he turned it down.

When Waruck got back into routine, it was slow-rolling. It was difficult to fight the instinct to check his phone for a good-morning text, or check your Instagram for any ‘post-breakup’ partying.

No, he had already broken your trust once. The least he could do was give you some time. Spend some hour not wallowing in self-pity, but actively make a change.

Waruck began to accept those invites to a chill hang out, playing some poker and sipping on beer with the gang. He played his keyboard when the thoughts got too loud and went jogging when the music wasn’t loud enough. He called his mom a couple of times, even sent his sister a  couple of texts to catch up. They hadn’t spoken outside of holidays for almost three years.

Maybe he was the one that needed time.

God, why did you have to be so smart?

“Oh shit, how long have we been walking?” You mutter, checking your watch for the time. Waruck turns around you, already knowing the answer was 27 minutes, exactly. The both of you were nearing the edge of the neighborhood, cafes and shops turning into residential suburbs. “Dang, time really flies, huh?”

Waruck smiles.

“With you? It always does.”

You give him a half smile, patting his bicep. “Oh my god, you’re such a cheeseball.”

Waruck winks and shoots you some finger guns.

“You know it babe.”

You giggle, checking your watch once more, face turning just a little bit.

“I should probably head back, I’m getting dinner with some friends tonight.”

A small part of Waruck yearns for more time, but he lets it go.

Space, this was about establishing space.

“I had a lot of fun today, Waruck.” You step a little closer, Waruck’s heart skips a beat.

“Me too.” He whispers, his breath catching as your fingers brush against his.

It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve down a million times. But when your palm slips into his, your finger’s interlocking, it’s like fireworks have gone off.

“Same time, next week?”

Waruck nods, not trusting himself to speak without a voice crack.

That’s all he needed, all you wanted; The promise of the future.

“Yes, I would love that.”

[mcyt-imagines]

hello! i am here to request a tommyinnit x reader! where the reader is a smaller streamer who accidentally befriends tommy while having no idea who he is??? they only find out when they see him streaming one day and lose their fucking marbles over how many people are watching him, and proceed to blow up his phone like??? hello what the fuck???? also, they/them pronouns please!

I love this request, mainly because I can totally see Tommy doing this to someone. Befriending them and just accidentally forgetting about his online popularity just to laugh as they freak out over it. I’ve used they/them pronouns as per requested as well, hope you enjoy! :D

Hidden In Plain Sight

You were worried you weren’t going to actually make any friends in your new classes, moving to a whole new school partway through the year wasn’t exactly common practice. So, you had braced yourself for the worst, mentally prepared to eat your lunch alone in the bathrooms even if it was gross, it was better than being eyeballed by your new peers. Approaching the common area with your food now in hand, you felt your stomach start to sink deeper and deeper, yet you kept up your pace determined to not look as downtrodden as you felt.

“Hey, new girl!” You turned quickly, giving yourself a bad case of whiplash that the boy who had called your name definitely noticed. “Uh, yeah?” You raised a singular eyebrow at him, the empty seats around him beckoning you closer. “Nice twitch patch. You stream?” He asked, gesturing to the small purple and white patch you had badly sewn onto your backpack. 

You stood dumbly ahead of him, your food held tightly in your hands. “Uh, yeah. I do, I only started a few months ago though.” You grow sheepish wondering if admitting to that could just lead to you getting bullied quicker. The boy’s face suddenly lights up, “Me too! I’ve been streaming for a few years now though.” He boasts a little, obviously taking pride in his hobby. You nod along, “Cool.” A few moments of silence pass, “Are you gonna sit or what?”

The smile that graces your face leaves Tommy a little stunned, “Oh! Thanks.” You quickly sit, shoulders relaxing almost instantly. “I-It’s nothing, I’m Tommy by the way.” He holds out his hand, you warmly shake it giving him your own name with a soft blush. Partly from the embarrassment of your pointlessly spiralling thoughts and partly from how cute this boy next to you is. Tommy happily carries the conversation, cheeks a soft pink as you watch him with intrigue and interest drinking in his words with an attentiveness he wasn’t used to. Tommy listens eagerly when he asks you about your twitch channel, you shyly tell him a little about it.

You give him your channel name and he follows you, you follow back instantly Tommy speaking through the exchange partly to distract you from his profile. It works and you close the app without a second glance, happily listening to the rest of Tommy’s story without a care in the world. Tommy feels relief rush through him, he didn’t want to overwhelm you and he knew that his popularity was likely to have an impact on your friendship. He didn’t want that. He wanted someone to want to get to know him because they found him interesting not because of his following and the ‘clout’ they may receive from being his friend. You didn’t seem like the type to do that but he knew better than to assume, he’d learnt that lesson a few too many times before.

“You normally sit alone?” You breach the subject with little tact, knowing that surely, he’s a popular guy. He’s loud, extroverted and funny, there’s no way he was as much of a social outcast to be forced to sit alone. He sighs loudly, huffing air through his nose. “No! But my lame-o friends decided to join clubs this year and they meet during lunch for extra club time.” He grumbles, arms now gesturing widely around him as he articulates exaggeratedly. “But I know that they’re really just trying to suck up to the girls in the drama club.” He makes a loud gagging noise.

“So, I stay out here and study, that way I have more time to stream when I get home,” Tommy explains with a soft shrug, motioning to his binder nearby, notes scribbled in an illegible chicken scratch. “I might have to start doing that, the workload here is so much more than at my old school.” You groan, gesturing to your own binder chock-a-block with notes, textbooks and spiralled notebooks.

That’s when the two of you hear a distant ringing of bells, “Where’re you headed? I can lead you there, this place is a maze sometimes.” Tommy offers the smile soft on his face. You pull at your folder and point to your next class, “Uh, it’s-“ You begin, only for Tommy to exclaim. “We have the same class! C’mon, Miss will beat our asses if we’re late!” “Miss who!?” You look at him quizzically as Tommy quickly stands grabbing his things and motioning for you to follow. When you stand slowly and grab your things Tommy grabs your wrist, “She might excuse you for being late, but I’ve been late one too many times dude, you don’t even know.” His pace is faster than yours but his hold on your wrist is firm, forcing you to keep up with him.

Days of chatting and befriending Tommy turns to weeks and soon it’s been a few months. You had been happily keeping to yourself mid-stream, your regular viewers making light conversation with you through chat. “Oh woah, we got a raid!” You cry watching your chat, “Aw it’s from Tommy! Hey big man, thanks for the raid of- HOLY SHIT! 300,000!?” Your eyes grow to the size of saucers as you reread the notification several times before finally looking into your webcam looking like a deer in headlights. “U-Uh welcome guys! If you’re planning on sticking around please be polite in chat!” You try your best to gain control over your racing mind, heart beating rapidly against your chest.

A large number of Tommy’s viewers leave, but you try your best to entertain those that stay for another hour or so before you end stream with a significantly larger number of subs than what you started with. Your speed dialling Tommy’s number is unrivalled as you lay back in your chair, eyeing your stream set up across from you. He picks up, “Hey-“ You cut him off immediately.

“Um, so when were you going to tell me you’re some big twitch hot shot!? Or was I just supposed to find that one out for myself champ?” You hold back the urge to screech down the phone line as he laughs at you. “Hey! It just slipped my mind, okay!? A big man’s gotta lotta big things on his mind at the one time!” He cries out in futile defence, knowing you had every right to be at least a little bit furious at him for keeping this a secret.

“Wasn’t the raid fun though!?” He squawks after a couple of moments of silence, “It was… fun, but it was also the most stressed I think I’ve ever been Tommy. That’s a lot of people to just throw at someone.” You huff a little, “Sorry, I uh, I didn’t really think before doing it. I was just super excited to send them over to you, I just knew they would love you as much as I do.” He mumbles the last part of his sentence, but you hear it just fine. “Aw, I love you too Tommy.” A smile finds it’s way onto your face, “I can’t believe I’m actually considering forgiving you.” You throw a hand over your eyes, groaning. “Would a midnight trip to get some fast food accelerate the forgiveness process?”

You hum for a few moments, “Are you trying to bribe me, Tommy?” The blond stammers adorably before huffing, “Uhhh, no?” He offers, “Oh well if that’s the case, then yes.” You grin as his screeches of laughter reach your ears, your own laughter joining his within moments. “Talk later big man, got a midnight meal to plan for.” Tommy groans, “Oh no! You’re gonna spend all my money!” You scoff, “I’m sorry mister millionaire! You’re my walking talking money bags now, get used to it!” You giggle along with Tommy’s chuckles, his voice relaxed. Tommy knew his assumption was right, even on the first day he met you. He knew you were a good person, a good person for him. There’s no one he would rather spend his time and money on.

~Requests are currently open!~

[episkystyles]

Poetry In Your Mailbox // H.S. [PART THREE]

Summary: Y/N and the rest of her nosy neighborhood friends ogle at the man who just moved in next door — a man of mystery, silence, and someone who seemingly doesn’t want anything to do with his neighbors… until Y/N begins to receive anonymous mail. [PART ONE & PART TWO]

Warnings: Mature content

“I had my heart broken terribly once,” Harry had begun, taking a seat on Y/N’s sofa in the living. She stood on the other side of the room, arms crossed as she listened to his explanation. “I was afraid to love again, afraid of that same feeling of hurt so I hurt you. However, there’s no excuse to hurting you, so I’m deeply sorry that I did so, and in such a fucking shitty manner as well.”

“So then, if you were afraid of getting hurt again… why would you send me love poems?” she questioned.

In other words, were you trying to make me love you knowing full well that you wouldn’t be able to love me back, on purpose? She hopes that he’s not as fucked up as what she’s thinking, but then again, she’s not exactly sure what he’s capable of.

“I’ve never believed in that love at first sight bullshit, even before all the heartache,” Harry chuckled, shaking his head before making direct eye contact with her. “But the second I laid my eyes on you, I knew I was in deep shit, because I was instantly enamored. Your pretty face filled a void in my lost soul, and while I wasn’t ready to jump into a relationship, I wanted to get your attention. You’re someone I couldn’t talk to directly — too fucking nervous to do so — so I used my poetry to woo you. Honestly, Y/N, you’re the type of woman who deserves to be written about in beautiful ways, so I tried my best to write about you as beautifully as I could.”

Her heart was racing incredibly fast and hard, so hard that she had to grip the wall she was standing nearby so that she wouldn’t lose her composure and fall. His words were melting her like a flame would, and while she was swooning within every second he spoke, she knew she needed more answers.

“How did you get your heart broken, Harry?” Y/N whispered, not wanting to sound too demanding or too rude. “Who did it?”

Harry glanced down at his lap and sighed. It was clear as day that he didn’t want to talk about it, as it would bring back brutal and painful memories, but he had to otherwise he might just lose someone who has the potential to replace all that hurt and make him feel complete again.

“Her name was Rosalie,” he began, running his hand through his mess of loose waves. “I was in love with her, and I thought she was in love with me, too, but her family despised me. This was back when I was in my early twenties, back when I still smoked and drank heavily and was the textbook definition of rebellion. I’ve definitely calmed down with age but Y/N, I was bad back then, but I still cared for the people I loved. Her parents were very overly religious and protective of their daughter, so eventually Rosalie had broken it off with me.

“To say I was devastated was an understatement. It destroyed me. She was my first love and I just couldn’t handle it. I tried to get her back, so I started writing her love poems — they weren’t as articulate and charming as the ones I’ve written you, as I was still in school and still wrote like shit — and I sent them to her everyday for the next year or so. She never responded back, even though she had already moved out of her parents place so they couldn’t have gotten a handle on any of her mail. But one particularly shitty day, a friend of hers messaged me — they were sort of a friend of mine too, I guess, but more of Rosalie’s.

“They informed me that Rosalie had been setting my poems on fire or throwing them away for some reason. She had a boyfriend who she had been dating the same time as me, and they couldn’t stand to see her continue playing with my heart, so they told me everything. That woman got off on the way I begged and cried for her back, joked to people how obsessed I was with her even though she never loved me, but rather used me to rebel against her strict parents. That she was anticipating for the day that I’d give up, just so she could laugh in my face and to others about how lovesick I am. This was enough to make me stop loving at all.

“I’ve always been rather shy, but I started cutting people off and focused solely on my work. I moved around frequently, not wanting to get too comfortable in one place out of fear of missing people who will eventually leave me one day, including friends. I’ve never desired to stay in one place for a long time, until you came along. You made me feel so excited and so full of life, but when you asked me on a date, I reverted back into that fearful and cold man, and did the last thing I’ve ever wanted to do; hurt you.”

There were tears flowing out of Harry’s eyes now, him being wrecked by reliving his traumatic past, and Y/N knew she had to comfort him. She took a seat close to him and grabbed his trembling hands, pulling him close to her body. “I’m so sorry Harry, you didn’t deserve any of that. No one does.”

“It just hurts to my love language was just some cruel joke to her,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I mean, I could see how cliché and corny it all is, but that’s how I express myself, verbal communication doesn’t come to me as easily as everyone else.”

“I understand, Harry. But let me tell you that your poems are not cliché and corny,” she assured him. “Let me show you something.”

She urged him to stand him, and he does, following her upstairs and into her bedroom. She goes to her nightstand and opens her drawer, pulling out all of the love poems he had sent to her mailbox and put them on display for him to see.

“I’ve kept every single one, even the one when we weren’t speaking anymore,” Y/N smiled, her eyes grazing over the very first one he had given her. “You see, poetry is my love language too, and I know when someone’s art has to be cherished and cared for.”

Harry was staring at her in silence, even when she was putting the poems away. He stood there for a good few minutes without saying anything, and just when she was starting to get scared, he finally opened his mouth to speak. “I love you.”

“You… you what?” She was suddenly breathless.

“I love you, Y/N,” Harry repeated, taking a step closer to her. “Perhaps the realization is hitting me at this current moment due to the fact that you kept all of my poems, or maybe it hit me when I was filled with envious rage as another man flirted with you, but I do love you, sunflower. You may not forgive me just yet, but I will wait for you every single day for the rest of my life until you are willing to give me a second chance.”

She couldn’t take it anymore, she just had to have him. She took off into his arms, grabbing his face to pull him into a passionately rough kiss, and when she pulls away she murmurs, “You don’t have to wait any longer, Harry. Not only do I forgive you but I… I love you too.”

Harry looked her into her bright, beautiful eyes that were truthful and heartfelt, as she had meant every word she just uttered to him. So, he kissed her again, with as much passionate as she did. His arms wrapped themselves securely around her waist, pulling her to his chest as close as he possibly could as their kiss deepened, mouths moving together in sync at the rate of a lightning strike. He could write a billion poems about how wonderful her kiss felt, how kissing her just once could make him happy for the rest of his existence.

And when she started unbuttoning her sundress, the one that had driven him wild the second he had seen her in it, he knew exactly where this was going to go. “Are you sure, sunflower?”

“I’m more than sure,” she replied, looking up into his eyes. “Are you sure? We don’t have to if you don’t-”

“Oh, trust me, I want to. I want you.”

That was enough to make her drop her dress completely to the floor, exposing herself in her lacy bra and underwear. She smiled innocently, crawling on top of her bed where she soon laid down upon. Harry practically jumped on top of her, flinging off his shirt in the process. Their bodies were on fire as they kissed again, her fingers trailing up and down his bare back as she’d always do in their dreams. His pressed his body roughly against hers, where she could feel something hard in his tight pants. Harry pulled away from Y/N’s lips just to place them on her neck, teasing the area just a bit before he had sunk his teeth carefully into her sensitive skin. She moaned quietly in delight, arching her back a little and letting his hands clasp around her backside. His fingers find the hooks of bra, unclasping them to remove her bra in its entire. He pulls away, observing her naked top half, his hands now softly grazing her breasts. She felt herself burning underneath his eyes.

“You are so beautiful, every single part of you,” he hummed, lowering his head to place a kiss upon her bare stomach. She shook from the touch. “You are so, so heavenly, my sunflower, like an angel built you from everything that is lovely in this world.”

That’s when Y/N giggled softly. “I love it when you speak poetry to me, Harry.”

He smirked, a tad too full of himself at that, but his ego fueled at her praise. “If you liked that, than you’re going to love what I plan to do to you next.”

The next thing she knows, he’s tugging off his pants, and then he’s pulling down her underwear, and then he’s up every part of her thighs, especially the stretch marks, where he whispers beautiful compliments about her body. Then, he’s kissing her there, and doesn’t stop until she’s squirming and moaning and tugging on his hair roughly, only to finish with nothing but stars lining her vision.

But the night’s not finished yet. Harry is on top of her now, kissing her and touching every single part of her body as she begs for their bodies to finally reunite at once. He eases himself inside of her, slowly rocking his hips against hers, moving faster by each second until they’re both moaning messes for one another.

This feels like art to him.

This feels like poetry to her.

And they both knew that it was forms of love they were feeling.

When it’s over, and Harry’s laying right beside her with their naked bodies pressed together underneath the blanket, Y/N asks with a chuckle, “So… how about that date?”

He smiled. “How about a lifetime?”

“Even better.”

a/n: god i am so single :,) (hope you guys enjoyed!)

[blindbeta]

I just saw someone asked about making a character blind in their novel and you responded about ways to avoid it being portrayed poorly. I wanted to ask, could it also help if part of the arc is the character accepting becoming blind?

Like, even if it happens in some kind of accident, or like them becoming blinded as a sacrifice for the team, would it be a bad portrayal for part of the character's story to be realizing it's not the end of the world, that being disabled doesn't make them completely useless, etc?

Or is that sort of arc also ableist?

[Note: I used the words non-disabled and abled interchangeably here. Both refer to people with no disabilities. After a conversation with some of my followers, I decided to make an effort to be clearer about who I referred to when I used words like able-bodied, because able-bodied may, for some people, refer to people without physical disabilities or without any disabilities at all. There are times when the distinction matters, even when people said they can usually tell based on context whether or not able-bodied is meant to include them.]

Writing About A Character Accepting Being Blind After Going Blind - When You Aren’t Blind Yourself

An arc about a character accepting becoming blind doesn’t feel good to me and I’ll try to explain why.

I’d rather read a story about a character who happens to be blind, in whatever way that happened, than read a story where a writer who isn’t blind tries to write about a blind character accepting being blind. I just finished a similar book and it did not go well. There are some things that research cannot teach you. There are some stories that aren’t yours to tell.

I don’t want to read about a non-blind author, especially a non-disabled author, writing negative things about my disability.

A character starting out feeling overly negative toward their blindness already feels bad to me. Why? Because the author has to write negative, sometimes completely wrong things about being blind. When I read stories like this, I am bombarded with stereotypes or myths which are rarely corrected by the narrator, who is usually traumatized and somewhat isolated as they heal. Many of the things they think or say are not checked or revisited. Mean things other characters say or think about them are often internalized by the narrator. Things that, in real life, are said to blind and otherwise disabled people as truths. As tough-love. As part of the supposed -Real World-. As bullying. As ignorant, innocent questions. As rude comments.

All of these things are not even coming from a personal place. The author writing these things- while they probably don’t agree with them, of course- is still not blind at the end of the day.

Readers who aren’t blind may not understand the nuance of why some of the things they read were ableist if it isn’t called out in the narrative in some way, which can sometimes happen when the narrator says something negative about their new disability. This isn’t to say readers shouldn’t do their own research or examine the story more closely. This isn’t to say the author is at fault for the interpretations of readers who refuse to think beyond what is laid out for them. When I say this, I am being realistic. Not all readers are going to be proactive. Not all readers are going to approach a book about a person going blind from a good place.

Most of the time, this is just something the author needs to accept. It is impossible to anticipate the strange interpretations of every reader. However, this narrative can be dangerous to a reader who has never met a blind person. Keep in mind, most people aren’t doing what you all are doing. They just read what is given to them. And if what is given to them is a helpless or self-loathing blind person, they might believe in that image. That book may be the only expirience they have with a blind person and they may not read any other books with blind characters.

Another thing I thought of was that non-blind authors sometimes don’t understand how hobbies and skills translate to blind people. For example, in a story I read once, a character who was going blind practiced playing piano and typing on a keyboard blindfolded so they could learn how to do without sight. However, blind people can already play instruments even if they were born blind. Blind people can also easily type on regular keyboards and, technically, correct keyboard technique means typing without needing to look at the keyboard.

Authors who don’t understand what it is like to go blind often don’t get the nuances of what that person is losing and not losing. And it often shows. They also don’t often include the aspects of blindness that are actually challenging. Why focus your worry on typing on a keyboard when you can learn how to use assistive devices in the kitchen or learn to cope with anxiety you anticipate will get worse after losing vision? Why not try to find accessible copies of books you have or scan or Braille sentimental letters? Why not organize your closet so you can find things more easily?

Obviously this is related to characters who know they’re going blind, though.

It favors non-disabled readers, which is ableist.

Another reason this type of story bothers me is because it is so common. Or at least people expect it. This type of story is one abled / non-disabled people can swallow and feel inspired by. Showing the blind person accepting their blindness also favors non-disabled readers in ways I may not be able to articulate well.

Accepting disability is an arc non-disabled people are comfortable with. It is a feel-good type of story that usually doesn’t challenge people too much, other than to remind them not to bully people. Already, this story is not even for disabled people, or in this case, blind people. It exists to introduce people who aren’t blind to the idea of becoming blind, to blind technology, to inspirational ideas about how blind people actually can do things. Stories like this guide abled people along and prioritize their ideas about blindness. Because the narrator is almost always previously abled, the story is about adjusting to blindness in a way that caters to non-disabled people.

How does a story with this angle benefit blind readers? Even if a blind person has also recently gone blind and wants to see a character who on that journey with them, what can a writer who isn’t blind say that blind writer couldn’t say? Or say better? Or say with more power? With more nuancel? With more personal experience?

And it may seem like saying this arc is ableist is too much. Keep in mind, ableism isn’t just about being rude to or excluding disabled people. Ableism favors those who are able-bodied or neurotypical over those who are not. It favors those who are not disabled over those who are. This story is just another way of doing that. Often, people are ableist through what they consider kindnes. Authors are not exempt from that.

Disabled authors should tell their own stories

This is where I will get some pushback. (I already received some here if you think it will be helpful to know what this is like.)

There are a few parts to this.

First, I want everyone to know I am not telling you what not to write or that this type of story, at least with elements of this narrative, can never be done well. However, the more care you take when writing it and the more you know about why it can be ableist, the better you will be able to write it. I’m still not sure I would want to read a book that is dedicated to this topic of accepting blindness, but who knows?

I also might feel more open to this narrative from a writer who experienced becoming disabled in some other way and was open about it. While they would still need to research blindness, some of the issues I named here could be avoided through having prior personal experience that non-disabled people simply don’t have.

If, however, you find yourself upset or feeling excluded by this post, consider what I wrote again. Consider why you think you are the best person to tell such a story with this particular arc.

I am also not saying that non-disabled writers could never write this topic well. I just question, again, what they can add to the topic of accepting blindness that blind people can’t already add. This is also assuming they were able to avoid some of the issues I listed above that might come up. Which would be difficult on top of doing all the other research they need to do in order to write a book. Why make it harder for themselves?

Now that I’m done with the disclaimers, accepting blindness should be something mostly left up to blind writers. This narrative is so closely tied to the trauma-based / incident-based blindness that it can be hard to separate them, but I feel like the readers of the blog have thought hard to suggest ways to improve or subvert that trope and the problems that go with it. Maybe they can do the same here. Maybe not.

Anyway, the reason I think it should be left to blind writers is because of the personal experience I mentioned previously. Acceptance will come from a more authentic place. Anything that comes before the acceptance will also come from an authentic place and blind writers will know how to deal these issues a little better.

Blind writers will know how to write this topic well. They can center blind readers in a way that many arcs like this don’t.

As a side note, blind writers also need more recognition and attention. This arc is specifically about or mostly about accepting blindness, which blind writers are intimately familiar with. Their stories should be prioritized in this area, at the very least.

If a non-disabled writer decided to do this topic, I think it would help to read and public ally promote books and other works by blind people.

Thank you for asking this question.

This was a really great question and I want to thank the anon for asking. I really appreciate the chance to discuss this topic. If anyone wants to expand on this question or figure out ways to subvert this arc, feel free to ask. Also, remember that I am not authority on stories about blind people, but I feel this opinion in shared by many of us and it should be known so writers can be aware.

Suggestions for alternatives.

1. Include only brief instances of acceptance and / or make it only related to blindness instead of accepting blindness as a character arc.

It will depend on how you do it, but brief, less direct instances of acceptance could be done well. One thing I’m thinking of is Toph challenging her father in The Blind Bandit. This could be seen as a form of self-acceptance for Toph, one which is related to her blindness without being the entirety of her need to accept part of herself, which gives her the courage to disrupt the view her parents have of her. Toph doesn’t struggle with being blind. She struggles with something related to being blind, which her parents being over-protective, limiting her freedom and expression, and putting her a gender role box.

The rest of Toph’s story wasn’t completely about being blind either. The writers, who weren’t blind as far as I can gather, handled this part well, and so I wanted to include it as an example.

Obviously, this can also be done badly, but that’s what beta readers are for. I personally would prefer the acceptance arc only be tangentially related to blindness, especially when combined with the trope about going blind through trauma / incidents / accidents.

2. Start in a different place.

You could start the story or character arc in a different place, rather than starting directly after going blind. This could be years later. After they already adjusted to the bigger parts of being blind. This saves you the need to figure out how to get around it.

Some parts of this ask might help.

3. Focus mostly on the practical stuff rather than the emotional side.

Focus on things like cane skills, adjusting to using screen-readers or needing to increase font sizes to read. Focus on learning to cook. Make the arc less about emotional stuff and more achieving goals. While I can understand how this might bother some blind people, I think it can work if blind readers are consulted, especially readers who went blind later in life. I wanted to include this as an option just in case people are determined to include going blind in the story. I think, if the author is careful, it could go well. A few narrative justifications for not writing the typical acceptance arc include:

-the character was already blind in some way first

-the character has a blind sibling, parent, or friend they grew up with

-the character got counseling or the story mentions they are getting counseling

Alternatively, you could also focus emotional difficulties on the traumatic incident, if there is one, and not the resulting blindness.

4. Write different stories - expand what stories about blind characters look like.

Writers have so many opportunities! I don’t see why they would feel the need to write a story primarily about going blind and learning you aren’t useless now after all, when they could be writing about a blind mermaid challenging the Mer Queen and falling in love with her instead. When they could be writing about blind space pirates creating new technology for other blind people. When they could be writing about a blind witch reclaiming their sexuality and also learning to dance to make their coven less worried about their social life after going blind.

See this post for more ideas about expanding the typical stories.

If you are creative enough, none of my claims that certain topics being best left to blind writers should stop you. If you feel limited, you might be trapped in the idea that blind people only have one narrative: trauma, sadness, helplessness, and just maybe, acceptance. If you don’t feel limited, you are in a good place.

Blind readers want other types of stories, too.

I hope this helps some of my followers. Thanks for the interesting question, anon. If anyone has any questions or would like me to clarify something, feel free to ask. I wrote this at night when I was tired. I have missed some things.

-BlindBeta

P.S. The ideas I pitched at the end are free to use if you feel inspired by any of them.

[thegeneralguy]

A good role model

Hello! Thanks to @amalianetwork for helping me out with this story. Its a bit shorter than what I usually post on here, but it struck some heart strings inside of me. I hope you enjoy it.

Twitter | Blog

“Come on Matt! We’re going to be late for the festival!”

The excited shrieks came from a young child not older than ten years of age. His wavy blonde hair was encased in a blue baseball cap, and he was wearing an old button shirt. He was grabbing the hand from an older young man, pulling him forward with haste. Both boys looked very alike, age being the most differentiating factor between them.

“Ease up Cole, your number starts at seven. There’s plenty of time.”

“Yes, but I want to rehearse one time before the show. Mrs. Davis said all kids in our class had to meet an hour before to practice our song”

Matt advanced reluctantly, feeling uneasy in his attempt at formal attire. He adjusted his badly-knotted tie and tried his best in accommodating his oversized shirt. But he knew it was a necessary sacrifice, because this was supposed to be Cole’s “big night”. He would do anything for his little brother, even if it meant dressing as a buffon. The boys were rushing through the parking lot of the local theatre, amongst a sea of other families heading to the entrance. They entered the building and immediately headed backstage to deliver Cole to his class. Matt made sure his small bowtie was in place, but when he tried to take the cap from him, Cole swatted his hand away.

“Cole, you know you’ll get in trouble if you throw a fit over that cap again. All the kids in your class have to be dressed the same.”

Cole pouted and grabbed his head with both hands, securing it on his head.

“Please let me keep it. I’m scared to perform without it.”

“Okay you win. Just this one time though. You’re a big boy now, there are some rules you have to follow.”

“You’re the best Matt!”, said the little boy hugging his brother.

“Just remember to have lots of fun! I’ll be watching you from the front rows. And remember, once your act is over we gotta go.”

“That's not fair! Mrs. Davis is gonna take us all for pizza once the show is over.”

“I’m sorry C. You know Aunt Gertrude doesn’t like it when we go out late.”

“I don’t like Aunt Gertrude. She’s mean.”

Matt kept a straight face not to give a bad example, but he knew what his brother was talking about. Their aunt was a real menace sometimes. Especially when her rules were disobeyed.

“Don’t be like that buddy. Aunt Gertrude has been nice to us, so we have to obey the rules of her house. Besides, I’ll take you for pizza on the weekend. What do you say?”

“Yay! Thanks Matt. I’ll hurry up after the show, I promise. See you later!”

Cole then turned around and sprinted towards his group. Matt looked at his brother tenderly, remembering all they have gone through together. The blue cap was originally his, a gift from their father. They never had a lot to begin with, and after his parents were gone, the cap was one of the only mementos he had from them. He remembered hugging it terrified, as the police explained to him with gruesome detail for a twelve year old how his parents had been killed in a mugging. Cole had been only five at the time. Their aunt was their only living relative, so they were placed in her house. Cole couldn’t stop crying during the first night, so Matt gave him the blue cap and told him as long as he had it, his father would be there with him. Five years had passed, and the little boy still took the cap everywhere. Convincing Cole to take it off to wash it was a real hassle sometimes, but Matt managed. He was a good big brother after all.

Matt went to his seat and watched the recital in silence. Group after group they performed, excited families bursting in applause every time their kid went onstage. The young man was growing increasingly nervous, watching the minutes turn into an hour. The show was taking too long, which meant arriving at his aunt’s too late and having to deal with her wrath. He was lost in thought when suddenly Cole’s group was onstage. He cheered and applauded his little brother, who along with his classmates presented a potpourri of popular songs. He immediately recognized him due to the blue garment sticking out of the sea of white shirts. Once the number was done, he stood up from his seat and went to meet his brother backstage to take him to their aunt’s.

Their Aunt Gertrude was a solitary woman, preferring to live alone and far away from any other neighbor. The little house stood right at the edge of the woods, standing lonely amongst the dark trees. The car was parked on the driveway, so Matt knew immediately their aunt was home. He prepared mentally for the fit she was about to throw when she saw them coming in through the door. Once they made it inside, he sent Cole straight to his room and went into the living room, where his aunt was sitting on her usual chair watching TV.

“So, look who finally decided to show up. This isn’t a hotel you know.”, said the fat woman looking hatefully at the scrawny teenager.

“I know Aunt Gertrude. Cole had a school event he couldn’t miss, so we stayed out until late.”

The woman sneered at Matt, and then continued watching her show.

“You know misbehavior has consequences right? You were out past dinner time, so there won't be any dinner for you.”

Matt felt the rage coming up from his stomach. He disliked the woman a lot, but he knew she was the only reason the brothers were allowed to stay together. She knew that too, so she made sure to exploit that fact every time she could. He didn’t mind missing dinner, he was used to it. But Cole had to eat, or his stomach would hurt again and he wouldn't be able to sleep.

“I can miss out on dinner today and tomorrow if you want, but let Cole eat something. It was a tough day for him.”

“You should’ve thought that before breaking the rules. Rules are necessary, or else you will end up like your good for nothing dad. He got my sister killed, you know. Only a bad person does that.”

Matt tightened his fists so hard his nails dug into his skin causing some bleeding. His father was his aunt’s favorite subject, always belittling and berating him. But he was a good man, very hardworking. A real example for Matt. His only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Don’t you dare talk about him…”, he grumbled quietly. His aunt let out a cruel cackle, and glared at him angrily.

“Or what? You are just like him, you know. A useless dead weight under my roof. But not for long. You got one more night. After that, you’re turning into an adult, which means you gotta earn yourself a life.”

Matt had been so busy with his brother that he had completely forgotten about his birthday the day after. His aunt had been telling him she was going to kick him out that same day, but he always thought she said that only to intimidate him. Thinking about leaving Cole with that monster alone sent a chill down his spine.

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking you little asshole? As soon as you’re eighteen, you’re legally not my problem anymore. Besides, it’s good you learn how the world works. Not that your father ever taught you that. In fact, I think Cole was lucky to grow up without his bad example!”, said the woman laughing loudly. “Now, better get your shit ready. I’m calling farmer Joe tomorrow to see if he has some job for you. If you’re lucky he might even let you stay in the barn with the rest of his boys. Now, get out of my sight. My next show’s about to start.”

Matt just turned around and left completely speechless, hearing the loud music from the TV and his aunt laughing as he went upstairs to his room. Cole was already showered and wearing his pajamas, the blue cap still on his head. Matt sat down next to him on his bed, trying to keep his composure and not burst into tears.

“Listen Cole, I have to tell you something,'' he said, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the right words. “You know tomorrow is my birthday, right?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t forget. I even wrote it in my calendar to get you some chocolate.”, he said excitedly before realizing he just ruined the surprise. “Oh no, I just ruined your present.”

“No buddy, it's okay. You know I love chocolate.”, said Matt grabbing the little boy’s head. “But listen, tomorrow I’ll be eighteen. And that's a very special number. So special, that people invite you to participate in certain activities!”

“What do you mean?”, asked Cole with a puzzled look on his face.

“Well, farmer Joe has invited me to his special club on his land, so I’m very excited I can go now. There’s only one small problem, I have to go sleep there too so I can do everything the guys there do.”

Cole just stared at his brother, tears welling up behind his eyes.

“You’re gonna leave?”

“Don’t be sad buddy. This is a great opportunity for me! Besides, I’ll come to visit you every day, I promise.”

Cole threw himself at Matt, his little arms embracing him as strong as they could. Tears ran down his rosy cheeks, and he could barely articulate the words due to the knot in his throat.

“But I don’t want you to go! I don’t want to be alone in this house. I’m scared.”

“I know buddy, I know.”, said Matt hugging his little brother. “But listen, remember what I told you about that cap? As long as you have it, dad’s going to be here with you. And so will I.”

Both brothers embraced for hours, refusing to let each other go. Cole cried until he fell asleep, so Matt tucked him into bed and waited until it was late enough to go down and steal some food for the boy. His aunt went to bed just before midnight, so he had to wait until she was gone to go to the pantry. He was almost falling asleep when he heard the TV going off, and the heavy steps of his aunt going into her room. He hesitantly stepped out of their bedroom, and swiftly went down to get some food for Cole. His body was very light, so that helped him move silently on the wooden floor. He brought up some snacks, leaving them on Cole’s night table, completely missing the clock just striking midnight.

He went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Taking off the horrible oversized shirt he stared at himself in the mirror. He was practically just skin and bones, lacking the proper nutrition and exercise for a good development during puberty. His dirty blonde hair was pulled back on a bun, looking just a shade darker than his brother’s. His aunt was right, he was pathetic, scrawny and weak. Barely a fitting example for Cole. But he didn’t want his brother to grow up without him. It was already bad enough he had to grow up without a dad, only to have his big brother be taken away too. He wished that both of them could stay together. That he was enough for his little brother, so he could provide him with the life he deserved.

The lights in the bathroom flickered, and the window was suddenly opened by a strong gust of wind, startling Matt. He started to get lightheaded, grabbing the small sink to prevent himself from falling. “It’s probably hunger”, he said to himself. But the more seconds passed, the worse he felt. He started sweating cold, drops falling down his face and his pale body. He watched a shadow creep over his skin, thinking he was starting to faint from starvation. When he raised his hand to touch the darkness, rough bristles greeted his fingertips. He was growing hair, all over his body. He watched it get longer and thicker, a thick mat covering his chest, and crawling down his flat stomach painting a thick treasure trail on his skin. Tufts of hair poked out from under his arms, his sparse armpit hair getting far denser. The shadow then climbed up his neck, fully flourishing on his face to form a short beard. Matt felt its roughness with the palm of his hand, fully enthralled by the sensation.

He then felt his bones elongate, shooting him a few inches towards the roof and lengthening his limbs. He looked like that creature slender-something kids were so obsessed about. Once his skeleton finished its growth, the muscles followed suit. He felt incredible heat emanating from his body, as each muscle twitched and grew to enormous size. Size packed on his chest, fully forming two massive pillow-like pecs sticking out from his torso. His cleavage was so deep he could probably put his entire thumb in it, and probably crush it too if he squeezed hard. Muscle packed on his shoulders as well, growing like two bowling balls. It made him look monstrously wide, fully condemning him to a life of having to go through doors sideways. His arms surged with power and grew as well, fully surpassing the width his legs had before. Thick hairy pythons hung to each side of him, resting at an angle due to the thickness of his triceps. His back then rounded out like a shield and expanded into a hairy muscular landscape. The lats were so big they looked like the could fall off of him at any moment.

He heard his stomach grumble, as it blew forward sticking out just a few inches behind his chest. Thick abs could be seen on the curve of his belly. His ass blew his dress pants into oblivion, each cheek swelling like a Christmas turkey. The legs followed suit, thickening into titanic proportions, powerful enough to sustain such a heavy top. Even his feet grew a few sizes, fully completing his transformation. Matt just stared at his new body speechless, feeling control over each fiber. He flexed his big arms, and bounced his heavy chest. A deep chuckle left his throat, and he realized his voice grew much deeper as well. He was so entertained by his new figure, he missed the clumps of hair falling from his head. His hair thinned out a little bit, and shortened itself into a clean cut, contrasting with its previous unkempt image.

Matt looked like a new man. His kid used to tell him he looked the size of a barn, just like that Disney song he liked from the film with the talking furniture. He was very bad with names, but he knew what movies his son liked. Matt scratched his head, confused by the thought of having a child. He was only eighteen, barely old enough to have a kid. But a body like this couldn’t belong to a young kid. A body like this took years of dedication, of pain and sweat, of discipline. He looked like the perfect dad, strong enough to protect, and big enough to climb over like a jungle gym. Matt smiled looking at himself in the mirror. His features changed and rearranged themselves into those of a masculine man. His nose was bigger and his brow stuck further out. Even a cleft formed on his now square jaw. He looked tough, but also lovable.

The maelstrom of memories fully blew Matt’s mind away, turning him into a perfect dad. He felt his dick snake up under his belly, and his balls drop lower and heavier like a mature plume, virile enough to spread his seed wherever he wanted. The rush of testosterone triggered more changes in him. His muscles got denser, more lived in. Crow feet printed themselves next to his eyes, and his skin got rougher fully aging two full decades.

“I’m one sexy motherfucker.”, grunted Matt, flexing before the mirror. He dedicated years of hard work and discipline to his body, and it showed. He loved the tight feeling of a shirt about to burst due to his titanic arms, or how the buttons popped open on their own due to his heavy chest. But even his glorious physique wasn’t his most valuable treasure. That was his son.

Reality rearranged itself around Matt, as memories of Cole growing up with him changed into those of a father raising his son. He remembered how tiny he looked when he held him in his arms, or how scared he looked when Matt dropped him in kindergarten for the first time. He remembered the recitals, the little league games, the birthday parties, the nights with Cole on his bed due to a nightmare, the camping trips. Everything he did, and had, was for his son. He was happy to grow up next to him, so he could teach him about the same hard work and discipline he put into his own life. Hopefully, Cole would grow up to be a good man like his father. And with those genes, hopefully big and strong too.

When Matt came back to his senses, he was standing in a nicely furnished bathroom. He adjusted the glasses on his face, and checked himself one last time before going out. The short sleeved shirt looked perfectly fitted to his big body, his arms almost ripping the tight sleeves apart. He came out of the bathroom to find the luxurious interior of a suburban home. He wanted his kid to have all his necessities covered. The memory of the tiny house in the woods and the monster within fully erased from existence.

“Come on Cole, you don’t wanna miss out on a good pizza, do you?”, he shouted, his deep bass shaking the foundations of the house.

“I’m coming dad!”

Young Cole came rushing down the stairs. His blonde hair shined brighter, and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement. He took his coat and headed towards the front door, where his dad was waiting for him. Matt noticed the small blue cap on the little table next to the door.

“Aren’t you gonna wear your cap?”, he said, handing it to his son. Cole just smiled at his dad, and turned the cap away.

“I’m not scared anymore dad. I don’t need it.”

Matt just smiled and opened the door for Cole. The happy family then headed out into the sunshine to live the rest of their lives together. Nothing would be able to separate them.

[shadyteacup]

Hello! If you’re free, I was wondering if I could have a request where 15y/o Dazai meets his future s/o which he feels comfortable around them and has good impression abt them. Like he’s wandering somewhere and suddenly run into them. They have a chitchat abt their thoughts on something and have fun talking to each other. Then leave and meet again when he joins ADA. (s/o is a weird kind of person, like out of this world)

I’m not an English speaker so sorry for my terrible English y-y. Btw, i love your writings!!💟

This is such an amazing idea! I had fun writing this! And dw, your English is spectacular ♡ Enjoy, dove!

Dazai Osamu x gn! Reader||Reader has a time traveling ability

Timeless

You were a time traveler. Your ability allowed you to visit places from different timelines. The only drawback was that you aged no matter where you were, even if you were using your ability. This meant that if you wanted to enjoy the present, you had to ensure that you didn't spend much time in the past. You couldn't visit the future.

But that was okay. You loved finding out the root of all problems. That's why you joined the ada. Your ability helped them to identify who the perpetrator was. You would travel in the past and be there at the crime scene at the right time. Then you'd come back and reveal important information like the hiding place of the murder weapon, or if they had been looking at the wrong suspect all along.

You were currently investigating the death of a businessman. His body had turned up near the docks. It was highly decomposed, and probably atleast 2 years dead. You decided to travel 2 years into the past, and made your way to the docks. While searching for the potential crime scene, you bumped into someone. A mop of brown hair stood a few steps ahead of you. The boy wore bandages all over his arms and neck, and had an eye covered. Judging by the absence of any outline of his eye on the bandage that covered it, and the lack of moisture, his eye probably wasn't injured at all. He was probably only wearing bandages to appear weak. But this was just an assumption on your part.

"Ah, I'm so sorry, boy. I didn't see you there!"

He looked at you with a dead look in his eye, then gave you the fakest smile to ever exist.

"It's alright. May I ask what you are doing at a place like this?"

You were taken aback by his cold demeanor. It reminded you a lot of your own self.

"I'm here to investigate a death."

You said. His eyes darkened at your words.

"You see, the body will be discovered two years later. No tangible evidence will be recovered, then. So I must find something useful here, now."

The boy smirked.

"Time traveling ability?"

You smiled.

"Yup."

His smirk dropped and he glared at you.

"I see. This is a dangerous adventure, dear. You might get caught in a string of trouble, one that might lead you to harm."

The boy's aura and dark look had made you suspicious about his employers, but now you were certain that he worked for the mafia.

"Don't worry. I'm pretty positive that the murder wasn't committed by someone from the mafia."

His surprise was momentary, but obvious. It caught your eye.

"Before you ask, no, I don't know your future self. Also, the method of the crime doesn't match the mafia's M.O."

He nodded, thinking.

"Well in that case, I don't think you and I should be enemies."

He chirped, a happy look on his face.

You were taken aback by the sudden change in his mood.

"Sure, kid."

You said, patting his shoulder and walking away, trying to find the crime scene. The area was littered with compartments and shipment goods. It all looked so similar, almost like a maze.

"Hey, kiddo, can you lend me a hand?"

He blinked in confusion.

"Um. Sure."

He was confused as to why you weren't afraid of him. You clearly knew he was from the mafia, but you still acted so casually around him. It made him think that you either represented somebody powerful, or worked for an influential employer.

You rummaged through your pocket, trying to find the picture. Handing him the the snap of the crime scene, you observed him as he peered into the paper.

"This way."

He said, walking between two cargo containers, and leading the way.

"I never got your name, boy."

He shrugged, peering at you over his shoulder.

"Does it really matter?"

You mimicked him, raising your shoulders in a lazy shrug.

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'd like to call you something other than 'boy'."

He hummed in thought.

"How about 'knight in shining armour'?"

You scoffed.

"I get the whole 'I'm helping you, so I'm a knight' thing, but I'm no damsel in distress."

He smirked.

"Oh? And what if I were to abandon you here? What would you do?"

You smirked.

"I'd find my way on my own. I don't need you, eye-patch."

He grinned at you smugly, stopping in his tracks and moving towards you. He leaned in, his face almost touching yours.

"And what if I were to overpower you, hmm? What would you do then?"

You shuffled closer to him, much to his surprise. You whispered near his ear.

"I'll ensure that you'll never be able to have kids."

Pushing him back, you snatched the picture from his palm, and continued searching for the location. He was astonished at your bravery. He always comes across as intimidating, and that was putting it mildly. You were very courageous.

Following you like a lost puppy, he watched you hide behind a bunch of wooden crates.

You patted the space next to you, beckoning him to sit there.

"The show's about to start, eye-patch."

You took out your camera and were ready to click.

That's when two men, clad in expensive suits walked over. One of them was explaining something to the other.

You began clicking a few snaps.

The guy who was observing, turned his back on the other for a second. That's when he brandished his knife and plunged it into the other's back. You were furiously tapping away on the camera's button, determined to get every detail of proof.

The victim suffered atleast 50 stabwounds, 53 to be exact, when the killer decided to stop and hide the body. You snapped every single second of the ordeal.

When the killer left the crime scene, the two of you got up, and dusted your clothes.

"Do you have any plans after this?"

He asked you.

"Well, not really. I was planning to grab a drink, maybe something to eat, before heading back."

You said.

"Or heading 'ahead', since I'm going to the future. I don't even know."

Dazai nodded his head.

"How about I treat you to a drink?"

You eye him suspiciously.

"I have no reason to harm you. You literally don't belong here, so I've got no reason to hurt you."

You hum in acknowledgement.

"Okay then. Lead the way."

....

"How old are you?"

He asked, swirling his drink in his glass.

"A few years older than you."

"Cryptic."

"Intrusive."

"Touche."

"You have so many questions, don't you, eye-patch. "

Dazai hummed, taking a sip.

"Consider me intruiged by your... ability."

He turned in his bar stool to face you.

"Why didn't you prevent it from happening?"

"Because if I break the flow of time, or even mess with it, everything will go haywire."

"And if you were able to prevent it, without disrupting the flow of time, would you have intervened?"

You gaze at your own glass.

"I would do some heavy research before I make my decision."

Dazai was curious. Did you not want to save people?

"Everybody has a reason for murder. Nobody wakes up one day and decides to kill someone. I'll dig into their lives and find out why the killer did it. And I'll decide whether or not preventing the murder would save an innocent life, or harm many others in the future."

"So, in short, you intend to play God."

You chuckled.

"If given the power, who in their right mind would turn down the offer? Everybody wants to play God. Our entire society is built that way. The one who has more money, more power, more influence, has the right to play God to those beneath them."

Dazai found you very interesting. The way you viewed the world was so unique. You were a textbook 'good person' but could easily become the 'bad guy' if given the resources. Good or bad doesn't really matter to him, he finds the difference between the two very confusing.

"Doesn't that make you, and everybody who has power, a "bad" person?"

You chuckled.

"Funny coming from a mafioso."

Downing the rest of your drink, you answer his question.

"The distinction between good and bad is so distorted. The same set of actions can be termed as good for certain circumstances, and bad for others. The villain is always the hero when you try to see the world through his shoes, and the hero is always the villain for those supporting the so called 'bad guy' ."

"I agree. I don't care about what's 'good' or 'bad' ,either."

"Then what do you follow?"

"What do you mean?"

"There must be some set of rules that you abide by. What are they?"

"I.. Don't have any. I'm a free bird!"

You tap your chin in thought.

"One must have something to fall back on when they don't know what to do. Something to blindly follow. For example, I follow a set of rules created by my morals and values. When I don't  know how to proceed, I remember them and act accordingly. "

Dazai observed you as you spoke, absorbing every single syllable that floated out if your luscious lips. He was attracted towards opinionated, strong and focused people. He adores the look on people's faces when they speek about their passions, and express their opinions on matters. Even if he disagreed with them, the fact that they have a strong reasoning behind their actions, and the way they calmly portray their points so skillfully, makes him like them more.

The way you were effortlessly articulating your inner thoughts was something that he was fascinated by. He had so much going on inside, so much turmoil, that it was impossible for him to express it out in words. But you seem to be so sorted and disciplined. He loved that about you.

"You'll get there someday, eye-patch. Don't worry. "

You comforted, smiling at the young man.

He smiled back at you. For the first time that day, he had given you a genuine smile.

"You should smile more. It suits you."

He blushed at your words. It was a weird feeling for him. He didn't understand why his face was heating up, or why his ears felt like they were on fire.

Flicking your wrist to check the time, you sighed.

"Well, time to leave."

Dazai held your wrist as you were about to get up.

"Wait!"

You looked at him quizzically.

"Will we meet again?"

You tilted your head and smiled at him.

" I can't say for sure, but I do hope that we do."

With that, he watched you walk out of the bar. He only respected Odasaku. But now, he respected you, too.

....

Time skip to a few weeks later.

....

"L/N san, please get yourself together, we're expecting a new member to join us, soon."

You laid on the couch of the ada as Kunikida rambled on about how everyone must be in their best behavior to greet their newest member. Yosano was handling most of it, so Ranpo and you had no work to do.

"Yes, yes, Doppo. Also, it's Y/N."

You said, stretching your arms above your head.

"Y/N kun, you need to try this new type of cookie. It has two different flavors!"

Ranpo said, offering you a cookie from his bag.

You smile at him, accepting it.

"Yum!"

"I know, right!"

"Ranpo san, Y/N san! Please come here! Our newest member has arrived!"

Both of you lazily got up and strolled over to the front of the office.

"What is the big deal, Doppo-"

You stopped mid sentence when you saw the person standing at the doorway.

"Eye-patch!"

Dazai's eyes widened when he saw you, the one person who had managed to intruige him other than his deceased friend, standing in the office. The office where he was to work at, today onwards.

"Damsel!"

He said, pointing at you.

You scoffed at his choice of nickname.

"Ha! I knew your eye was fine!"

"Do you both know each other?"

Kunikida asked.

"Ofcourse they do. They met a long time ago, right, Dazai?"

Ranpk said, muching on his sweets. Ofcourse, he figured it out.

"Well, not that long ago for me."

You smiled.

Dazai had finally met you. He was elated.

"I'm glad we met again."

"Don't worry, eye-patch, we have a lot of time to catch up. ;)"

[summerhermitwinterscholar]

A Misunderstanding and A Kiss

"Penelope…." Luke shook his head as he started to grin. "It wasn't me who said it." The fiery tech specialist narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms as she leaned forward. She was not the one for patience. In her mind it didn’t matter who said what, it was the fact it was uttered in the first place. Him pointing out her logical fallacy wasn't helping.

"Listen Newbie, a kiss would never happen between us. It just wouldn't be possible. Meddling backwards sheriff." She whipped back around and walked toward her desk. Her statement perked Luke's interest as he moved forward into her office, as if his actions were not his own, and shut the door behind him. This had all began earlier when the team was gearing up to start a day filled with paperwork and research for potential cases. Coffee and donuts in the briefing room was always a great way to kick off such a long day… police officers were not the only ones with a particular taste for them. No sooner than the box of donuts had been opened than Rossi felt the need to share a message from Dalton's sheriff who they helped with a serial killer a few days ago. While the team found Rossi's words hilarious, Penelope did not.

************************************************************************************** "Did you know," Rossi brought everyone's attention to him as he reached for his coffee. "That the county sheriff from Dalton gave me a message to pass along to one Agent Alvez?" His brow raised and a small smile brought out the mischievous undertone to his words.

"I have a message?" Despite the jovial cadence to Rossi's words, Luke was still unsure why they would have a message for him. He couldn't imagine why a message would need relayed unless it was to voice a complaint. Everyone hung on Rossi's next words. Luke found himself beginning to fidget.

"Oh all is well my boy, this particular message I found… enlightening. In fact, I am curious to see what you have to say-"

"My dear sweet Rossi, please! What is this message!" With a surprising amount of care shining through her words, Penelope voiced what everyone was thinking. She could not endure Rossi skirting around the subject. She could only imagine the curiosity building in Luke as well if his fingers tapping on the table weren't enough of an indicator.

Rossi chucked and looked over at Luke. "Alright, the sheriff was very impressed with Agent Alvez's work, however he was curious why he used his work phone to bicker with his wife. He said in polite terms he thought that the Bureau should be aware and Agent Alvez should be encouraged to use his personal phone for personal calls, preferably not in the middle of a case either."

At this the whole team sat quiet while Rossi just grinned like the devil himself had offered him a fiddle. For a room full of profilers none of them could have anticipated that sort of message from the sheriff. What made it more confusing is that none of them used a work phone: they usually used their personal cells for communication on a case. All sensitive information came across on their tablets.

"This seems obvious, but Luke isn't married." Reid supplied. Everyone was confused.

"Luke, are you seeing someone?" Emily questioned trying to make sense of the message, Luke was quick to reply.

"No, gosh, no… I don't know why he would think that. I mean I don’t have a work phone… and I don’t call anyone on cases?" Luke was set at ease with the fact it wasn't too harsh of a reprimand and was trying to connect who the sheriff thought he was talking to. The only person any of the team members called frequently while on a case was Garcia.

"I didn't think so." Rossi's grin widened, "That is why I informed the sheriff that he had nothing to worry about and that you were just in communication with our lovely tech specialist. What I found hilarious was his words after that. He said, and I quote 'Well then the boy should put a ring on whoever his Garcia is. If he is going to work so hard to appease her, he might as well get a kiss or two for it.' end quote." At this the entire team started laughing while Penelope jaw dropped open. She personally was a little upset for the poor sheriff's view on marriage, but even more so Rossi had just brought the image of her kissing Luke to the forefront of her mind. Her imaginative mind that was harmlessly flirtatious on a good day and on a bad… she glanced over at Luke and immediately the two made eye contact. He just smiled, his infuriately charming smile, and turned to Rossi.

"The sheriff did seem like a smart man. He could have gone into business with that advice." Luke set the team off laughing again. Penelope tried to join in but what was meant to be a laugh was actually a disgruntled huff. Luke's gaze flew back to her at the sound but the conversation was already moving on. Before long it was time to dive into the work day and Penelope headed back to her office with Luke in toe. He could tell his joy-filled coworker, the same one that gave him hell day to day, needed him to check in. He could almost hear her mind thinking.

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

"And why couldn't we kiss?" Luke was speaking before his mind could filter his words. Lord, he had meant to make sure Penelope didn't hold this against him and it seemed he was now on a one man mission to make it worse. Penelope had just reached her chair as his words prompted her to face him once again. Unease settled into her chest as she struggled to reply.

"Well Newbie," She paused as she let her whirling mind calm enough to formulate a cohesive sentence. Her hand arched into the air, "we couldn't kiss because, ah, because we wouldn't be able to stop laughing. I mean you kiss me? It just… well you know what I mean."

Luke raised his eyebrow, "Laughing, huh? That's usually not my style."

"I mean us Luke. I mean you and me. We couldn't even last a minute." Penelope almost groaned in annoyance. Now Luke just wanted to be infuriating. And a minute? Lord they wouldn't even make it to the kiss.

"You're wrong."

"What?."

"You're wrong Penny." Penelope's whirling mind stuttered to a rest. Her thoughts were frozen "I bet you we could. In fact, I challenge you to it. Then you'll know you're wrong."

Penelope was trapped. Part of her was still threatening shock, part of her was feeling very competitive, and part of her (a larger portion than she would admit) wondered what it would be like to kiss him. As crazy as is was.

"Okay," Penelope forced her mind to stop thinking as she walked over to Luke. She was confident his words held no real bite behind him. If he could play cool so could she. "Okay, Husband, try and kiss me."

Penelope let her words take on a mocking tone as she referenced the false assumption of the sheriff earlier. What she didn't know was the small kick to the chest her words inflicted on Luke. Husband. That word floated off of Penelope's lips and stole a breath from him. As she was drawing close there was a part of him stretching awake. A primal one that felt protective and on fire and couldn't stop seeking her eyes. The same part of him that followed after her to check in, yet this time it was somehow larger and deeper in ways he couldn’t articulate. He didn't have the time too. Penelope was walking toward him, a teasing smile firmly in place. He wanted to take that smirk off her face. He wanted to kiss that smile of her face.

So he did.

Just as Penelope got within a few feet of him, he reached out and planted a hand firmly on her side. He jerked her toward him. She fit snug against his broad chest. He felt the curve of her breasts, which were now pushed up turning Penelope's modest work dress into a more scandalous piece. He felt her breathing change as he caught her eye. The smirk was still there but her eyes… her eyes were wide with desire and uncertainty.  

He twisted them around, one arm around her waist, and another reaching up toward her head as he pushed her back against the door. Then his lips were on hers. His hand was cradling her head as her lips gave against his. She was melting into him further. His heart swelled with emotion as he felt her respond to his touch. Penelope felt a shiver run involuntarily down her body as his lips moved languidly against hers. He was in firm control of this kiss, guiding her from one soft moment to a more forceful one. His hand moved from her waste down softly grabbing her lower curves. She somehow was brought even closer to him and Penelope gasped, opening her mouth. She felt Luke's tongue gently sweep against hers as he took the time to deepen the kiss. It was intoxicating, kissing him like this. Finally, just after she let a soft moan, Luke pulled away with a pleased hum. One that clouded her brain and she felt herself leaning into him, searching for more. Eventually though, Luke pulled back. His gaze met hers. Penelope struggled to say anything.

"Well, Luke, I'm not, um, I'm not laughing." Is what she settled on. She couldn't read him. Was this still a challenge for him? She didn't see it that way anymore.

"No Penny, you didn't laugh," Luke took it as a good sign she had used his name and that her breath was still a little unsteady. "You're trembling."

"Well maybe I'm not used to kissing coworkers all because of a misunderstanding." Penny lashed out. Luke saw hurt scuttle across her face and he knew she was slamming her walls back in place. He had to act.

"Well, neither am I chicka, but I was sure glad I did." Her gaze met his.

With that Luke brought her back for another kiss. Penelope's knees weakened as his mouth possessed her bottom lip. Luke let Penelope sink into him before he encouraged her mouth open again, this time running his tongue gently between her lips, asking for her entry which she eagerly gave, there was no playing coy in this moment. There were no walls: just Like and Penelope. Luke was determined to make kiss one last a minute. He knew the sheriff was a smart man, he just didn't know he was this smart.  

[quicksilverrwrites]

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: peter maximoff x reader 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: it’s your first date with peter maximoff, and the tension between the two of you has been building for weeks. you share a passion like no other, and there's only one place this date can go: the dark back alley of the arcade, a place where no soul dare to go lest they bare the damned title of 'staff'. or quicksilver and scribe, i guess. you pick. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.4k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, sexual innuendos, peter and reader are early to mid twenties, british reader (sorry americans <3), make out scene and sexual attraction 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: the character that features as y/n in my fics is known by the mutant name “scribe” and is charles xavier’s niece.

Your date with Peter comes around the corner faster than you thought it would considering you’re not exactly the typical ‘student’ at Xavier’s School.

You’d thought it would take forever for the week to pass: typically, you spend your time waiting for your friend group to get out of lessons. You’re older, having graduated school when you lived in the United Kingdom, so the only lessons you attend are that of Power Efficiency, Mutant Physiology and Ethics, the latter two being optional and studied merely out of interest. The rest of your schedule consists of a lot of free time. You don’t work—with all the money you have, why would you? Uncle Charles keeps nagging you to do something with your time, something productive, but after what you went through in England with your father…

Making friends here was difficult enough. Dealing with your powers in a new situation—coming to this school—was enough. You’re not exactly an extrovert, either, which is why you’re so surprised that you and Peter click so well.

He’s eccentric and annoying and perfect. Okay, perhaps not perfect in a literal sense, but to you he is. Sure, his leather jacket kind of smells from age and sometimes he talks so fast that you find yourself struggling to keep up, but you find it endearing. And oh, those eyes—you could watch how they light up when he’s super excited about something forever, you think.

He’s the best thing that’s happened to you in a while. You wonder if Charles knew what he was doing when he made Peter your buddy upon your arrival at this institute, but in reality, you know it’s because you’re both the oldest students—almost-students?—at this school. Besides, Charles has seen the two of you work together as a chaotic duo, and you’ve heard the sighs and mutterings of the man when he’s been most exasperated because of the both of you. Why, you think, grinning at your reflection in the mirror, would he ever put himself through that chaos if he could avoid it? The first prank you articulated together was the beginning of many, and you’ve practically been inseparable since you first arrived here.

First it was friendship. Then… yeah, it didn’t take much at all to blossom into something more.

You look good, you think, smoothing down Peter’s Rush tee as it hangs oversized on your body. You look really good. Your style is what would be expected of Charles’ niece even despite the fact that you’ve only ever met him a few times in your life: classy, 10% preppy, academic to a fault. You typically match your clothes to the colour of your powers: blue, but azure in particular. Sometimes pastel blue. You’re particular like that. But tonight you’ve opted for something different. Something a little more… Peter.

Your hair falls naturally past your shoulders, and the cool sleeves of a black leather jacket—your father’s leather jacket, the only leather jacket you own—hang from your shoulders while the jacket itself stops at your thighs. It's too big for you. You’ve paired a black skirt with the shirt, but it’s free flowing and a soft material that practically blends in with Peter’s top. Your boots are chunky platforms, black, and this is the darkest your outfit has been in a while.

It still feels… you, though. It feels right. Maybe because Peter feels right, and you stole this tee from him after you stayed over that night in his basement when it was pouring with rain. You both knew you could’ve opened up a portal to get back to your dorm, but neither of you wanted that.

You both want this, though. You both want each other.

The very acknowledgement of that fact forces you to take a steadying breath in, but the sound of a knock at your door makes your breath stammer. You look at the clock frantically. Is he here already? You both agreed on seven thirty, and it’s only seven. You had a schedule. Arcade, dinner, and whatever was left for after. Maybe a kiss if you work up the courage. Your heart hammers in your chest at the thought. But—

“Ah—hello?” A familiar voice sounds from the door. You breathe a sigh of relief: Kurt. “I came to see if you needed help with anyzi—”

You cross the room to the door and open it before Kurt can finish his sentence.

Kurt grins. As usual it’s a sheepish grin, but there is excitement in his eyes.

“Excited?” Kurt asks. “I vould be if I vere going on a date with ze magnificent Quicksilver.”

You grin at him and roll your eyes, ushering him in the room before you close the door behind you. “Don’t say that in the hallway!” You scold him, not entirely serious. “Anyone could be listening.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “Could it be that you are embarrassed?”

Your eyes widen, brows rising too. “No! It’s just—it’s nice now that things between us are private. And… I want to take things slow. I’ve been on dates before, and when you tell people about it it’s always the same thing: when are you going to do this? When are you going to do that? I don’t want to be pressured. And explaining my reasoning to want to take things slow is almost as tiring as actually working myself up into confidence so that I’m not nervous the entire time—”

“You definitely seem nervous.”

You scowl at your friend. “I am not nervous.”

“Your cheeks are red.”

At that, you know your face is starting to flush as red as a tomato. “You are insufferable sometimes.”

Kurt grins. “A few weeks ago, I vould have been hurt to hear you say this.”

You scoff, batting him playfully on the arm. “Are you going to walk me down to the common room or not?”

Kurt’s face takes on an air of confusion. “Ze common room? Why there?”

You shrug softly. “Peter is meeting me there.”

Kurt’s eyes light up with amusement. “Ah,” he responds, and you know by the exaggerated upwards tilt of his head that the next words out of his mouth are going to be sarcastic. “Very discreet, yes. I bet he will bring flowers.”

You scoff once more, parting your lips in playful annoyance as you turn to leave the room, but Kurt appears in front of you before your hand reaches the doorknob. He opens the door, extends his hand to you when his back is pressed against it, and the bow he delivers is nothing but formal. Gentlemanly. He probably learned it in the circus. You give him a teasingly formal nod as you accept his fingers in your own.

The door closes behind you, locks with a wave of your hand, and with a deep breath, the two of you venture down the halls of the manor.

***

You hear the sounds of people cursing at Peter before you actually see Peter.

You and Kurt turn to look at the double doors which lead into the common room at the same time, but Peter comes to a speedy stop in front of the both of you before you can even track his movements… and Peter’s eyes glaze over your appearance, your outfit, as his face pales.

You smirk at the sight of it. You know he likes it. Likes seeing you in his clothes. He looked at you the same way when you first walked out of the bathroom attached to the basement in his tee and grey shorts after that night in the rain. He had slept on the sofa then, had given you his bed, but he’d mentioned to you a couple of days after that his sheets still smelled like a mix of him and you.

You knew then that he couldn’t get the image of you wearing his clothes out of his head.

His outfit isn’t a change from what he usually wears, but he still looks amazing. Hot. The sight of him takes your breath away every time you see him. Silver-and-black jacket, white tee with a band insignia on it, and leather pants with his silver shoes. You can’t forget the goggles on his head, either. But—wait, no, there is something different. A sort of smell.

“What are you wearing?” You ask, the end of your sentence tinged with laughter.

Peter glances down at his outfit. “What?” He asks, confusion—and the slightest bit of worry?—in his gaze. “What's wrong with this?”

“No, silly,” you laugh, “your aftershave. What is it?”

It’s the very definition of seventies musk. It’s musky, leathery, and there’s the faintest smell of whiskey. He’s put way too much on, but your mother always used to complain about how much perfume you put on, too. You’re wearing it now: it’s sweet with the air of something more expensive. Valentino.

When you asked the lady in the store to let you try the ones which smelled sweet like vanilla, this was the first one she showed you. Out of the eight you had the choice of, you were sold on the very first one. You know that the best way to get a guy to fall for you is to smell sweet like candy—it reminds them of their childhood. Or in Peter’s case, you guess it might just remind him of twinkies. You know he loves those.

Peter’s cheeks flush red, and he lowers his head as he laughs. “Oh, man. My mom was right. I really stink, huh?”

You can’t help but laugh: a genuine laugh, teeth in your smile and all. You stand from the sofa you were sitting on with Kurt, and you realise only then that he’s already disappeared. You feel a twinge of guilt for not noticing earlier, but you forgive yourself for that: it is your date night, and Kurt is forever polite.

“You smell great, Peter,” you say, and it’s not entirely a lie. He doesn’t smell bad — it’s better than the leather jacket smell. “And I’m excited for our,” you glance around, whispering, “date.”

Peter’s eyes light up at that. “Right. Date. You mind if I—?”

He gestures to your neck. Whiplash. Right. You shake your head. “Just don’t mess up my hair.”

He blinks at you. “Do you realise how much of a challenge that is?”

Your smile is sickly sweet and riddled with sarcasm. “You’ll figure it out.”

His expression goes slack. He likes it when you do that; when you’re mean to him. You’re a lovely person typically—you reached the lucky end of the trauma spectrum, the opposite of which being the angry side which could’ve made you an arse—but it’s so easy to tease Peter. You like the power in being able to wrap him around your finger. You’ve never had this power over any man before, and after feeling powerless for so long, it's thrilling.

Peter clears his throat, steps towards you, and you swear he’s trying to use the lightest touch possible as he steadies your neck and places a shaky hand on your waist—

And then you’re off.

The world is barely more than a blur. You can’t keep up. Just as you think you’ve gotten used to it, Peter turns a corner—or at least you think that's what happens, because that’s how you would describe the sensation of being almost jolted to the side. And just when you think you can’t take any more, he stops. You’re in the mall, right outside the blue-walled and darkly lit arcade.

Peter’s hands move gently from your body and you lean your hands against your thighs to try to stop the world from spinning. You’ve gotten used to the nauseating feeling this sort of travel gives you now, but you’re not used to the dizziness.

“You okay?” Peter asks, and you can see out of the corner of your eye that he’s assessing you for any potential damage. His hand hovers over your back as if he’s afraid to overstep his bounds, but you would lean into his touch any day.

“Yeah,” you breathe, slowly easing upwards. “I’m good.”

Peter glances over your face in another silent check before he nods. “You ready to get your ass kicked?”

You gape at him. Yeah, that sarcastic comment has knocked the dizziness right out of you. “Oh, you’re on.”

You’re less confident than you seem, but you don’t think Peter picks up on it as he grins and bouncily makes his way into the Arcade. You follow him, shoulder brushing against his as you catch up to his gait, because luckily you both walk fast. He turns to look at you and smiles, softer this time, and you almost get caught up in the softness of his eyes before your heart stammers, your throat closes up, and—

Oh, god. You’re not good with this. The romance. It makes you tense and nervous.

You turn away from him, hands wrapping around the controls of the nearest arcade game. “I call shotgun.”

Peter laughs and comes to a stop next to you. “I know you’re British and that makes you, like, socially awkward, but that only applies to cars.”

You nudge him in the side—hard, but not hard enough to really do damage. He hisses in annoyance, muttering jeez, lady, under his breath. You ask, “Are you really going to deny me my request on our date?”

Peter grins at you, fingers clenching around the neighbouring controls. “Depends. What do I get out of it?”

You smirk at him, your heart fluttering in your chest. “A kiss or two at the end of this, perhaps.”

You watch Peter’s adam’s apple bob. “Per—perhaps?”

You grin. “Depends how you behave.”

You don’t need to read thoughts like your uncle to know that Peter has to be telling himself to breathe. Because it seems like an awful lot of effort for him to successfully inhale and exhale, and he doesn’t say anything before he slams a coin—a quarter? you don’t understand American money—into the machine and the BEGIN GAME screen buzzes to life.

It’s pretty hard for you to catch your breath as you both play in silence, too.

Eventually, conversation picks back up again. A sarcastic comment. The occasional compliment. Peter’s good at these games, but so are you. Arcade stand after arcade stand, his teasing remarks make your heart flutter… as well as something deeper within you, too. You’ve never felt attraction like this before, and truthfully, it’s driving you wild.

“Dad wasn’t around much back home,” you reveal, your eyes glued to the avatar on the screen as it darts around, “so I had a lot of time to kill. The arcade became my home. So yeah, it’s safe to say I can easily kick your arse.”

“Arse,” he teases, mimicking the way you speak. “Trying to let me let you win with a sob story, Xavier? Nah, not going to work.”

You gape at him, taking your eyes off the screen for a mere second, but Peter takes the opportunity to kill your avatar for good. With mock outrage, you quip, “I was not trying to do that!”

He grins at you, his eyes glowing purple and red in the light of your dying avatar. “Ah,” he whispers, “victory tastes sweet.”

You press your lips together in defeat, and then you sigh as you take your hand in his. “Come on. I want a slushie.”

Peter lets you drag him away, and the two of you settle down at the food stand in the arcade as the lights around you buzz blue and purple.

You like the lighting in here, you think, as you step up to the worker. “Two slushies, please,” you tell him, smiling politely. “One red and blue for me, and Peter—?”

“All of them,” he says, nodding towards the flavours.

You part your lips in surprise. All of them? There are about eight flavours up on that display, and you know it’s all going to melt into a mess of slush that barely tastes like anything other than sugar. But the worker has obviously been asked for worse, because he just shrugs and gets to work. One pump, two pumps, three pumps—he goes through them all with the finesse of someone who has worked at a place like this for far too long, and when he hands you your simple two-flavoured slushie in comparison to Peter's complex one, you feel like a bit of a slushie fraud.

You go to reach into your pocket to grab your card, but Peter pays in cash before you can get it out. The cashier gives him a dollar and seventy two cents change, and your date nods in thanks to the cashier before he turns to you with a grin that’s more genuine than cheeky. “My treat.”

You lower your gaze to hide how wide your smile is as you laugh. “Thanks, Peter.”

He nods, and the two of you stand there awkwardly for a second, you sucking innocently on your straw as he stares at you, before he looks at the table and chairs nearby. He clears his throat. “Wanna sit?”

You shrug politely and he pulls out a chair for you. Gentleman. Did his mother give him a run-down of what to do and what not to do before he came here? Probably. You smile at him, your insides warming as you sit down in your seat. This slushie is good, you think, slurping it up through the straw as Peter takes a seat opposite you.

He takes a sip of his drink before he asks, “So the thing about your dad. I know it’s a sore subject considering…” He raises his brows, and you know he means the reason you came here. “But do you mind if I—?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You have too much slushie in your mouth, though, so your words are slurred and you smile bashfully as you cover your lips. Sorry, your look says, but he just grins at you.

Peter forces himself to look away, to turn serious again, as he scratches at a loose bit of film on the table. “Why wasn’t he around? Like, the deadbeat dad kind of thing, or…?”

You shake your head. This time, when you speak, you’ve cleared the slushie from your mouth. Your voice is a bit hoarse from the cold as you respond, “No. He worked a lot. He was either in Germany or the Middle East or—somewhere. Mom has a temper, so I found the arcade was a better place to be than home. It’s easy to lose yourself in the games here.”

Peter nods slowly, his head tilting up in a way that indicates thoughtfulness. It’s nice that he’s memorising your words. Nice that he actually cares. That means more to you than anything. “Well, that makes two of us. Absent fathers, I mean, and moms…?”

You grin at him. He's talked about his father before, but always in vague detail. You respond, “Almost-there moms. Just emotionally absent, at least for me. Maybe stunted is the right word.”

Peter lets out a sound between a noise like phew and a laugh. “Harsh, Y/N. No sugarcoating it there.”

You shrug softly, lowering your gaze to your drink. “Sometimes I wonder if…”

Your sentence trails off, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Peter tilt his head. But he doesn’t say anything. Just lets you take your time as he continues picking at the table.

You force a breath. “Sometimes I wonder if what happened… happened for the best. Between the three of us, nobody was happy. But then I think of what I did to him and it’s just—”

“Hey,” Peter says, and across the table, his hand reaches out to splay across yours. “For people like us—mutants,” he says, his tone lowering at the end of his sentence, “stuff like this is inevitable. But, uh… Charles has kinda helped me see that it’s the first step towards controlling this sort of thing. The first step to doing something better. And hell, Y/N, you’re already, like, rockin’. So you only have further to go.”

Your brows furrow in surprise at his words, your eyes turning doe-like at his reassurances. “You don’t think I’ve already hit rock bottom?”

Peter laughs. “You’ve got too much money for that. I've seen you blow two-fifty on curtains. Still don't know how I watched you do it."

You let out a laugh, and that’s when you properly acknowledge the skin to skin contact. His touch makes your body feel like it’s on fire. Your shoulders roll back as your thumb brushes against his knuckle, and Peter’s eyes dart down to your fingers before he looks right back up at you. He looks nervous, like his heart is thudding just as hard as yours.

“I like this,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Peter lets out a huff of laughter, though from the sound of it, it’s an attempt to hide his nerves. “It’s only a slushie, Xavier."

Your laughter mimics his own, and you press your lips together as your eyes dart between his eyes and lips. You want to kiss him. You’ve never wanted to kiss somebody more. It’s like you could push him up against the wall and kiss him here and now without caring what anybody thinks, and you’ve never had that feeling before.

Peter’s throat bobs again. He’s staring at you in the same way, and you can feel the tension between the two of you as your chest tightens. But you can’t kiss here—not with the table between you, not when one of you will probably spill a slush puppy or both of them, or—

“Another game?” Peter says, his voice hoarse.

You blink the lust out of your eyes. Another game. Yeah—another game, and your slush puppy will melt between and it’ll be easier to drink, and then—

And then you can both get out of here.

You’ve never wanted to leave an arcade more.

The tension cools down a little as you play more games, but it rises as soon as you make a comment about his frantic button mashing movements; something like—

“I hope that’s not the technique you use in bed,” you tease.

Peter chokes, and needless to say, you win that game.

You keep playing until your slushies are finished. Peter finishes his before you, but he lets you have a sip before in order to try it. It’s just as you expected—a sugary mess with the strongest flavour being lime. It’s disgusting, but Peter merely grins at the sight of your face as you grimace at its sour taste.

You’re well aware of the way his gaze rakes up and down your body as you try to finish the rest of your slushie as fast as you can. You’re lingering now; the two of you want to get out of here, dinner be damned. His gaze hugs the curve of your body and lingers on your bare legs, your skin smooth and shaven, the boots you wear only elongating them—

“You look great, by the way,” Peter comments.

You look up at him while still sipping from that straw, and apparently the motion and the eye contact is too much for him. He looks away and mutters something under his breath, something you can’t hear over the beeping of the games and the music playing over the sound effects.

You slam the slushie cup down on the table next to you both with an air of achievement. “What?” You say almost teasingly. You know you’re driving him insane, and even though you’re hardly doing anything, this has been building up for weeks.

“Nothing,” Peter says.

Before you know it, his hand is at your neck and you’re in a different spot entirely.

It’s a short journey this time so you’re not dizzy. You’re still in the arcade, surrounded by the same blue walls and purple-hued lighting. But this area is darker and tucked away, and there’s a door nearby. Probably a staff entrance. This is somewhere you shouldn’t be, but for once, you’re not afraid of breaking the rules.

“The cups,” you comment teasingly. “We should clean them up.”

Peter lets out a breath. “Y/N,” he says, “I—"

“Kiss me,” you blurt out. “Please.”

Peter wastes no time in fulfilling your request.

He’s on you in a heartbeat, lips pressed against yours as his fingers rest at your neck. Innocent, sweet, and yet filled with a sort of passion that sets your lungs and chest ablaze. You can’t help the noise of content that slips from your lips as he backs you up against the wall, and you can’t help but think that this is so unlike him, but—no. No, this is what he’s been keeping buried down for weeks. It's the same for you, too. This is what he’s wanted to do to you for a while now.

This is only half of what he’s wanted to do to you for a while now.

You gasp as his tongue slips out against yours, and your own darts out in response to the sensation. You press your body flush into his, the both of you heated and warm from the feel of one another, and your jacket is quickly getting too hot to keep on any longer. It’s cool in here with the air conditioning, but even so the two of you are ablaze and alive and—

“Y/N” Peter whispers against your lips, his nose brushing against yours as he pants for breath, “d’you think we could leave dinner for tonight?”

Your body talks for you before your mind can register what he says. "Yes," you breathe, and then you pull him back to you.

His lips are on yours and there is nothing either of you need to say as his fingers roam down your shoulders, your arms, moving to your waist. He avoids your breasts and you’re grateful for that; despite how much your body might burn for him, you know that would make you feel like an object, like he only wants you for sex—like your mother has told you countless times before.

But as you and Peter kiss in the belly of that arcade, you think you might have found the one. The first person you can finally trust.

It might be the first date and you might want to take things slow, but this feels too good to pass up. Too good to lose. And because of that, you don't plan on letting him go—

Not unless he wants you gone first.

Not until a member of staff kicks you guys out, at least.

[mandoalorian]

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Five: War

Author's note: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: just a smidge of angst, talking about feelings and a slightly steamy moment to look forward too.

Word count: 5,200>

Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Five - Next 

When you returned back to Max’s home, the sky was pitch black. Max fumbled opening the front door, grunting in frustration when he couldn’t get the key in the hole because it was so dark. When the door finally swung open, he sauntered inside without saying a single word. You hovered behind him, following him around his home like a lost puppy. He strolled into the living room, walked over to the mini bar, and poured himself out a glass of honeyed whiskey. He contemplated taking the whole bottle upstairs to his office and using the alcohol to drown his sorrows away. The silence made him forget he had a guest. “Can I get you a drink?” he muttered, not even looking at you. His thumb grazed the expensive liquor label.

“I’m okay,” you denied quietly. Maxwell didn’t say a word, but he took a swing out the small crystalled tumbler. His eyes were still glossy from his tears and his blonde wavy hair poking up in random places. He was practically unrecognisable from the television infomercials, although you deemed it inappropriate to bring up his appearance right now. To you, he was still so handsome. You waited for him to say something, but a few minutes had passed and not a single word had escaped his soft lips. “Max, I think we need to talk.”

You had a lot of questions, and he had a lot to ask you. Maxwell poured out another glass of whiskey before turning around and leaning against the bar. “Yeah, I agree. Why did you read the letter?” He asked first through a shaky exhale. Clearly it had been preying on his mind. Inside that letter was information he wanted nobody to see. He didn’t even want to see it himself. But you… he actually cared about what you thought of him. He feared your judgement more than anything else.

“You’d really hurt yourself and I could see you were very angry. When I saw the letter crumpled up on the floor, I thought it might have something to do with it and I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” You explained your genuine concern, even noticing the way Maxwell’s face softened at your confession. Despite the fact you had invaded his privacy, he just couldn’t bring himself to stay mad at you. “I knew I was looking for a man named Lorenzano. If the letter hadn’t told me you were Lorenzano then I would never have gone to Thomas Family Lawyer’s.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you were worried about me,” Maxwell scoffed incredulously, rolling his eyes and taking yet another swing of his drink. The warmth your words had brought him were short lived and he was immediately engulfed in a cold, unwelcome chill. 

��I was,” you reiterated. “I care about you a lot. You- you’re my friend. You gave me a home and you believed me when I told you about Themyscira and the God’s. Max… can I ask… why did you believe me?”

Maxwell hesitated for a few seconds, anxiously picking at his already short fingernails. He could lie. He could tell you that he only believed you when you demonstrated the lasso of Hestia on him, and that would be enough. But there was no time to be deceitful, not anymore. You’d been honest with him from the very beginning, and he owed his honesty to you too. For the sake of Alistair, he needed to be truthful. For the very first time, Maxwell was going to open up about what happened on the island when he made a broadcast to the entire world.

“Part of me already believed you when I saw you in the lobby of Black Gold for the first time. You were asleep on the sofa, covered in mud, in that crazy Amazonian costume thing…” he gestured to your tunic and skirt which was still discarded on the floor from when you had undressed earlier. He chuckled lightly at the memory of you. You were so beautiful and peaceful. He thought that when you awoke, it would be revealed to him that you were there to hurt him - just like everyone else in the world. “There was just something about you. When I saw you for the first time I just felt… I just felt like…” Max was struggling to get his words out. He couldn’t describe the feeling. For the first time, the well articulated and extroverted businessman was at a loss for words. All he knew was that every second he spent with you, this strange feeling grew stronger and stronger. “I just knew I could trust you,” he shrugged helplessly. That part was true at least. “It sounds dumb, I know. You’re a stranger. But I’m not a very trusting man in the first place, so feeling this was kind of a big deal. And then you mentioned Diana,” Bewilderment crossed your face as you wondered what exactly Diana had to do with any of this. “I knew a woman called Diana Prince. Worked at the Smithsonian museum,” Maxwell took a deep breath before saying your name. He took both of your hands and sat you down on the sofa. “I need to confess something.”

“What is it?” you asked with concern. You brushed your fingers over his knuckles and he relished the way your simple touches erupted a frenzy of butterflies in his stomach.

“I did a bad thing,” Maxwell told you, fear in his eyes. “And I’m still confused and… afraid. Look, I actually care about what you think of me so please-”

You placed a chaste kiss over Maxwell’s knuckles and Max swore his heart stopped beating. Your lips felt just as soft as they looked… just as soft as he’d imagined earlier in the shower. You didn’t know why you kissed his hands… you just felt like it. And it felt good. And you hoped that maybe one day you could do it again. Your eyes flicked up to meet his own. “Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. I’m here to help you Max. I won’t judge you.” you promised.

“Okay,” he said with a deep sigh. “My company… I’ve worked my whole life building up Black Gold Cooperative. I really just wanted to do something great. Growing up, I never really had an idol or someone to look up to. And when Alistair was born, I wanted to give him the world. Anything he wanted. Because he was my son and most of all I just wanted him to be proud of his father. I was led along the wrong path by a few businessmen who were trying to sell off their investments in oilfields for cheap. So I bought them. Turns out, the oilfields were completely dried out and they weren’t going to earn any money whatsoever. I looked at the data and nothing suggested that was going to change but I couldn’t bear to give up. I didn’t want to look like a failure in front of Alistair… in front of my wife,” he croaked out, rubbing his temples as the stress consumed him. “So, I clung on to hope. And I never let go even when I probably should have. I led the world on with my infomercials, telling people that if they invested in us they’d own a part of the most lucrative oil industry in the world. And as share prices rocketed up, they’d eventually earn more than what they put in. That was the plan from day one. But the cold war meant that-”

“-Max,” you cut him off with a gentle whisper. “You’re putting yourself down for having hope. You shouldn’t- you shouldn’t do that. Having hope is the most important thing in the world.”

“I was deceitful,” Maxwell grumbled, shaking off your comment. “I found this stone that supposedly possessed magical powers. I’m a realist, I couldn’t believe it but I had to see for myself. It dated all the way back to ancient Rome… was a beautiful citrine. After a heist in the mall it was stolen and… let's just say I got my hands on the stone by means I’m not at all proud of. The stone possessed wish granting powers and I-”

Maxwell was rambling but at this point, he didn’t need to give you any more information. You already knew. Everything was making sense. From your dreams and your visions and now this.

“No.” was the only word you managed to breathe out. You shook your head profusely as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. It couldn’t be. You remembered your mother telling you that one of the stones was magically destroyed and no one knew how or why. But if Maxwell had wished to become the stone... “No no no… you didn’t, did you?”

Maxwell swallowed as he immediately sensed your disappointment in him. He nodded in silence, unable to say any more words. He felt nauseated. It was already so difficult to live with - the fact he had spiralled into mania so fast. At his core, he was a lonely man who had nobody to guide him. He thought he was in control the entire time but the truth is, he had lost control. 

“Romulus possessed you,” you exhaled shakily, wiping your eyes. You let go off his hands and stood up, brushing yourself down. You nervously began to pace up and down the area of the living room. Maxwell closed his eyes, unable to let himself even look at you. He figured you were so disgusted in what he had done, you couldn’t even touch him anymore. 

“Who?” Max questioned you eventually. He wanted the answers too.

“The God of Lies, Max!” you snapped back, not even realising how you’d raised your own voice but you were so stressed and paranoid. “Oh goodness… what if he’s still in you. What if-”

“I renounced my wish.” Maxwell informed you with not an ounce of emotion in his voice. He felt empty. Your head snapped to face him once more and your face softened at his revelation. You wanted to hold Max, cradle him in your arms and promise him that everything would be okay. That you’d be able to figure all this out together. But there was still so much you needed to know.

“Why?” you gasped in defeat, letting your shoulders slump.

“Diana.” Maxwell shrugged weakly, fumbling with the sleeves of his sweater.

“No,” you shook your head. “Why did you wish in the first place?”

“I was so afraid of Alistair thinking I’m a loser. Sometimes it’s so easy to believe the whole world is against me. I just wanted him to love me the way I love him.”

“Alistair has always loved you, Maxwell.” you told the teary eyed man, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. Max’s breathing hitched under your touch and he spent a few moments contemplating your words. No person had ever shown him such unconditional kindness. People were either intimidated by him, or enemies with him. No one had ever even wanted to be his friend. Even his relationship with Julianna was a whirlwind fueled on lust and her desire for his money. That’s why as soon as the oil fields dried up, the marriage broke down, and she’d gone on to find someone else with money - Theodore.

“Julianna messed with me, a lot. Told me that Alistair cared more for Ted than me, that I was nothing but a low-life. Since I found out Julianna was pregnant I was filled with this fear. I wasn’t scared of becoming a father, I was scared of becoming my father,” Maxwell choked out, making a fist as anger consumed him. He tried not to hate, he really did, but he could never ever forgive his father’s actions. You watched as his lips trembled and he looked down at his feet. “The world almost collapsed and it was all my fault,” he shuffled his feet around uncomfortably. “And I’m filled with this gut wrenching guilt I just can’t escape…” He looked up at you and wiped his eyes furiously. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said, moving his hand away from his face and wiping his tears away with your own fingers. “You are a beautiful man,” you whispered, cupping Maxwell’s face and stroking the height of his cheekbones. You saw him flush a gentle pink colour. “And Alistair is so lucky to have a father who would do all of this… just for him. You are loved. You are loved way more than you know.” you assured, and Maxwell found himself subconsciously leaning into your touch. He was so pretty you could just kiss him again. Maybe this time on the lips.

“How- how can you not hate me?” he choked out, taking you out of your thoughts about kissing him. “Even I hate me. I’ve been thinking, maybe I’m not good enough to be a father.”

“I know how it feels,” you admitted hesitantly, biting your lip. You’d never spoken about this to anyone before. “My father is Zeus, king of all Gods. My mother is Hestia, the Goddess of Truth. I know how it feels to be put on a pedestal. To be compared to others and I know how it feels to not feel good enough. Not important. To have no purpose…” you trailed off. “I’ve spent my life searching for some significance. Zeus had many children, most of which were never able to satisfy their duty as a God or Goddess. But when I started to have these dreams… when I heard your voice I knew in my heart that you… you are my purpose.” you took a deep breath and smiled. “But Max… the dreamstone…”

“What is it?” Max urged you, his dark eyes flicking to yours. “If you can help me with Alistair, let me help you with this. Whatever you need, I can help you.”

“I- I don’t know if you can.” you confessed with a sigh.

“What is it?” Max repeated, staring into your eyes.

“My mother told me the story of two brothers, Romulus and Dolos, both the God of Lies. They were evil… destructive. They wanted to watch society collapse and build a new world. A world they could rule together,” you explained and Maxwell winced. Maybe you were right. Romulus had possessed him… because all of this was sounding far too familiar to him. “When the brothers left Olympus, Zeus gifted them with two citrine stones. The brother’s practiced their wish-granting powers on the stones. Romulus created Rome and Dolos created Athens. And now, only one stone remains.”

“Dolos’ stone remains,” Maxwell said his thoughts out loud and you nodded in affirmation. “Because it was Romulus’ stone which possessed me. So how do we destroy Dolos’ stone?”

“My mother… my mother told me only one thing can destroy the stone.” you whispered. Maxwell looked at you with an urge for you to continue. “Love.” you revealed.

There was a deafening silence that filled the room. “I-I don’t understand,” Maxwell swallowed. “It was the truth that pushed me to renounce my wish. Truth is the opposite of lies… your mother is the Goddess of Truth so maybe-”

“She told me love would destroy the stone,” you repeated, putting your foot down. “There’s no question about it. She’s my mother and I trust her.”

“Okay okay,” Maxwell soothed you. “I trust her  too. I just don’t understand how-”

“Me neither,” you exhaled, cutting him off. “But we’ll figure it out, right?”

“Right.” Max confirmed. “Are- are you tired?” 

“A little.” you admitted.

“There’s five empty bedrooms upstairs. Take your pick. Make yourself at home.” Maxwell smiled wearily and you nodded your head in appreciation. He was so friendly with you. So generous.

“Thank you Max,” you whispered. “You know. I think you’re a good person.”

Maxwell swallowed. You were so softly spoken and you looked so gorgeous under the dim amber lights. If you were any other woman in any other circumstance, he’d press you against the wall and promise you a night you’d never forget. But he couldn’t do this to you. You were so innocent- and he could risk hurting such a delicate soul. “I’m going to tidy up down here first but uh- I’ll come say goodnight in a few minutes.”

You left the room and Maxwell stood alone for a few moments. As he tried to tidy up the mini bar, every single one of his thoughts were consumed by your beauty, your kindness… just you. And that’s when it hit him. Had he fallen in love with a goddess?

There was so much he didn't know about you— but if he could, he'd spend every waking moment with you, asking you questions about Themyscira and your family. He wanted to know what it was like over there, and if he could visit. He wanted to meet Hestia. He couldn't help but smile to himself. You were literally the daughter of Zeus— and you were in his home. If you had came into his life a week ago, he would've idolized you for your power, but now it was different. He genuinely liked you and wanted to be around you. It was crazy. 

You walked down the long, wide corridor, not really caring too much about which bedroom you select. You had more important things on your mind— such as how you were going to find the dreamstone, and how you were going to destroy it. Maybe it didn't make sense right now, but you could only hope that the pieces of the puzzle would begin to fall into place sooner rather than later. The bedroom you had settled in was large, with an en-suite bathroom and a walk in closet. It was magnificent, but then again, it seemed as though every room in Maxwell Lord's home struck you with awe. The bed was enormous too, much bigger than the single one you had back on Themyscira. You wondered to yourself what the point was in having such an extensive sized bed, but you struck it down to comfort over anything else. And it certainly was comfortable. You kicked off your gladiator sandals and sat on the white sheets, sighing as the soft material silked around your bare legs. It was wonderful.

Taking the photograph from earlier out of your shirt pocket, you held it delicately between your fingers. Maxwell Lord, with dark brown hair and a smile that could break hearts, holding little baby Alistair. Every time you looked at the photo your heart felt like it was melting, but in the best way possible. You could practically feel the love radiating from the father and son.

You placed the photograph carefully on the nightstand and unbuttoned the pinstripe shirt that Max had loaned you. Folding it up, you placed it in his closet amongst his other clothes, deciding that's where it belonged. You climbed under the sheets, tangling your naked body amongst the blankets. It felt amazing. Your surroundings might have been unfamiliar, but you had never felt more at home.

Just then, the main light switched on, illuminating the whole bedroom. Max gasped when he saw you lying in his bed. "Oh- oh shit, hey!" he exclaimed awkwardly, his eyebrows raising. His expression was almost animatronic as he saw your shoulders and the top of your bare chest peek out from underneath the duvet. "So, you found a bedroom! Uh- that's good."

"Is everything okay?" you asked, sitting upwards and propping yourself against a pillow. "Is it because I'm naked?"

"No- I mean yes! I mean no! Everything is fine. And, I know you said you were used to sleeping naked before so, it's okay. I promise. I just- you see- this is actually my bedroom. And that's my bed. So…"

"Oh." you nodded slowly, feeling slightly embarrassed. It usually took a lot for Max Lord to get flustered the way he was, and that scared him.

"No! I mean, there's no way you could have known. It's fine. You can sleep here tonight. I'll take one of the other rooms." Maxwell smiled, reaching over to the light switch to turn it off again. "Good night."

"Max wait-" you called before he could leave. He looked at you but said nothing. "Do you think that you could stay with me tonight?" you asked hesitantly, shuffling around the blankets. "It's just… when I'm with you, I feel… safe."

Maxwell struggled to find words, so instead, he just nodded, and sat next to you on the edge of the bed. "When I'm with you I feel safe too," he confessed with a gulp and you smiled. "Although that's probably because you're some superhuman goddess. I suppose I also feel quite intimidated by you." he shrugged, a nervous blush flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze snapped to face him and you tilted your head in bewilderment. "Intimidated? You are intimidated by me?" you asked. "Why would you- why-? I don't understand. I mean, look at me." you scoffed incredulously, gesturing down to your body that was hidden by the thin white material of Maxwell's duvet.

"I am." he exhaled, his eyes not leaving yours once.

And there were the butterflies again. The feeling you just couldn't shake. Everyone he looked you in the eye… every time his voice got low and soft it just made you feel… you couldn't even put it into words. Maxwell rubbed his feet awkwardly along the carpet.

"You can come under the blankets with me?" you suggested after a brief silence. You pulled the duvet open and gestured for him to lay next to you.

"Oh I don't know," he shuffled around. "Here, in the world of man, people only really lay together if they're… well, together." Max explained.

"Aren't we together?" you shrugged your shoulders.

"Mm, not like that," Maxwell pursed his lips together. He wanted to lay with you— he really did, but he didn't want you to get the wrong idea. "People only lay together if they're… in love."

"Were you in love with Julianna?" you asked a little too quickly. Maxwell finally broke his gaze from you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shouldn't have said that." you tried to retract but Maxwell shushed you.

"No, it's okay. The truth is… I don't know. I thought I was in love with her but… I'm not sure anymore." Maxwell sighed, running a finger through his hair. He wasn't sure because now he was having feelings for you and these feelings weren't anything like he had ever felt before.

"But you shared a bed with her?" you quizzed.

"Well, yeah. We were married."

"Have you shared a bed with anyone who you weren't married to?" you beckoned further.

Maxwell paused. "Of course."

"So please," you hummed, smoothing out the bed sheets. "Lay with me." 

Maxwell smiled before taking off his shoes and climbing in next to you. "Have- have you ever shared a bed with a man before?" Maxwell asked, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. Just the thought of you being with another man made his head spin.

"No," you said quietly. "There are no men on Themyscira." you reminded him.

"Oh right yeah." Maxwell nodded understandingly.

You snuggled up close to him and laid your head on his chest. "You're warm," you mumbled happily. "It's nice."

Maxwell stretched out his arm and wrapped it around you. You and him were cuddling in bed. He wanted it to mean something, he really did, but he couldn't help but feel like it was platonic on your end. You smelled so amazing. And your body fit into his like a puzzle piece that had been missing his whole life. He could stay in this moment forever. And you were also more than content. Maxwell was broad, and his arms were strong. You felt safe laying with him, you felt like he could protect you from any danger. You trusted him. And he trusted you.

"So, am I the first man you met?" Maxwell asked you, clearing his throat.

"You are," you confirmed. You pulled the photograph of Maxwell and Alistair from the nightstand and showed it to your friend. "I found this earlier today. I like it a lot."

"Oh yeah, that was the day Alistair was born," Maxwell smiled. "I was happy that day."

"You're so lucky to be a father. I've always wanted children." you confessed, biting your lip.

"Well maybe one day you can have some of your own." Maxwell murmured, smoothing out your hair.

"I doubt it. Amazons can't bear children. Although, I suppose I could."

"What makes you different from the other Amazons?" Max beckoned.

"A lot, actually. They're all warrior queens. Fighters. But Zeus blessed me with the ability to carry children if I were to become a mortal, because I'm the Goddess of Home and Hearth. I reunite families. I'm maternal at heart. That's why he granted me that blessing, I suppose." you explained, trying your hardest to recall the words your mother had spoken to you when you were just a little girl.

"Only if you become a mortal? How would you even do that?" Maxwell anxiously slid his hand into yours, and his heart filled with joy when you intertwined your fingers with his.

"If I exposed my true self in front of a large crowd of people then I could no longer be a goddess. Zeus would take away my powers and I'd never be able to return to Themyscira. I'd be normal, just like you." 

He wanted to laugh. There was nothing about Max Lord that could be considered ‘normal’— but he opted to let your comment slide. He knew what you meant anyway. "Would you consider giving up your powers and becoming a mortal?" 

"Maybe," you shrugged. "I would do it for love." you turned to face Maxwell, to look him in the eyes, but he was already looking at you— memorising your beautiful face. Everything about you was so perfect.

"Love." he repeated, validating to himself that he was indeed listening and not completely entranced by your beauty. His voice had dropped an octave and was no louder than a mere whisper. His eyes flicked down to your lips and he had never felt an urge so strong in his life to just kiss you. He remembered how soft your lips were earlier in the night when they'd gently brushed over his knuckles.

And now, you were looking at his lips too. They were pink and plush and— you'd never even kissed anyone before, let alone a man who was attractive as Maxwell Lord. From what you had learned about him, he was already so esteemed and had probably kissed dozens of girls in his lifetime. You on the other hand, were quite inexperienced. But that didn't mean you didn't want to learn.

You could hear his beating heart as you felt his chest rise and fall. He made sure that no piece of stray hair was in your face. He wanted to take in every detail. With a sudden air of confidence, Maxwell leaned in and nudged his nose against yours. Naturally, your eyes fluttered shut as his warm breath fanned over your skin. His hand dropped down to your waist and he gave your hip a gentle squeeze under the covers as he tilted his head and pressed his lips against yours.

It was magical. His lips moved perfectly against yours, like they were made for each other. Max closed his eyes and pressed his face further into yours, even using his tongue to teasingly lick a stripe over your lower lip. You felt your cheeks flush as an involuntary moan escaped your lips. As your mouth parted, Maxwell seized the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth… and it felt delightful. You wrapped a leg around his and tangled your fingers in his hair as he kissed you. You prayed that this moment would never end. His lips were sweet and you imagined they tasted vaguely of the honeyed whiskey he had been drinking earlier. His hand glided down to your thigh and you eventually pulled away from him with a gasp. He removed his hand from you.

"Too much?" he asked breathlessly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your swollen lips.

You moved his hand back to its position on your thigh. "No- no," you whispered, shaking your head but unable to contain your smile. "It's just, I've never done anything like this before. I've never been kissed like this… or even touched… I've never even… you know."

"It's okay," Maxwell whispered, cupping your face. "We don't have to do anything you want to do."

"I want this." you confirmed, pulling your body on top of his and straddling him. Maxwell felt his cock twitch in his pants as you accidentally grinded over him, leaning in and reattaching your lips. The blanket was still draped over your shoulders but fuck, you were naked. You were naked and on top of him and you were kissing him. Maxwell was still practically fully clothed and he didn't want to remove the blanket from you but he did contemplate taking his own sweater off.

"You feel so good on top of me like this," he muttered against your lips. "Can I touch you?"

You hummed in response and grinded your hips over him again. "Please."

Maxwell brought his hands down to your breasts and began to fondle with them as you kissed him. You moaned and giggled as his thumb grazed over your puckered nipples, squeezing them gently now and again.

The make-out session must have lasted a good half an hour, and Maxwell swore it was the best he'd ever had. If he wasn't sure about his feelings before, this was only confirmation. He'd grown deeply in love with you.

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